He lifts it to his mouth and swallows a big gulp. When he lowers it, my attention falls to the bubbly, pink line of milk along his top lip, and I laugh.

  “Absolutely terrifying.” I pull out a small, white napkin from underneath my plate and hand it to him. “For your pink milk moustache.”

  He graciously takes it and wipes his mouth, removing the evidence of his penchant for strawberry milkshakes from his skin and beard, and gestures for me to eat my food. The food is nothing to write home about—not-so-crispy bacon, pale eggs, and a slice of unbuttered toast. My father would destroy a food business for less…but who am I to judge? Putting my breakfast prejudices aside, I eat the food, and surprisingly, it tastes good. Real good. I lose myself to it for a moment, humming and ignoring Creed as he watches me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry.

  I’m brought back to reality by a blue sedan as it flies into the gas station, rock music blasting through the cracks in the windows. It rolls to a stop beside Creed’s bike, and young preppy-looking boys howl with laughter. Their laughs and good vibes flow through the parking lot and swirl around our table. It’s infectious, making me smile. The ruckus draws Creed’s attention, too, and when he glances over his shoulder, the guy in the passenger seat looks at the bike beside him. I watch his laugh fizzle out as he scans the station, his eyes widening when he sees Creed. I frown, and Creed turns in his seat to get a better look. The young men panic and shout before the driver puts his car in reverse and peels out the same way he came. I blink. Wow. Blowing annoyed air from his lips, Creed turns back to his food, placing his tattooed elbows on the table. As if it never happened, he continues to eat his breakfast. I keep my questions at bay until my curiosity is too much to bear.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “They owe me money,” he simply says with a shrug. “Frat boys. Guess I’ll just have to catch up with them in town.”

  “Money for what? Are you going to hurt them?”

  He flicks his whiskey gaze from his plate to me and flashes me a playful smirk. “You expect me to answer those questions? It’s club stuff, Izzy.”

  Club stuff. Politics operate with the same mentality. I tilt my head. “Are you carrying a gun?”

  I need to know. If something happens, I need to know how things will be handled so I can mentally prepare myself. He contemplates lying to me; I can tell by the way his lids thin. Growing up in the environment I grew up in, reading expressions before words left lips was a must. Pay attention, my father would say. Lips lie, but eyes don’t.

  “Two,” Creed finally admits then places the last bite of toast into his mouth.

  “Two?” I flick my gaze over him. I held him tight on the ride here and squeezed him between my legs, but I didn’t feel anything. How does he conceal them so well? More importantly, should I be concerned he felt the need to carry two weapons for our drive into Exeter? A town where the Devil’s Cartel reigns supreme. “Do you plan on running into trouble?”

  “I always run into trouble.” He pushes his plate away, swallowing. “Hoping to avoid it since I got you with me, but I won’t hold my breath.”

  He told Judge he wasn’t anticipating any problems… Dread curls through my stomach, and sprouts of fear and regret grow. Maybe I should’ve stayed at the cabin.

  At that moment, a red sedan pulls up, and an elderly couple exits the vehicle. Their gazes are on Creed’s back before they’ve hit the button on their keys to lock the car. The elderly gentleman pauses and turns to his wife for a private discussion, and a small eternity later, she nods her head and they continue their walk toward us.

  When they get within proximity of us, I make eye contact with them and smile.

  “Good morning,” I say, and they ignore me. In fact, they can’t get out of the building fast enough.

  I frown after them then look at Creed, who watches me sympathetically. It’s endearing, an expression I don’t think I’ve seen on him before.

  “Am I missing something?” I ask. “Should I be more afraid of you?”

  “I like that they’re afraid of me. They should be.” He sits back in his chair and reaches inside his cut. “But I don’t want you to fear me. I don’t want you to see me in that light.”

  Creed pulls a wild, orange flower from inside his cut, and I lift my eyebrows. It’s squished and dying, but he’s so proud of himself. I take the flower from his large fingers and survey it closer.

  “Looked better when I picked it…” he adds. “Just didn’t want to give it to you in front of Judge because, well, you know how he is.”

