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I head to the storage lockers, where a prominent sign lists all the rules for visiting inmates. The first step is to sign in with proper identification and provide the inmate’s first and last name. My heart sinks as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
Tank. I don’t even know his name. Not his first name, not his last name—nothing. I only know him as Tank. How could I let this happen? I’m not the type of woman who engages in encounters with nameless, faceless men. Instantly, Tank’s face flashes before my eyes, his charming smile and rugged masculinity making my stomach tighten.
“Shit,” I mutter and jot downTankin the name box. It has a snowball’s chance in hell of working, but I hold my breath and wait to be called.
“Sophie Harmon.”
I rise from my seat, approach the woman behind the thick glass, and smile hesitantly. “I’m Sophie Harmon.”
Her expression remains disinterested as she taps the sign-in sheet. “You need to provide the inmate’s first and last name. No aliases.”
My voice trembles with hope as I ask, “Is there any way you can look it up for me?”
“Nope. Get the name and come back between four and six o’clock,” she replies, her tone still indifferent. Then she calls the next name on the list.
I sigh, totally disheartened. I retrieve my purse from the locker and walk out of the crowded visitor’s area with tears swimming in my eyes. I feel horrible.
How could I have been so foolish? I’ve spent months envisioning a future with a man, sharing dreams and desires, and yet I neglect to ask the most basic question—his name.
Was it an oversight on my part, or did he deliberately keep it from me? Why didn’t I ask sooner?
Realizing that I’ve been wrong again about a man sends tears streaming down my cheeks. I slow my pace when my vision blurs, but my emotional breakdown escalates into the ugliest cry the world has ever seen. I don’t know how, but I manage to make my way home without driving into a wall.
Is Josie right? Should I stay away from Tank altogether? The question falls with a thud in my belly because no matter how shitty I feel right now, I know being with Tank isn’t a mistake. Whatever else is true about us and about why he was arrested, the time I had with him was right. It was damn near perfect.
I know that.
But when I lock the door behind me, I’m exhausted and emotional. My eyes sting from crying, and my heartaches.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure everything out.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Tank
Most guys probably think jail is predictable. Same shit, different day. But when you’ve lived the kind of wild, unhinged life I have—bouncing around as a kid with a drunk, abusive dad, getting into trouble on the streets, then escaping to the Navy the first chance I got, pushing myself to the brink as a SEAL—the concept of predictability doesn’t even exist.
So, sitting here rotting away in County Lockup, staring at the same four cinderblock walls, you’d think I’d relish the monotony. But it’s torture. Every endless minute I’m stuck in this damn cell is another minute I can’t be with Sophie. I can’t run my fingers through her hair or feel her smooth skin under my hands.
I chuckle to myself. Big bad biker obsessed with some chick he’s known for what, a few months?
Yes. Hell yes.
Sophie’s different from any woman I’ve ever known.
With her, life was unpredictable in the best way. She made me feel things I didn’t know I could feel. And the way she looked at me with those deep brown eyes, like no one ever has before...it woke up something deep inside me.
Made me start thinking about more than just the next ride, the next fight, the next adrenaline rush. She made me think about the future for the first time in my damn life.
So now what? Do I hang on to this agonizingmaybe, or do I let her go?
Letting go. Now that’s a mission I’ve never trained for.
But this time, it’s the right thing to do. Walk away. Set her free. So I do something really fucking unexpected. I write her a letter.
Hey, Soph, this is really hard to write. You probably know by now that I’m in jail. The lawyer says it could be a while. I know things were getting good between us, and I can’t stop thinking about you. But you need to move on. You deserve better than what I can give you right now—maybe ever. You matter to me. A lot.
That’s why I’m writing this.
