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“What about my hair?” I ask, deciding the longer I stay in here, the safer I’ll be.
“Don’t worry about it,” the guy with the gun says as the third man I heard speaking earlier walks up, blocking the doorway. This man is nearly twice the size of the other two, with dark brown hair and nearly black, soulless eyes.
“Jesus, she has great tits,” he mutters, sounding a little disappointed. “Towel?”
He steps forward, offering me the thin terrycloth, his face devoid of any emotion. I realize immediately this guy is the most dangerous. Despite his words, his eyes don’t linger on my body like the others did. He’s the type of man that can hurt someone without feeling an ounce of remorse. My eyes linger on his face, committing it to memory, although I doubt I’ll ever forget what any of these guys look like. If I make it out of this alive, they’ll continue to haunt my thoughts for eternity.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping forward and taking the towel from him.
His eyes narrow as he assesses me. I’m not fooling him, but it was worth a try. I dry myself as best I can with my hands tied, the now wet rope around them digging into my skin.
“Let me help.” The man with the scissors passes them off to the man who brought the towel before stepping forward.
I freeze when he pulls the sodden towel from my hands and circles around me. I have no idea what his expression is, but the man with the gun smiles wider. The towel is wrapped around me from behind, the man taking his time. I cringe, my body trembling more from fear than cold at this point when he presses his warm lips to the column of my throat.
“Enough,” the man who brought the towel snaps. “She’s not our toy to play with. The buyer is less than ten minutes out.”
I’m grateful for the cold at my back when the man steps away, but he doesn’t circle around the front of me, making the tension in my back so tight, I ache from it.
“Seems Angel is looking out for you. Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers before I feel a pinch in my neck.
Both arms come up, a protective instinct against the tiny bite of pain, but my vision begins to fade before I can even brush my fingers against the wound.
Chapter 3
Grinch
As much as everyone has spent time praying and begging, none of us has been able to rewrite the last day and a half.
Grace is still missing without a whisper of new intel on her whereabouts.
Lana still pulled out in front of a semi-truck without looking both ways.
Everyone in the clubhouse is devastated, our emotions split between two horrific situations that we have no way of correcting.
When I think about Harley losing Lana, I feel guilty for not focusing on Grace. When I run scenarios through my head and mentally beg for help where Grace is concerned, I feel I’m not giving enough attention to the situation right in front of my face.
The light in Harley’s wife scattered to the heavens before rescue crews had a chance to arrive, but what has been described as quick and painless is no consolation to anyone around.
The end is the same.
An amazing woman is gone.
A husband is left to grieve.
A baby is left motherless.
A numbness floats through the clubhouse, people sticking around to be supportive but at the same time having no idea what to do or say that will make it better.
The answer is simple.
Nothing.
There isn’t a single thing that can be done that will make what Harley’s going through easier.
I feel the need to remind them about Grace, but I know without question that all the guys are just as torn as I am between where our focus would be most helpful.
“Anything?” I ask Kincaid as I step into the conference room.
My president looks up from the computer screen Max is typing away on, shaking his head.
“I promise we’re still working on finding her, but you know how the wait goes,” my boss says, his tired eyes more shadowed than I’ve ever seen them.
I nod, knowing the man is willing to do whatever it takes to find Grace. He hates this part as much as the rest of us do. If he had the power to fix it, there wouldn’t be another abduction across the entire globe.
He can’t fix it.
I can’t fix it.
I also can’t help insidious thoughts and a million what-ifs from snaking inside of me and wrapping around my organs.
What if I pressed harder when we were younger?
What if instead of backing away when Grace shot me down, I pushed a little harder, convinced her to change her mind?
Would she be here with me? Would we have a life together that looks much different than either of ours does now?
