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Another chuckle echoed through the door. “Later, I’ll have you coming on my face. Right now, read.”
Rearranging my legs to sit on my ass, I opened the yellow envelope, grumbling, “Don’t tell me what to fucking do.”
“You sexy as hell, crazy ass bitch.”
Pulling the book out, I warned, “Keep it up, Champ, and I ain’t sucking that hog of yours for a week.”
He squeaked, “No Michelle Pfeiffer lips for a whole week?”
“That’s right, fucker—” Unwrapping clear cellophane, I read the front of the red book that read, Mo Irisleabhar. “What language is this?” Due to his intensive training many years ago, I knew Bors had already inspected and read this book and had researched or learned all he could.
His tone was tender again. No longer playful. “Irish.”
Gasp!
The Scorpions had claimed to be Irish. They told me that my mother went back to Ireland after birthing me. As I got older, though, after learning about my father and his impossibly cruel ways, I always wondered where he buried her. That’s why I was now panting. “What do the Irish words mean?”
So caringly, he softly shared, “My journal.”
Almost lightheaded from breathing so hard, I dared to open to the first page, praying about whose words I had yet to experience.
Right there, resting on the first page, was a patch, but it wasn’t a Scorpion’s. It was a Steel Stallions patch.
My eyes slammed shut as my head tilted to the ceiling. Steel Stallions. The blood family Bors had found me.
The best gravelly voice in the world assured me, “Answers. Read and find some answers you’ve always wanted.”
Nervously nodding, I peered back down to the journal, begging myself to hold it together. Beyond the patch was feminine handwriting:
To practice English, I started a journal, but now all my entries are gone. He stole my book—my words. I hope he didn’t burn them like he’s claimed. I hope this replacement he’s given me isn’t the only proof of how hard I’ve fought to find her.
Oh, Da, what have I done?
Such words were mesmerizing. Even though I wasn’t sure how they were connected to me, they still felt like a powerful whisper from my past. One I didn’t even know I had. One I wouldn’t know completely because the next chunk of the journal had been ripped out. Only shreds of those pages remained at the stressed binding.
That didn’t stop the next journal entry from magically playing out in my mind like a movie.
Staring at the abandoned building, the parking lot was so deserted I expected to see a tumbleweed roll by at any moment. I wondered how I had gotten it all wrong. I believed I was about to get answers but, once again, I was left empty-handed and beyond frustrated.
Rrrr! What a holy show!
I growled, stomping my slutty high heel against the cracked concrete. My attire was my attempt at being the blame for every erection in the building… but the building was fucking empty!
Trying not to smear the gallon of makeup on my face, I dabbed the back of my hand to my sweaty forehead.
Texas is a brutal state with the unforgiving summer heat.
Bloody Hell, the strip club had no sign of life.
Predicting a vulture would soon be circling above, waiting for me to die of heat stroke, I said to the sky, “I hope you like ’em salty!” I fanned my face, attempting to keep all my makeup from melting off. The way I was dripping, I may as well have been a walking salt rock for a horse to lick.
Thankfully, I have stubborn blood racing through my veins. Even though it’s been years since I left Ireland, I’m not about to stop searching. Without a body, or concrete evidence, my quest will never end. I refuse to give up on her.
“Who is ‘her’?” I accidentally asked out loud, knowing Bors wasn’t going to answer me. I’d have to keep reading to find my answers.
Walking toward my beat-up car, I told myself, I’ll drive around until I find these bikers.
Painfully gathered intel had led me to my escape, and to Austin. Rumor had it the Steel Stallions MC stole and hid little girls.
