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So yeah, she was dealing with it, and she’d continue to do so until it blew up in her face. As dangerous and unhealthy as her unconventional therapy might be, it was far better than cowering in the corner of her house as she’d done for the first three months following her rescue.
It’d been a while since she thought about the rescue. About the mysterious biker who’d saved her life and delivered her to the hospital. He was the man who’d seen her at her very worst and somehow, he’d known what she needed. He’d known not to touch her both because she’d freak at the touch of a man and because she’d needed to climb off that bed and walk outside on her own two feet.
Needed to salvage some shred of dignity.
And he let her.
Even though he was her savior, and she owed him her life and then some, he represented the worst possible moments in her existence. Not to mention he was a member of the Hell’s Handlers. Lefty’s message placing blame on the bikers ran through her head whenever she thought of her rescuer. Like a true coward, she avoided the entire city limits of Townsend, his motorcycle club’s territory.
She sure as hell hoped to never run across the biker again.
CHAPTER THREE
SHIT HAD BLOWN with the club.
From the moment Rocket left the bar three weeks ago, it’d been one explosion after another.
Copper, the club’s president, had been kidnapped.
Boom.
They’d rescued him only to find the giant red-bearded man stabbed and beaten to a pulp.
Boom.
Rusty, Copper’s psychopathic brother was murdered.
Boom.
Lefty, the man whose blood Rocket wanted more than anything, slipped through their grasp yet again. Gone to ground without a trace.
Fucking boom.
Thanks to Copper’s strong leadership when he returned to the chair less than a week after being injured, the clubhouse had only descended into mild chaos. A full-on manhunt was in effect for Lefty, the one-time leader of the Gray Dragons gang. Almost two years ago, Lefty had been the number three dog in the Gray Dragons’ food chain. Shark, a sadistic motherfucker, ran the gang at the time. Shark had a nasty history with Toni, the ol’ lady of the Handlers’ enforcer. The sea predator had been killed in a showdown between his minions and the Handlers, but not before causing a shit ton of grief for the MC.
Once Shark was out of the way, Lefty murdered the number two and took over the gang. His primary source of income had been twofold, drugs and trafficking women—unwilling women. It wasn’t long before the Handlers shut that shit down, sending Lefty underground. Unfortunately, not fast enough to save Chloe from her fate.
Recently, Lefty had poked his head out of whatever hole he’d been hiding in long enough to commit a few murders before disappearing once again.
Rocket had hit his limit with this fucking guy. Hell, Copper was at his limit, and that’s what mattered, because he ran the show. So now, the Handlers were searching under every rock and in every dark corner for Lefty.
It was time for him to die.
And though either Copper or Zach would be the ones to do the honors, Rocket wanted to end Lefty’s life himself so bad he could see the moment the man’s heart stopped as though it was right in front of him. Never in his years with the Handlers had he so much as thought of going against his president’s wishes. Now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself from slaying Lefty long enough to deliver him to Copper, were he the one to find the gang banger.
And Rocket was determined to find him.
For Chloe.
Shit. Rocket poured himself a drink, then returned the bottle to the shelf behind the bar. It’d been exactly fourteen days since he’d laid eyes on the woman. Each of those twenty-four-hour periods, he’d woken with a hard-on courtesy of raunchy dreams starring Chloe, wild and uninhibited. He’d stroked off in the shower every morning, her name falling from his lips as he shot his release down the drain. Then, after an exhausting fifteen-hour day dealing with tension-filled club business and cranky as fuck men, he’d find his fingers wrapped around his dick once again.
He’d come more times in the past two weeks than the previous six months combined. And all by his own hand.
After downing the Jack, he glanced across the room to where Screw was shooting pool with two of the Honeys. If Rocket were smart, he’d grab one of the girls and unload into her instead of his fist. The Honeys weren’t typically his first—or even second—choice of lay, but desperate times and all. The one he had his eye on let out a high-pitched giggle as she blew her shot. It earned her a slap on the ass and quick tit-grope from Screw. Someone she’d also be blowing before the night was up, unless Rocket stepped in and claimed the prize.