  Throughout my young life, I’ve received a lot of flowers—small bouquets, large bouquets, flowers wrapped in silk and lace, flowers with petals adorned with tiny diamonds that were put together by someone who didn’t know me. Creed, big bad James Creed, looked at this flower and he thought of me. Then he picked it. Not bought. Picked. With his giant hands. I’ve never liked the color orange…

  …but suddenly it’s my favorite.

  “Thank you.”

  My heart swells in my chest, and his small gesture puts my entire life into perspective. Aside from Chelsea, I’ve never had a genuine relationship in my life. They’re all fake, all built on the back of my father’s campaigns—even my relationship with Pierce. We only dated because our fathers insisted, and we didn’t mind each other. Most of our conversations were shallow and the sex as exciting as a funeral. I was happy to settle since I didn’t know any better, but one meaningful little gesture from the man most fear, the man most want to see dead, and the trajectory of my life has been changed. Who knew such a dark soul could shed so much light?

  “You finished?” Creed asks, pulling me from my thoughts, pointing to my empty plate.

  Rolling the stem of the beautiful, sad flower between my fingers, I nod, and he takes the plate and walks it over to the trashcan. I watch him, flicking my gaze all over him, feeling incredibly attached to this stranger.

  “C’mon, Blondie,” he shouts over his shoulder as he dumps our rubbish inside. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Creed

  It was the ride that transformed my life. I always rode solo, never giving up my space for anyone, especially not a piece of fender fluff, but it was different with Izzy. It felt right to have her thighs around me, her head against my back. I drove carefully, never breaching the speed limit, slowing at every corner or when she gripped me tighter. I wanted her to enjoy it. I wanted her to want to ride with me again and again. She’d never know it, but it was intimate for me to have her on the back of my bike, as intimate as kissing. She was the first to sit there, the first to hold me while I rode. I swore I’d never do it and made fun of any member that did, but we all had exceptions, and Blondie was mine. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her.

  And it was totally fucking crazy to think the way I was after such little time together. She could be a complete fucking wackjob for all I knew…

  …she could also be the love of my life.

  Didn’t know which was scarier. I huffed to myself, embarrassment trickling through my veins at the thought of anyone hearing what was going through my mind. I fucking hated clichés, but I learned a long time ago that life was one cliché after another. I was a cliché, she was a cliché, and together, we made a giant clichéd mess.

  As we crossed the town’s limits, hair prickled on the back of my neck. We flew past the welcome sign, and I caught a flash of sun reflecting off metal. I peered into my right mirror and watched as police cars pulled out of the shrubbery and onto the asphalt. Sirens squealed, the high ring making me wince, and Isabelle squeezed me.

  “James!” she shouted, her fingers twitching against my stomach. “Are we in trouble?”

  I glanced at my mirrors again as the single line of vehicles split in two, a cop car flanking each side. I ran a few scenarios in my head. I couldn’t outrun them, not on this bike, not with Blondie on the back. I was left with no choice. I indicated and left the road, pulling onto the shoulder. The sirens stopped, but the lights remained on. I released my drag bars and sat back, easing myself against Isabelle. Then I turned my head until I could just see her face out of my peripheral. She was wide-eyed and frightened under her helmet, under my favorite black brain bucket.

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “Was going a little over the limit and I’m not wearing a helmet. We’re okay.”

  Iz relaxed her grip, but I sat taller, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. I lied to her. The cops were waiting for us. We were exactly where they wanted us to be, and that put me on edge. Did they stop Judge, too? Or was Blondie the one they want? I looked into my side mirrors and watched as car doors opened. One officer appeared, then two. In a matter of seconds, six cops were walking toward us, cautiously fingering the black handguns still holstered to their hips. I clenched my jaw. What the fuck am I going to do?

  “There’s so many of them…” Isabelle said, still holding me tight. “This isn’t because you were speeding at all, is it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Turn off your motorcycle,” a baritone voice demanded. “Now.”

  I slowly moved my hand toward the key and turned off my bike. Then the sounds of gravel crunching underneath shoes drew closer, accompanied by a crackly warble from their radios.

