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“Saint?” Rourke said.
“She’ll be fine. You have my word,” he replied. She didn’t put much faith in his statement. Why wasn’t Trax allowed to be there?
She glanced over to Rourke. He was hard to read with his scowl locked on his face. But if she had to guess, his aggravated sneer was for his president and not her. She squinted in hopes he’d read her plea for help.
“Get over here, need you to look at these and tell me if you recognize the guy in the car.”
She winced from his harsh tone, and her lower lip trembled. “I didn’t get…”
“Shut the fuck up with that shit. Now, get your ass over here, or I’ll come get you.” He narrowed his eyes. “If I gotta get up? You’re not gonna like it.”
Cheyenne rushed forward, tripping on her own feet, but caught herself, straightening her chest. She peeked at the pictures lined up on the round table. She leaned in, not wanting to get too close, within touching distance of Kase. Not that it mattered. Hell, she was locked in the room with him.
“You see him?” Kase asked.
She eyed each picture. The third one looked similar to her description, but it wasn’t the same guy. The hair was shorter and a lighter color than the man who’d struck Mick. The scar was off too.
“Which one?”
Cheyenne jerked her head up to meet Kase’s stare.
“He’s not here.”
“Look again.” It was a command, and she followed it, even knowing none of the pictures were the guy she had seen.
She shook her head. “None of these are him.”
She jumped back before his hand made contact with the table. Kase slammed his fist down and shot up from his seat. “The fuck he isn’t. Point him out, bitch, or I will beat the ever-loving hell outta your ass.”
A feral snarl came from across the table. “Kase,” Saint warned.
Her heart dropped to her stomach, and her body trembled from head to toe. She felt the blood draining from her face. She was getting light-headed. She held her hands out in front of her, virtually surrendering. “I don’t see him, I swear.” She pointed to the third picture in. “He kinda looks how I described him, but it’s not the guy.” Her breath hitched, and she licked her lips, stumbling on her words. “I mean, the scar was down from his scalp to his eyebrow, and it was thick like it was raised. I remember because it looked kinda gross, not like that guy’s. And, and his hair was darker, a bit longer.” Tears welled in her eyes. Maybe she should have just said it was the guy, but chances were something bad was going to happen to him, and she couldn’t live with naming the wrong man. It wasn’t right.
A tear seeped past her eyelid, and she pleaded, “I don’t know what you want me to say, but it wasn’t him.”
Kase rounded the table, and she skittered back against the wall. Rourke rushed forward but didn’t come in between them. She was definitely on her own. Before he could reach her, Saint spoke out. “Kase, hold up.” Cheyenne stared at Saint and watched his face twist, turning his attention to Kase, who was only a few feet away from her.
“You know?” Kase asked.
The man shifted his gaze to Cheyenne. “You said the scar was raised? Was it red?”
She sucked in a breath and shrugged. “Maybe pink. I only got a really quick look.”
He seemed more sympathetic to her situation than the others. He nodded. “I think I may know who it is.”
“Who?” Kase snapped.
Saint sighed and glanced over to Rourke, ignoring Kase. “Get her out to Trax and walk her to him.” His face softened when he turned to her. “Thank you, Cheyenne.”
Rourke grasped her arm, and she immediately yanked it out of his reach. “Don’t touch me.” She curled her arms around her waist and widened the space from them all.
She turned toward the door as Gage opened it and darted through. Her legs were jelly, but she didn’t slow down. She heard the faint shout over the music. “Chey, Trax is at the bar.”
She didn’t slow down. If anything, she picked up her pace to a jog, knocking into a woman, but not even bothering to look back. The main door was opened, and she ran out and across the street, not even looking at possible cars coming. She needed to get out of there. She stumbled to a stop at the curb, scanning the lot. Where the hell is my car? In the spot where she remembered parking, it was empty. She gripped her hair at her temples. “You’ve got to be kidding?” Someone stole my fucking car?
“Chey, c’mere.” The voice was familiar, and she jerked her gaze to the front door. Gage stood on the concrete porch, waving her over to him. She gasped and turned heel, running through the lot and around the store. Her feet pounded the pavement as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.
The only way she was stopping was if someone tackled her.
