“I’ll tell you later.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you’re in this now. But what is said between us stays between us.”
Lyric smiles, and I kiss her once more before entering the meeting room.
Stepping into the room, I’m surprised to see Dutch and Ghost sitting at our table. Their expressions are serious, and my heart beats a little faster.
Creed wastes no time with pleasantries. “Highway, we suspect Missy has been feeding information to the Crimson Wheelers.”
For a moment, I’m stunned as disbelief washes over me. But as the accusation sinks in, surprise quickly turns to anger.
“What the hell? Missy? Are you sure?” My fists clench at my sides. “What’s our next move?”
ChapterTwelve
Lyric
It’s been a hell of a few days, and I’m beat. Reaching into my pocket, I still have Winchester’s truck keys. I walk back into the clubhouse and see him sitting at a table, eyes fixed on the meeting room’s closed door.
“Hey.” I jiggle the keys in his face. “Do you mind if I borrow your truck?”
His eyes flick to me, then back to the door. “I thought you were housebound?”
“I need to get some personal items from home. I’ll be an hour tops.”
Winchester squints at me. “Only an hour?”
“Yep.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks. If Highway is looking for me, I’ll be at home.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Outside, Justice is talking to another MC member and pauses to smile at me as I walk past. I keep going until I get to Winchester’s truck, and as I open the door, Justice taps me on the shoulder.
“I guess I’m no longer taking you to the swamp?”
I climb into the truck. “No. I don’t think Highway would approve.”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Highway, huh? Never would have pegged you as liking him.”
Not knowing what to say, I start the truck’s engine. “Thanks for looking after my arm.”
“My pleasure, and if you get sick of Highway, I’ll be around.” He grins at me, shuts the truck’s door, and walks away.
Gripping the truck’s wheel, I pull out onto the highway. The road is clear, and the sun is shining brightly. I’m humming along to the radio when I see a woman walking alongside the road.
Missy.
There’s no mistaking her defiant walk, the way her boots hit the pavement with purpose, even though she’s got nowhere to call home. My gut twists. I shouldn’t stop, the club has rules about trust and loyalty, but dammit, something pulls me over.
“Need a lift?” My voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.
She hesitates, her eyes narrowing, searching for the catch. But desperation wins, and she climbs into the passenger seat, the door slamming shut with finality. “Thanks,” she mutters, words barely more than a breath.