  “James Creed,” the same, deep voice shouted. “You’re under arrest for—”

  “What?” Isabelle shrieked, and the motorcycle shook as she whipped her head in their direction.

  I blew frustrated air out of my lips, kicked my bike stand down, and turned. “Under arrest?”

  “Don’t fucking move!” they ordered, but I lifted myself off the bike anyway.

  Izzy gasped and dropped her hold to grip the seat instead. The six officers stopped, their guns drawn, their beady scowls focused on Blondie and me. I reached inside my cut and around to my lower back and pulled my revolver from my waistband. The officers drew their own weapons, and I was staring down the barrels of more guns than I’d like.

  “Haven’t hurt a hair on her head,” I said, my fingers twitching around the handle of my gun. “Jonathan—”

  I swallowed my words as half the officers turned their guns on Isabelle. A pang of panic slammed into my gut, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to do.

  “It’s not your town anymore,” the cop in front said, and I focused on him, on his buzz cut, his black uniform that clung tight to his overweight body, and the shiny badge on his chest. “Drop your weapon, get on your knees, and put your hands behind your head.”

  “Or what?” I stepped forward. “You’ll shoot me?”

  “James…” Isabelle whispered, her voice trembling.

  I ignored her. If they wanted to shoot me, they would’ve already. There was an ulterior motive at play here, and I wasn’t going to go down quietly.

  “No. I won’t shoot you.” The corners of his lips quirked. “You can come with us now, or we’ll pick you up later. Doesn’t bother me.”

  So, they wanted Blondie? I lifted my arm and pointed my Smith and Wesson at Isabelle, the barrel of it pointed perfectly in the space between her eyebrows. The pigs tensed and shuffled nervously, their eyes wide with worry. Isabelle choked, and I did my best to block the terrified noises she made from my head. I had to get us out of here by any means necessary. If I had to shoot her, I would. I think.

  “You want her?” I asked, pulling back the hammer until my gun clicked.

  My stomach churned at the thought of what I was doing, at the thought of any harm coming to her by my hands or the hands of these fuckers.

  The cop at the front, the overweight one with the buzz cut, sneered at me. “Go ahead. Shoot her. The more battered she is, the better.”

  I clenched my jaw. They really were gonna use her to bring us down, huh? That had to be the weakest game plan ever. She’d never lie and say I hurt her. She’d never testify against me or Judge or the Devil’s Cartel. I stole a glance at her, and she pleaded silently with kinks in her brow and a trembling lower lip. Would she? Bang! Isabelle’s face twisted in pain, and she howled, clenching her bicep. What the fuck? I lowered my gun, shocked, as blood trickled over her slender fingers. I whipped my head back to the police.

  “Shots fired! Requesting back up,” the lardy pig squealed into his radio. Bang! Another shot rang out, and Isabelle shrieked. I snapped my attention to her, to the bullet hole in my goddamn seat right by her bare thigh. “Drop your weapon or my next bullet goes in her spine.”

  Without thought, I lifted my gun and shot him. In my rage, I missed my mark, and the bullet tore through the side of his neck. He crashed to the ground, shouting, gurgling, and clenching his bleeding neck. As he squirmed, all guns turned to Izzy, and I was caught in a checkmate. They knew I wasn’t going to hurt her, and I knew they would hurt her. They fucking had me. Izzy whimpered, and her eyes glistened, silently pleading for me to end this standoff. Jesus Christ.

  “All right!” I shouted, tossing my gun away.

  A thick, heavy feeling wormed its way through my stomach, and I felt sick. I hated myself. I never fucking threw in the towel, but here I was, throwing my gun to the ground and getting on my knees, uncaring that hard pieces of gravel dug into my kneecaps through my jeans. Isabelle mumbled her apologies through tears, and I was yanked by my collar and forced onto my stomach before I could acknowledge her. I just managed to turn my head as the side of my face hit the gravel.

  “Easy!” I snapped, creating little whirlwinds of dust with my breath.

