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I am not proud to admit that my mind went somewhere completely x-rated for a moment.
“I got it,” I insisted, not sure it was a good idea to let this man carry me around again.
“Suit yourself,” he agreed, then walked painfully slowly beside me as I made my way to the door where, blessedly, my office chair was waiting for me.
The pulling sensation of using my leg to propel me forward did make my ribs ache, but not quite as much as the crutches did.
“I’ll toss your shit in the room. You need a chair or something for the shower?”
“I will… manage,” I decided. “But thanks. You know… for everything,” I said, getting a shrug and a grunt as he made his way out.
It was all of ten seconds later that there was a scratch and pathetic whimper outside of the door.
“Hey, buddy,” I said as I opened the door to find Nitro waiting to be let in.
He followed me around as I gathered clothes and fresh towels, then sat right outside of the shower as I climbed in.
It was there, all alone with no one to hear or awkwardly pat my back, that I finally let the rest of the tears and fears and pain out.
I came out, Nitro licking the lingering water off my legs, with none of those old emotions clinging to me.
Instead, as I stared at my battered face in the mirror, all I felt was a bone-deep sort of rage.
Someone was beating me up, breaking into my house, stealing from me, and God-knew what else.
They were making me afraid to live my life.
That was just completely fucking unacceptable.
Well, I had a big, scary biker dude ready to take care of the situation for me.
And I was going to go ahead and compile a list of anyone who might be a suspect for him to look over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Voss
“He stole her what?” Junior asked as I stood in his warehouse apartment, all ancient windows, gray walls, and exposed ductwork.
Junior wasn’t a biker.
But his old man and ma were affiliated with the club. If I had the history right, his father—Breaker—was hired muscle and was married to a woman named Alex, who worked with the club many times over the years as a hacker.
Junior, it seemed, inherited the hired muscle body from his old man along with all those computer smarts from his mom. He was tall with dark blond hair and blue eyes and was working on covering himself with ink.
The club used him on occasion to help us do some hacking-type work once they found out he’d gone to college for computer something or other, but spent his nights fucking around online.
I, however, wasn’t seeing him through the eyes of the club or his parents. And I was seeing some barely-healed knuckles, some bruises on his jaw.
He might not go around advertising it, but I had a feeling he was taking a page out of his old man’s book and being the heavy for some clients who had deep pockets.
There was no way he could afford this massive-ass apartment of his without that kind of money coming in. Unless he was doing a fuckton more hacking than any of us realized.
Though, last I checked, sitting behind your computer didn’t typically have you ending up with busted knuckles and punches to the jaw.
“Skink. Blue Tongue Skink, I think she called it. I dunno. Some kind of fucking lizard. But she cares about it and it’s gone.”
“I guess it tracks. He’s taking shit that’s personal to her. Panties, vibrator, pet…”
“The razor is the outlier.”
“Dunno. She runs it up her legs. Or even shaves her pussy with it. Sick fucks would want that,” Junior said, shrugging. “So what exactly do you want with me? Just traffic cam footage, if there is any, from around the time of the attack?”
“Or anything close to her apartment, if you can find it. Especially if you find cars that overlap.”
“Alright. I can do that,” he said in a lazy way that suggested it would be child’s play to him.
“Know anything about cameras?” I asked. “The hidden sort?”
“No,” he said, walking over to a massive-ass houseplant by the window, tipping back a giant leaf, and exposing his own hidden camera. “Not a fucking thing. Why?”
“Wondering if she has any at her place. I can look. But it’s not my area.”
“I can take a look too,” Junior agreed. “Should I be talking to her about payment, or…” he trailed off.
“I’m paying.”
“Of course you are,” he said with a smirk that suggested he was reading into it too much.
“I just feel guilty that she got attacked when I could have done something,” I insisted, like I had been doing to myself in my own head anytime I felt myself questioning my own motives.
“Yeah, sure, man,” he said, letting out a little chuckle. “So what do you know about her?” he asked, walking over toward one of his desk setups. Yeah, he had multiple. One, a standing one near the back window, looking out at the beach. Another was tucked in a corner with an L-shaped desk and several monitors. And there was a third set-up in a pop-up coffee table in front of his oversize sectional.
