Blade (The Alpha Elite #11)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Blade

I didn’t sleep.

The sun had been up for two hours. It’d been radio silence from the brunette. My knuckles were raw from the bikers I’d taken out my aggression on, and my five-mile run at dawn hadn’t done shit to clear my head.

I stared at the burner in my hand.

The same damn one I’d been holding all night because she’d fucking ran.

I hadn’t expected otherwise, it was probably all she knew, but I was still irrationally pissed.

The sight of that motherfucker shoving her head against the wall, going for his zipper— FUCK .

The piece of shit was only still alive because I wasn’t fucking stupid. She’d been seen with him at the bar. I could take on the MC. I didn’t give a shit about that. What I did give a fuck about was what this woman had come from.

It was playing in my head on repeat.

You put the pieces together and it almost excused her fucked-up bullshit last night—if I believed in excuses. Which I fucking didn’t. But I wasn’t standing in her shoes, and she’d been a goddamn child.

FUCK.

Owning my part of the shit show from last night, I bit the bullet and texted.

Me: Hey. You good?

Crazy Chick: Huh .

Not knowing what the fuck she meant with that response, I waited her out.

It took ten seconds.

Crazy Chick: This is a first .

Me: What is?

Crazy Chick: You texting me .

What the fuck?

Me: I text .

I’d spent more screen time with this chick than everyone else. Combined.

Crazy Chick: Not first, you don’t. I always text, then you reply.

Me: It’s a fucking contest?

Crazy Chick: It’s not?

Crazy Chick: And don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re swearing a lot today.

Jesus. This conversation was already derailing, and I hadn’t said shit to her about last night yet.

Me: Where are you?

Crazy Chick: Why?

Fuck, I was gonna regret this. I already regretted shit, but I wasn’t going to let it go. Inhaling, I scrubbed a hand over my face. Then I made a conscious effort to dial my shit down. Way the fuck down.

Me: I want to talk to you.

The dots appeared, then stopped.

Half a minute later, they came back.

Crazy Chick: So talk.

Me: In person .

Letting her run last night had been the right decision. She’d kept herself alive for years. I recognized a warrior when I saw one. I also saw her frayed-as-shit edges. That I hadn’t missed two years ago. I also saw her. Despite the shit that’d come out of her mouth, she’d needed to own some control. Bailing on me last night gave her that. I fucking got it. So I’d given her the space to handle her shit—for twelve hours.

But I wasn’t letting this go another goddamn night.

I saw inside the Jeep. She was living out of her fucking car. Crazy or not, connected to Church in some way or not, a background that could get me dead, I didn’t fucking care. I’d been balls deep in this woman, and she’d fucked with my head ever since. But I’d still eat a bullet before I left her homeless and vulnerable.

Crazy Chick: Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Me: Why? Still pretending you don’t know who the fuck I am?

Crazy Chick: I didn’t see your face.

Fucking Christ.

Me: That’s how you’re gonna play it?

Crazy Chick: Facts are facts.

Crazy Chick: Besides, you’re probably busy doing… whatever it is that you do. Stalking, swearing, watching “crazy chicks” in coffee shops.

Jesus, this woman.

Me: Crazy CHICK. Nothing plural about it.

One was more than enough for me.

Crazy Chick: Gee, lucky me. Or not. Maybe you just have a thing for big boobs. Whatever. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

Fuck this.

Me: Where the hell are you?

Crazy Chick: There goes the swearing again. Does your mother know you curse like that?

I set her straight.

Me: She’s the one who taught me half of my vocabulary.

And my old man, the fucking bastard, filled in the rest.

Crazy Chick: Wow. Not sure I believe that, but who knows? Wouldn’t be the first or even tenth time I was wrong about something. Maybe I should meet her instead.

Me: Good luck.

Crazy Chick: Ashamed of me already? Aww, how cute.

Me: She’s dead.

The dots cycled for half a minute, then I got the blanketed two-word response.

Crazy Chick: I’m sorry.

For some fucking reason I couldn’t fathom, in the next second I was typing my guts out like this chick’s texts were a goddamn filet knife to my psyche.

Me: I’m not. She went out on her own terms. The alternative was worse, and she had company waiting for her.

“Till Valhalla,” I muttered.

Crazy Chick: You’ve lost a lot of people in your life?

I flipped that knife around.

Me: Meet me and I’ll tell you.

Crazy Chick: Tell me and I’ll meet you.

Me: More than I can count .

Crazy Chick: You can’t count how many people close to you have died?

Me: No . Location?

I hated texting.

Crazy Chick: That’s not normal. People know how many family members they’ve lost.

Me: Wasn’t limiting it to family members, and I didn’t lose anyone .

I knew where the fuck they were. Except Church.

Crazy Chick: You just said you lost more people than you can count. Unless… omg.

Crazy Chick: Is this one of those mind-twist games? Are you some sort of preacher? Cult leader? Priest? Shaman? Because I’m telling you right now, I don’t do religion. There is no God. My ass is too fat for vegan compound meals, I don’t eat crap I have to pick or harvest, and I’m not communal living with Stepford wives or brainwashed runaways, so go bark up another tree, Mr. Cult Recruiting Stalker.

Me: You done?

Crazy Chick: No. I also don’t eat seeds.

Crazy Chick: Unless they’re on an everything bagel with extra cream cheese.

Me: Not in a fucking cult.

I made a mental note of the intel she’d just dropped.

Crazy Chick: Said every cult leader ever.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Me: The coffee joint. One hour. Be there.

I turned the damn burner off.

Then I headed out to look for a fucking bagel place.