  Whoever was on me responded by digging their hard knee between my shoulder blades and burying their hard elbow into my neck. I hissed, and they pushed harder. Through the pain, I watched a lady pig pull Izzy off my motorcycle and roughly cuff her. Blood ran freely down Blondie’s arm, turning her pale complexion red and ruining the pretty dress I chose, the one that cost me a small fortune. In the next heartbeat, my arms were wrenched behind me and I was cuffed and lifted to my feet, a cop flanking each side of me. Up ahead, the man I shot was being tended to, and in the distance, the sirens of their approaching backup sang. He’d be okay. I only grazed him, like he grazed Izzy.

  “You’ll be all right,” I teased as they marched me past him. “It’s only a scratch, pussy.”

  I was shoved forward by a forceful heel of a palm to the middle of my back, and I snickered. This was a giant waste of my time. By this evening, I’d be a free man, and every single one of these assholes, these puppets, would pay with their blood.

  Twenty yards out from the police cruisers, Izzy was veered off to the left and me the right. As we approached the back of the cruiser, the door opened, and out stepped the last man I thought I’d see. Jonathan Laurent. I felt my face warp into a scowl so tight my eyebrows ached. I took him in in his dark gray suit and his blue and white tie, and the fucker had the audacity to smirk at me. He sat back here and let them shoot at Isabelle? What the fuck was wrong with him? I shrugged out of the grasp of those holding me and charged forward.

  “You fuckin—” I was hit from behind, tackled to the ground, and my face kissed the gravel once more.

  “James!” Isabelle shouted, then her voice was muffled by glass as the back door to the police cruiser carrying her was shut.

  The asshole on my left buried his fingers in my hair and yanked my head up. He wretched me back onto my knees, and I grunted as Jonathan grinned down at me.

  “Not so tough without your gang,” he sneered, the blue and red lights from the roof of the car coloring his silvery hair.

  “Don’t need ’em,” I said, breathless. “Uncuff me and I’ll show you.”

  His wicked eyes flashed at the challenge, but I knew he wasn’t pondering the idea. Jonathan was many things, but he wasn’t a fighter. He preferred to fight a mental battle, a battle of wits, of cunning. If he needed something physically sorted, he called his pigs to do it.

  “You’re going away for a long time.” He glanced toward Izzy’s car. “Your whole club is.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I laughed. “You’re delusional.”

  The skin around Jonathan’s eyes crinkled as he faked a smile. “Am I?”

  “You think she’ll lie for you? You think she’ll betray me?” I shook my head and laughed again. “She’s mine. I made her mine. She has no loyalty to you, the man who threw her to the wolves.” I shuffled closer on my knees. “The wolves have been good to her. Too good.”

  Jonathan’s jaw tightened and relaxed as he clasped his hands in front of him, down low. “My daughter’s loyalty lies wherever I want it to. She’s easily bought, easily persuaded. It’s not her fault; she gets it from her mother.” He leaned forward, bringing his face level with mine. “She knew all along what I needed in order to disassemble the Devil’s Cartel. Of course, I’d prefer Damon Judge kneeling in front of me, but she insisted you’d be the easier one to manipulate, and she was right.” Delight glistened in his irises as doubt sprouted in my chest. Did she fucking play me? “You didn’t think your time with her was real, did you?”

  I pursed my lips and looked over to Isabelle, who pressed herself to the glass window of the cruiser, mortification plain on her face. I did find it odd she wasn’t concerned with her father whereabouts or whether he was dead or alive, but who would? He was a damn snake.

  I’d experienced plenty of fake relationships, and fake interactions, throughout my life. There was nothing phony about Isabelle Laurent or the time we spent together.

  And I’d bet my patch on it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Izzy

  My chest heaves. I’m alone. Trapped in a sparse, beige room with nothing but a steel table and a plastic stool. I glance up from the gray, speckled table surface to the mirrors in front of me. I’ve seen enough Law and Order shows to know they’re two-way. Regardless of who may be watching, I stare at myself in the reflection. This morning, I was clean and cute. Now…now I look like a homeless criminal. My long, blonde hair is a tangled mess, my eyes puffy from crying, and there are dried drops of blood all over me. At least they patched the bullet graze on my arm when I got here—here being Exeter’s only police station. Where’s Creed? Is he here, too? Does Judge know?