Jailbait (25 page)

And I get it, to some extent. It’s not a life I’d live, but who am I to judge?
 

I finish my burger and look around for the waitress, telepathically willing her to bring the check. I’m excited and nervous to call Pepper. She’s going to be pissed, that’s for sure. I’ll have to make it up to her. Hell, I’ll even drive up to Cornell and—

My dad’s coffee cup falls to the floor, the white porcelain shattering into a million pieces. I look at him, ready to crack a joke about being butterfingers. Then I see his face. It’s pale as can be. Eyes wide and full of fear.
 

He clutches at his chest, trying and failing to get his breath. I jump up, racing around to the other side of the table.
 

But I’m too late.

*

I stare at my boots. They’re scuffed and worn in like they’re supposed to be. I get my love of motorcycles from my father. He taught me how to ride a bike before I could legally drive. I remember the first time he let me sit on his Harley. It was too heavy and almost fell over on me.

“Hey, kid.”
 

I look up, blinking. The hospital lights are harsh. Too bright for eyes that haven’t closed for more than a second in the last twenty-four hours. It takes a minute for the large shadow of a man to come into view. It’s the president of the Jackals. Fisher is his last name. I don’t remember his first.
 

“Yeah?”
 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know he means it. I can see the emotion behind his eyes. “Your dad was a good guy.”
 

I nod, wondering if Fisher would be saying these things if he knew the truth.
 

“Meant a lot to the club.” He sits next to me on the stiff bench outside the ER. “We’ll handle this. Go home, get some rest.”
 

“Home is far away,” I mumble.
 

“You got keys to your dad’s?”
 

I hold up a plastic bag. “They gave me his personal items.”
 

Fisher pats me on the back. “We got this. The club’s got this.”
 

I just nod again, not sure what to say. I get my dad’s keys from the plastic bag and walk through the unfamiliar hospital. I followed the ambulance here in my dad’s truck, and parked somewhere outside. I don’t remember.
 

And I’m not sure what to feel right now.
 

I miss my father. We’d grown apart over the last few years, but he was my dad, for fucks sake. I’ll never get him back.
 

There’s a sick, twisted, completely fucked up part of me that can’t help but think everything I went through was for nothing. I went to fucking jail so my father could live. I cut off ties from Pepper for a whole week so he could live.
 

And then he dies of a heart attack.
 

What the fuck did I do to get dealt this hand? I wander around the parking lot until I find the truck. I don’t have my phone to use GPS, and I don’t really remember where my dad lived. It takes me an hour to find his street.
 

I plug in my phone and lay on the couch. I pass out before the battery comes back to life. Six hours later, I wake to a pounding on the door. It’s dark in the house, and grief hits me hard.
 

And then fear.
 

Who the fuck is knocking on the door right now? It’s late, and beating on a door like that only means one thing. I look through the peephole and see the face of Fisher. I let out a sigh and open the door.
 

Instead of offering me sympathy or fake support, he barges in, along with a few other club members.
 

“Kid,” he growls. “Funny thing. The club decided to pull from our funds to cover funeral costs for your father.”
 

Oh fuck. My stomach drops.
 

“Wanna know why that’s so funny?”
 

I shake my head.
 

“There are no funds. We did a trace. It all leads back to dear old daddy.”
 

My heart beats out of my chest. “I told him to give it back.”
 

“Oh, so you were in on this?” Fisher pulls out a knife, pushes me against a wall, and puts the blade to my throat. “I don’t fucking care. Your daddy is dead. He ain’t gonna pay his debts. Someone else has to. And that someone is you.”
 

Chapter Twenty-one

Pepper

I twist my mother’s ring around my finger, looking over the list of questions and answers one of the company’s PR people gave me. Of course, anything can be thrown at me by reporters, but the list in front of me is what I’m most likely to be asked about.
 

“Do you need anything, Ms. Davenwood?” Heather asks. She’s young and full of ambition, and is someone’s assistant. My uncle’s? Mine? I feel bad I don’t remember.
 

“Peppermint tea would be great right now. No sugar. Thanks.” She nods and hurries away. I read over the answers, memorizing what I’m supposed to say, even if it’s not the whole truth, until Heather comes back with the tea. I take a small sip and lean back, trying to relax.

“Not feeling well?” Heather asks, and her eyes flick to my hand on my stomach. Shit. I didn’t even realize it. I have to be aware of everything I’m doing before I step in front of the cameras in a few minutes.
 

“I woke up nauseous,” I confess. “I’m a little nervous.”
 

“You’ll be fine,” she says with a smile. “But I’d be totally nervous too.”
 

I take another drink of tea, willing my stomach to settle. I woke up feeling sick, but the nerves aren’t from the press conference. I’m worried about Grayson and everything he’s involved in. He doesn’t see a way out that doesn’t result in him going back to jail…and I refuse to believe it. No one can own you like that, right?
 

My mind goes to mafia movies and motorcycle club romance novels, and my heartrate increases. So does the nausea.
 

Deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out. I drink the rest of the tea, then panic that I’m going to have to pee in the middle of the Q&A session. Fuck. I just can’t win.
 

The press conference ends several hours later, and I have to say things went well. I answered my questions seamlessly, and then my uncle and the other partners took over. I got to sit on the sidelines, smiling and being rather useless. Any other day it would have bothered me, but I was too deep in thought about Grayson to care.
 

I check my phone as I’m leaving the conference. There’s nothing from Grayson. Which is good, right? He’s just going home, grabbing his stuff, and then going back to the manor. We’ll be together again soon, and will figure this mess out. I still think with all he knows, going to the authorities is the best option. He’s right that it won’t cause an instant bust of the motorcycle club. But it’s a start, right?
 

