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“Baking, babies, and animals,” I answer immediately.
Atlas snaps his fingers. “Got it. Rent a cabin with a giant kitchen in an environment teeming with wildlife, then put a bun in the oven.”
We crack up, but in the back of my head, I sure like the sound of that.
Punk smirks. “Do you want my suggestion?”
Pompoussonofabitchwill never let me live it down if I take his advice, but I need it. “Yes,” I say, holding back my exacerbation.
He leans forward, his voice animated as he says, “The cabin in the woods can be romantic, so long as you’re not renting some hillbilly shack. Rent a cozy place with running water and electricity—don’t skimp on commodities. If she has to shit in the woods, she will not be putting out.”
Get a nice cabin—got it.
“If she enjoys baking, perhaps you guys can bake something together,” Punk adds.
Come again? Me? Bake?
Atlas and Chase bust a gut, pointing fingers at me.
“Don’t be knocking it,” Punk declares, deadpan. “Picture it. Kneading dough with your hands over hers. Wearing matchingKiss The Cookaprons with nothing underneath. Having fun with food. Maybe eating some off of each other…”
The van falls silent.
“That’s genius,” I admit.
Punk sits back, folding his arms over his lean chest with a proud smirk. “About time you notice I am. Sex with food is where it’s at.”
We nod.
“If you want to go shed hunting, don’t call it that—it’ll instantly turn her off. Tell her you’re going on anadventure hiketo spot all those fuzzy critters she loves. If you find an antler shed along the way, so be it. Win-win,” Punk adds.
“Smart,” Chase approves.
“And the ice fishing?” I ask eagerly.
Punk rolls his eyes. “No ice fishing, Gauge.”
“But—”
“No ice fishing. I’m a woman whisperer, not a miracle worker.”
Damn.
“Incoming, on our twelve,” Atlas alerts us in a low voice.
All eyes snap ahead. There’s a female being escorted between two larger men. She’s scantily dressed, head bent to avoid eye contact with strangers.
“She looks young,” Chase seethes.
“Too young,” I amend, my hackles rising.
There’s only one way to handle this situation. I look over at Atlas. We share a silent exchange before pulling our Glocks from our holsters. There’s no way we’ll sit back while they abuse a child—screw gathering more evidence. One confirmed case is enough to prosecute.
“Go in by pairs…” Atlas instructs, repeating the plan we all know by heart since we’ve done this a hundred times before.
We exit the van in unison, making our way to the room the men took the young woman into. It’s time for the biker to merge with the hero.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
