Only he’d stopped coming, and my future had looked more and more bleak every day. So I’d taken matters into my own hands. I’d worked my arse off—literally—turning tricks every day for months, and then I’d gone and bought some new boobs, had my hair done, and got myself a nice new tattoo, and I’d strutted into that MC as if I belonged there.

I’d made a deal with the Prez. I’d make myself available to him and his men if he let me stay there and gave me his protection. Jett had agreed, though he’d wanted proof he wasn’t getting the raw end of the deal. He’d fucked me all night and well into the early hours of the morning. And over time, he’d begun to trust me. He was good to me. I liked Jett. I liked the rest of the club brothers, too. I remember thinking that being a club whore was something that I’d have to endure to stay safe, but I hadn’t counted on liking it. I hadn’t counted on enjoying being used by these men, and I certainly hadn’t counted on falling in love with any of them.

But I had, and now … what did it matter? I knew I was never getting out of here. Because my father always finds me, he always brings me home. And this time he isn’t ever going to let me go.

The last thing I expected when I walked into the clubhouse this morning was to be called out on a fuckin’ job that would have me sittin’ in a blacked-out van parked on the side of the road as I watched another fuckin’ miserable warehouse.

I have déjà vu all over again, but this time instead of listening to Kick blabbering on about Ivy, I have some dumbarse shithead flickin’ a fuckin’ Zippo lighter over and over again. I snatch the lighter from Crazy and toss it out the fuckin’ window. He glares at me. “Dude, what the fuck? I need that fuckin’ lighter.”

“Bullshit. You got so many of those fuckin’ things you change them more than your goddamned clothes. Remind me to beat Prez’s head in for pairin’ you up with me. Woulda been better comin’ alone.”

“Hey, I resent that, man,” Crazy says, and he turns, raking his hands over his jeans repeatedly.

“You fuck this job up and you’re gonna resent more than a few harsh words, you got me?”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ got ya,” Crazy says, and kicks the dashboard with his boot. “This is bullshit. When are these bastards gonna show up?”

“They’ll be here. Get your feet of my fuckin’ dash,” I say, and he mock salutes me with the finger. “So, how’s Ivy? You know there’s no hot arse left to fuck since you took her aw—” I punch him in the side of the face. I don’t even think about it; it’s simply reflex. “Ow, fuck. What the hell, man?”

“You don’t speak about my old lady that way,” I warn, leaning back in my seat. The stupid little prick rubs his cheek.

“Jesus Christ. You’re really a goner for that bitch, aren’t you?” Crazy shakes his head and whistles. “First Kick and now you. The two of you are like chicks on the rag; ‘we even fall in love at the same time’. Fuck me.”

“Unless you want me to cut out your goddamn tongue, keep your fuckin’ trap shut.” I turn my attention to the empty street. We’re concealed at the end of the alley across from the warehouse, far enough that it won’t draw suspicion and close enough to still see who’s coming and going. We won’t get a visual inside, but that’s not what we’re here for.

“Something’s happenin’.” I tap my hand on the steering wheel and tilt my chin toward the trucks approaching the building. The security gate opens, and they drive through, backing up to a loading bay. Men in plain clothes remove packing crates while Ryzhanov and his bodyguard climb out of the vehicle and approach the other two Russians. They argue animatedly amongst themselves, but it isn’t long before the conversation turns heated and Ryzhanov pulls his gun and just shoots the two sorry fucks point blank in the head. The men slump to the ground, but none of the workers bat an eyelid; they just continue to unload the crates from the truck while Ryzhanov pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes what I assume to be blood splatter from his face.

“Holy shit. He didn’t even fuckin’ care that the gates weren’t closed,” Crazy says. “That is one blue-balled, brazen motherfucker.”

A limo emerges from the warehouse and Ryzhanov pulls one of the workers aside and signals to the body on the loading bay, and then disappears into the waiting vehicle. They pull out onto the street, and I wait.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

“What the fuck are you doing? Go!” Crazy says.

I give them a moment longer before starting the van, and then we pull out onto the road. “Jesus, no wonder Prez doesn’t send you out on stakeouts. There’s a timing to this shit. You can’t just pull out and run them off the road.”

“Why not?” Crazy pouts.

“Because that would draw a lot of fuckin’ attention and bring the heat down on the club. Thanks to Kick’s new bitch, there’s already enough heat baring down on us. We don’t need the Russians fuckin’ shit up too,” I say, feedin’ Prez’s bullshit words to Crazy. I feel like a traitor for even sayin’ it out loud. Like Ivy will somehow find out and hate me as much as I hate me for not bringin’ that fucker to his knees.

I’d finally made that call to my contact last night. She’d done a little diggin’ and I had me a name and an address, but sittin’ on this info about Ivy’s father is killin’ me. And this mornin’, as she said goodbye after I fucked her over my kitchen bench, I came so close to tellin’ her that I know where to find him, and that I wanna ignore my Prez’s orders and rip that fucker’s head clean off his shoulders.

“Seems to me like they’d get what they deserve,” Crazy says.

I glance at him a moment before slowing for the corner. The limo is about thirty metres up ahead. I still have a perfect visual. Not that I really need it. I know exactly where we’re going. I just gotta make sure Ryzhanov doesn’t wind up in the same place at the same time. “What’s your story anyway?”

“I don’t have a story, I’m just a crazy fucker who likes to play with fire.” Unfortunately, he isn’t joking. Fucking lunatic. But there’s more to his story than that, and I have a hunch that’s the whole reason he’s here.

“Bullshit. A lot of idiots come to the club looking for trouble, but you’re not one of them.” I shake my head. I’m good at reading people. It’s a part of what I do, and I’m fuckin’ good at what I do.

Crazy twitches. He covers by sniffin’ and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. It’s one of his tells. Punk-arsed little fuck doesn’t even realise he’s doin’ it. “Doesn’t Prez make you check into all of our backgrounds before he’ll let us patch in?”

“He does. But I wanna hear it from you.”

“No story. I got no family, and no one else to put up with my shit,” he says, glancing out the window at the city flying by.

“What happened to your family?”

“They died.”

“Obviously,” I say, and my patience is in fuckin’ short supply with this arsehole today. “I want to know how.”

“Don’t you know this shit already?”

“I know what the paperwork says—that they died in a fire. I’d think that someone who lost his entire family in a fire wouldn’t have your little penchant for open flames,” I say evenly.

He shrugs. “What doesn’t kill you—”

“Makes you a suspect.”

“I didn’t kill my family,” he says through gritted teeth. Finally, we’re beginning to get somewhere.

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. But someone set them alight in their sleep. I had a pizza delivery job. When I turned down my street, I saw the trucks parked outside on my front lawn. I dumped my bike and ran past the barricades and do you know what I heard?”

I don’t answer; I just keep my eyes glued to the road. In my experience, people are so much quicker to divulge their secrets when I keep my mouth shut.