There are a few more things to wrap up before I can leave, and my uncle thinks it would be a good idea to make a personal appearance throughout the building. He says it boosts morale and shows our employees how invested we are in the company and them. Another hour goes by and now I’m starving as well as nauseous.
 

I text Grayson instead of call as I’m getting onto the helicopter; it’ll be too loud to talk to him. I watch the screen, waiting for a reply.
 

None comes.
 

The chopper lands and I’m escorted into the manor. Grayson isn’t there. Vomit rises in my throat, and my heart beats faster and faster. Grayson’s not here, and he’s not answering his phone.
 

Something terrible happened, I just know it.
 

I can hardly think, hardly breathe. I cling onto the worn wooden railing as I go up to my room. His phone could have died. He might have gotten stuck in traffic on the way out of the city and didn’t reach his own place until minutes ago.
 

Or someone from that club found him and killed him.
 

I rush into my closet, stripping out of my blouse and skirt. I put on leggings, boots, and an oversized t-shirt, and then sit on my bed, head in my hands. I call Grayson again, and his call goes right to voicemail.
 

Close to hyperventilating, I race down to the first floor study. I pause for half a second before opening the door, memories of my father crashing down on me. Then a sob escapes my lips. I don’t want Grayson to become just a memory too.
 

My father’s cell phone is dead. I press the home button over and over just to be sure, and then feverishly dig through the desk drawer to find the charger. I plug it in and wait.
 

And wait.
 

It feels like an hour has passed before the phone buzzes to life, and another as it gets a signal. I flip through the apps until I find the one linked to the Mercedes Grayson drove. I enter the wrong password in my haste, screaming in frustration as I have to start over.
 

Finally, I get in and see that the SUV is parked at Grayson’s house. He made it home, and he’s not answering. I don’t know if that makes this better or worse. All I know is that I have to get over there and see things for myself. I freeze, not sure if I should drive myself or have someone go with me. Grayson was adamant about me
not
being alone, that it makes me too vulnerable for an attack. But I’m impatient and need to leave
now.

A minute later, the keys to my Tesla are in my hand and I’m running down the driveway. Tears roll down my cheeks and I call Grayson over and over. History is repeating itself.
 

Did I fall for Grayson only to have my heart destroyed again?
 

“No,” I say out loud. He didn’t leave me by choice last time. And he wouldn’t leave me again. My nerves are so far shot by the time I reach Grayson’s house, I can taste bile in my mouth. The Mercedes is parked in the driveway, like the GPS on the app said. I park on the street, looking at the house for clues. I have no idea what to look for, and nothing seems out of the ordinary.
 

I shut off my car, unbuckle my seatbelt, and get out. My hands are shaking. I shouldn’t have come here alone. Keeping control over my breathing, I manage to walk up to the garage. I peer inside; the BMW is still there. I listen, hear nothing, and slowly walk up the sidewalk that leads to the front door. I dial 9-1-1 on my phone and let my finger hover over the call button, just in case.
 

I’m in front of the door, and have no idea what to do. Ring the doorbell and see if anyone comes? I can pretend to be…uh…shit. I have no idea. But I don’t have to ring the bell, because the door is cracked open. And that is never good.
 

Thumb ready to call the authorities, I push the door open and move to the side. No one rushes out and attacks me. No one even moves inside. Everything is silent. I swallow my pounding heart and take a step inside.
 

The place is a disaster, looking like a robbery gone wrong. Furniture is tipped over, shattered glass litters the floor, and a threat is written on the wall in front of me in red spray paint.
 

“‘You’re a dead man, King,’” I read aloud. Dizziness crashes down on me, and I have to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
 

“Gray?” I meekly call. I push off the wall and tentatively move across the living room. Am I going to find his body? Will there be a blood-splattered trail detailing his painful death?
 

“Gray?” I call out again, and stop to listen. Nothing moves, nothing makes noise. I’m alone in the house. I think.
 

Grayson isn’t in the living room. Or the bathroom. I move through the dining room and enter the kitchen. There are a few drops of blood on the tile floor, and next to that, a needle.
 

I crouch down, reaching out but stopping myself before my fingers brush against the clear plastic. I bring my hand back and cover my mouth, vision blacking out. I hold onto a barstool to keep from falling face first in the blood on the floor.
 

Grayson was right. There is no escaping the club. He got out, and they got him. I inhale sharply, doing everything I can to not come undone. They have him, and I don’t know how to get him back.
 

I allow myself to cry, to let the panic and emotion find an escape. The club came back, threatened, drugged, and took Grayson.

Wait.
 

They threatened, drugged, and took Grayson. They didn’t kill him. And there has to be a reason for that. I suck in air, wipe my eyes, and stand. Grayson King swore he’d do whatever it took to keep me safe, and now it’s my turn. Because the queen always protects the king.
 

*

I stand back, staring at the gold numbers on the door. I knock again, impatient, and cross my arms as I wait. And wait. Fuck. He’s not home. I turn around, anxiety building again. This was my shot in the dark, my only hope for a lead.
 

The door opens. “Pepper?”
 

I whirl around, staring Olson in the face.
 

“Oh my God, Pepper. What are you…you came to your senses, I see.” He leans against the door smirking. He’s wearing only boxers, and his dark hair is a mess.
 

“Not in that way.” I take a few steps toward Olson’s Manhattan apartment. “I need your help.” Part of me dies inside as I say it, but the hit to my pride is nothing compared to how terrified I am that I’ll never see Grayson again.
 

His eyebrows go up. “Is that so?” He takes a step back and holds out his hand. “Then come on in.”
 

“Are you alone?” I ask and briskly walk inside.
 

“Well, well, well, you say one thing and then another.” He reaches for me and I catch his wrist, twisting it.
 

“Touch me, and die.” I dig my nails into his skin just enough to make my point, and then let go. “This is serious, Olson. I need information.”