“Was that Sinéad?” Letterman is beside me in seconds, his voice next to my crazed, searching gaze. “Why was she wearing a wig?”
My body becomes an incendiary device, ready to detonate if I can’t find her in five, four, three… I swallow hard and breathe. “Where the fuck did she go?”
“She went out the side door. Does she have a bodyguard with her?”
I shake from within as violence competes with painful desire. She’s unprotected and roaming a shark-infested city alone. Baiting me until I’m well and truly hooked. I’ve spent more time next to her than any other woman. Period. I haven’t just tolerated her presence; I’ve sought it out.
My heart rate explodes when I stalk past the doorman guarding the exit and burst into the evening air. An engine growls and my heart rate spikes.
In the alleyway, my unpredictable wife straddles my favorite motorcycle. Her new blond lengths are hidden beneath the biker jacket she’d pinched from me and zipped up to her delicate throat.
Fuck, she’s the sexiest woman alive.
Our eyes lock briefly before she flips the visor in place, puts the Streetfighter in first gear, and applies the throttle. A snarl scrapes up my throat as I helplessly watch her drive off—at speed.
But when she pulls out onto the main road, a blacked-out SUV swerves into the traffic behind her.
Shots are fired.
Wheels spin.
“Sinéad!” The madness in me crawls out of my mouth in a yell, each syllable ripping at my throat like razor blades. “Motherfuckers!” I howl.
If there was ever a time to confess insanity, it would be this very moment. I can’t breathe as my boots cover dry asphalt, and I instinctively reach for the cold steel handle of my gun. I look left where the taillights of the vehicle chasing my wife dance in the dusky night air. In five marching strides, I’d stopped traffic and rooted myself in the middle of the road with my feet apart and my firearm raised.
Letterman rushes up beside me, dodging a honking car, his face alarmed when I repeatedly shoot at a far-off moving target until I’m almost out of bullets.
“What the fuck, Dré?”
“Get a chopper in the sky immediately,” I seethe, quaking with anger. “Get a whole fucking fleet fueled and on standby. Sinéad took the Streetfighter.” My lungs ache, unable to accept oxygen, because my heart is pounding so hard it's crushing into the damn things. “She’s wearing my helmet and my jacket.”
“They think it's you…” Reno growls as he skids to a stop beside me.
My fingers curl around the handle of my weapon until I can’t feel them anymore. “Someone give me a fucking key,” I snarl, palming my throat, feeling the airway tighten and the veins thrum.
“Did you get the plates or see who was driving?” Letterman pulls out his iPhone and taps the screen.
“No—give me your fucking keys!” I yell, impatience almost choking me.
Reno hands over the keys to his motorcycle and grabs my elbow. His features are as sharp as his serious glare.
“We’ll catch the motherfuckers, Dré. I’ll call the police department. You have the captain in your pocket. He’ll help us trace the vehicle.”
I barely make out what he’s saying under the noise of blood rushing around my skull. All I see is red. My impulses itch for vengeance. A violent surge of endorphins crushes and cracks me. My wrath doesn’t just swell and seethe; it annihilates my composure, so I visibly vibrate.
I should have protected her. Taken full control and forced her to fuck me in the bathroom. Disciplined her for daring to alter her appearance in a way that resembles every insignificant woman I've ever bedded—even though she’s a trillion times more appealing than they ever were.
She’s a curse on my rogue ways.
The only woman who drives me wild.
My new addiction—without an antidote.
In a hurry, I mount Reno’s motorcycle, shove on the helmet, and rev the powerful engine. Letterman is already doing the same next to me, his own engine fired up, making a noise like demons roaring from Hell. Taking the lead, we speed into the oncoming traffic to hunt the woman I can’t say goodbye to.
* * *
She isn’t just missing—she was stolen from me.
