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“I looked for you everywhere.”
“I’m sorry?”
I huffed. “I was so worried when I couldn’t find you. Did you get hurt? Are you okay?”
She shrugged, the neck of her t-shirt falling off her shoulder. “My friend was looking out for me.”
“A friend who’s also a member of the Savage Hunt Motorcycle Club?”
“Wait, whaaat?” Bliss looked away, and I wasn’t buying her playing-it-dumb act. “I didn’t know that was a motorcycle clubhouse.”
“I’m not an idiot, Bliss. How in the hell do you know thatfriendof yours?”
She heaved a sigh and looked at me, resignation all over her expression. “I went to school with his younger brother. I had a huge crush on him, and when I bumped into him recently, I buffed a shine onto my lady balls and asked him on a date.”
“At the motorcycle clubhouse,” I repeated, hoping she heard my disbelief. “Are you fucking insane? You don’t want to mess around with those men.”
For the first time since I’d met her, Bliss looked irritated with me. She folded her arms over her chest and said, “I can take care of myself, you know.”
“I know, Bliss, but… the Savage Hunt are dangerous.”
“Beckitt had my back,” she replied in a sullen tone.
“Did Beckitt also take you home?”
“I got a cab.”
“Did he at least put you in the cab himself? Did anyone take advantage of you?”
She hit me with a hard stare, and I could see her walls coming down. She didn’t like to be pushed to share any more than I did.
Blowing out a breath, I wrapped her in my arms. “I’m sorry I’m acting crazy about this. It’s just…” I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. “It’s just Iknowhow dangerous motorcycle clubs can be, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“How do you know?”
I shrugged. “I watchedSons of Anarchy.” Lie.
Bliss snorted. “That’s just Hollywood made-up bullshit. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”
I said nothing but knew deep down that she was wrong. Because I had seen it. I had lived it. I had been the victim of it.
“Are you Alex Cross?”
I looked up from the spark plug I was cleaning, spotting an overweight, balding man in navy-blue coveralls standing just inside the door of my garage.
I put down the plug and my rag. “Yeah?”
“I’m here to replace the glass in your door.”
Frowning, I looked from the man, then out to the glazier’s van parked on the curb. “I didn’t call about a repair job,” I told him.
“I don’t know what to tell you. We got a call about replacing glass. The job’s already been paid for. We even got extra if we did it today, so you going to let me do my job?”
Still stunned, I just pointed. “The damage is through there.”
