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“Fuck,” he ground out as the screen came to life. Fifteen missed calls and twice as many texts screaming at him to check in. All from Zach, the club’s enforcer.
Some shit was going down. He’d flaked on church last week while tailing Chloe to the grocery store. Copper would roast his ass on a spit if it became a pattern. But calling in meant leaving Chloe.
Torn between loyalty to his club and the hot gut-punch he experienced knowing Chloe was minutes away from fucking some businessman, Rocket paused. What the fuck was wrong with him? It was getting harder to call the souring in his stomach anything other than jealousy.
He had to put an end to this shit. Chloe was a big girl. She, more than anyone, knew what could happen at the hands of a madman. For his own sanity, he had to step back. He couldn’t continue to watch over her so much. Not when his club needed him.
Without bothering to listen to the voicemails or read the texts, Rocket left the bar, heading straight for his bike. If he pushed it, he’d be back in Townsend and at the clubhouse in thirty minutes. The guys could catch him up in person.
With any luck, they’d finally gotten a bead on Lefty.
That thought had a sinister smile curling his lips.
Just as he was pulling out, he caught sight of Chloe turning onto the road with Mr. Smooth’s car hot on her tail.
Now that his head was screwed on straight, Rocket hit the throttle and shot off toward the clubhouse.
There were just some questions he might never get the answers to and he’d have to learn to live with that.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE USED TO be normal.
For ninety-seven percent of her life, Chloe had been perfectly and predictably normal. Born the daughter of a middle school principal and a home economics teacher, she grew up with three older brothers and an overweight pug in the suburbs of Knoxville, Tennessee. Throughout her school years, she earned A’s and B’s, played some mediocre soccer, and had a summer job at the local ice cream parlor from the time she was fifteen until she graduated high school. Afterward, she went to the University of Tennessee, graduating with a degree in accounting. After passing the CPA exam, she moved to Pigeon Forge where she’d started her own small accounting business and had been living and working ever since.
She’d had exactly one serious boyfriend, two bed partners, and a beloved group of close-knit friends. Once a week, she’d spoken to her parents and kept in close contact with her brothers through texts and her favorite new app, Marco Polo.
Normal.
Normal.
Normal.
Not overly exciting, not boring, just a regular life.
And then in one forty-eight-hour period, everything was shot to hell. Now, there wasn’t a damn normal thing about her.
No, now she was just a screwed-up rape and assault survivor who hated leaving her house unless it was to pick up the random men she fucked on Friday and Saturday nights.
Who did that?
What kind of woman who’d been through what she’d endured went out and slept with multiple arbitrary men each week? Especially knowing exactly what could happen if she chose the wrong one.
Fucked-up women, that’s who.
“Shit, babe, you’re an animal in bed.” The man beneath her said, giving her a satisfied, post-orgasm grin.
“Mmm,” she said with a roll of her shoulders. Shoulders that were just as tense as when they’d walked in the room. “Don’t call me babe. I’m sure as hell not your babe.” Swinging her leg around, Chloe climbed off his adequate body before searching for her dress. Without so much as a glance at the man on the bed—Jon, Joe, James, something like that—she walked straight into the bathroom.
Here was the part she hated. The post-sex re-dressing while she tried to avoid catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a few short hours, from the moment she walked out of her house until she scurried into this bathroom, she felt good. More than good. She felt powerful, sexy, in control, excited. And then, without fail, she’d see her reflection, and it would all evaporate.
As the high of her conquest began to wear off, Chloe stepped into her dress. After shimmying it over her hips and working her arms thorough the straps, she stood in front of the mirror with her eyes closed.
“Just do it,” she whispered. Hiding from the mirror was a pointless exercise. She’d have to face herself at some point.
With her palms planted on the surface of the vanity, Chloe opened her eyes. She took a hard look at the woman in the mirror. As the seconds ticked by, her heart sank. Physically, she looked good. None of the damage to her face had left any scarring. Her body bore a few small reminders of the beating she’d suffered, but nothing unsightly, and nothing that truly bothered her. All the problems were squarely between her ears.
