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CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
*Kaldon “Kal/Prez” - President*
Just as I am about to lose my shit because none of our eyes have made contact to update me on her whereabouts, Coty gets a call. “She was spotted pulling over on a little side road off of highway 79 just over the border,” Coty whispers, his focus flicking to the baby mirror aimed at Reece.
Everyone in the car other than the sleeping baby sighs in relief. Lace could have taken a number of routes, but she took the one we guessed she would. If our contact is right, she should be just around the bend.
Just as fast as that relief hit, though, anxiousness drowns the vehicle in silence.
I had grander plans for how this reunion would go down, but shit happens, and so here we are, taking desperate measures.
“What if this doesn’t work? What if she still bails?” Coty asks, rubbing his hand through his hair, leaning forward, his eyes riveted on the curve in front of us.
“It will work,” I mutter. Fuck, I hope it works.
Coty and I see her at the same time, standing on the side of the road, waving her arms for the attention of the approaching vehicle.
He straightens, his gaze sharpening and fingers digging into his thighs. “Goddammit, what if we were someone else?”
“Someone worse than members of a motorcycle club gang?” I laugh.
“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.” With his wide eyes and how he tucks his thumb into his palm, I worry for a moment that Brodi shape-shifted and is with me instead of Coty.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Shit. Fuck.” He takes in a deep breath, lets it out, then nods aggressively.
We casually pull up to her. She grins and waves, ducking her head down to try to see into the tinted passenger window. Coty makes her sweat it out for a minute before sliding it down.
The bright, hopeful grin lighting up her face, falls slow and dramatically.
“Little siren,” he singsongs.
“Go away.” She huffs, turning around and starting the short trek back toward her wagon.
We all unload.
She picks up the pace.
“Leave me alone!” she screeches after hearing the clang of our doors shutting.
“Lace, turn around,” I call after her.
“No! I did what you told me to do! I always do what you tell me to do. I am done!”
I nod my approval at our extra passenger, and he yells after her. “Lacinda!”
Lace staggers to a stop, her bare toes digging into the earth and chest heaving.
She knows his voice.
She knows it does not belong to Coty.
Not to me.
Not to any of the Hell for Leather men she has become so intimate with over time.
This voice is even more familiar than theirs.
“Lace,” he says quieter, closer.
Her head shakes slightly. Unable to turn around, she stands stock still, surrounded by the sharp chirp and trills of nighttime creatures.
He cups her shoulder, encouraging her. Her shoulders slowly rise and fall, and she submits, pivoting on her heels.
Her wide, glassy brown eyes blink up at him. She chokes out a breathy, confused, “D-dad?” and the two of them crumble into a heap on the damp ground.
“I thought you were dead,” she sobs.
“I know, baby girl,” the man who once went by the name Harry Kensington mutters into her hair.
