Chapter 2
STONE
The party’s still going strong, but I can’t focus on any of it.
Duck’s mayoral announcement has the clubhouse buzzing—brothers slapping him on the back, old ladies already planning campaign strategies, prospects running around refilling drinks like their patches depend on it.
After the planning commission victory today, everyone’s riding high.
Summit lost. We won. For the first time in months, the future looks bright.
I should be celebrating with them.
Instead, I’m nursing a whiskey at the edge of the room, watching the door like an idiot, when Kya drops onto the stool beside me.
“She’s not coming.” Kya doesn’t bother to specify who. “Texted me an hour ago. Still buried in paperwork.”
It’s after ten. Of course she’s still working.
“Wasn’t waiting for anyone,” I lie.
Kya snorts and steals my whiskey. “Sure, Stone. That’s why you’ve been staring at the door for the last hour.” She takes a sip and grimaces. “This is terrible, by the way.”
I take it back from her. “Then stop drinking it.”
She slides off the stool with a knowing look. “Just talk to her. It’s been eight months. Whatever happened between you two—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Another snort. She walks away, leaving me alone with my shitty whiskey and shittier thoughts.
Josie hasn’t come to a club celebration event in eight months—not unless one of the old ladies forced her into it. And I know exactly whose fault that is.
Mine.
We can’t.
Two words. That’s all it took to destroy whatever was building between us. I pulled her close, told her I wanted her, then shoved her away before she could even catch her breath. And she rebuilt her walls so fast I got whiplash watching it happen.
But I’m the one who handed her the bricks.
I don’t blame her. I’d have done the same thing.
But Christ, I miss her.
Not just the heat between us, though that’s there too. No, I just miss her. Her sharp tongue and sharper mind. The way she calls me on my bullshit without flinching. The way she sees past the patch and the reputation to a man underneath that I’m not even sure exists anymore.
I’ve suffered through months of sitting across from her in meetings, watching her avoid my eyes, feeling the chill radiating off her like a physical force. Eight months of telling myself I did the right thing, that she deserves better, that the club has to come first.
Eight months of knowing I’m full of shit.
I take another sip of whiskey and force myself to look away from the door.
Let it go, old man. She’s not coming. And even if she did, what would you say? “Sorry I broke your heart, want to try again?”
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting club business.
It’s a prospect.
Knox
Got a situation. Mack got himself arrested at Ole Killa. Aggravated assault. Some rich prick started harassing a woman, Mack stepped in, guy took a swing, Ricky put him down. Now the prick’s daddy is screaming for blood.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Prospects. Every goddamn time. This is what I got for giving them the night off. A fucking migraine.
Stone
How bad?
Knox
Bad enough. He says they’re looking at AA charges. We need a lawyer, boss.
A lawyer.
The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I hate myself for the relief that floods through me.
I have to call Josie. Not because I want to—not because I’ve been looking for an excuse to hear her voice for eight months—but because the club needs her. It’s business. Professional. Completely legitimate.
You’re pathetic, Armstrong.
Maybe. But I’m already pulling up her number.
She answers on the third ring. “Stone.”
Just my name. Cool and professional. There’s no warmth. No hint of the tension that used to simmer between us.
I deserve it. Doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it.
“Josie. Where are you?”
“Just leaving the office. Why?”
I glance at the clock, frowning. It’s late, far too late for her to be working.
Far too late for her to still be working, but that’s Josie—she doesn’t know how to quit.
She’s probably been running on caffeine and spite for hours.
She must be exhausted, and here I am adding another issue to her already full plate.
I’m not sorry for it though.
“I have a problem. One of the prospects got into a tangle over at Ole Killa. He’s been arrested.”
“What are they charging him with?”
“Aggravated assault. He was protecting a woman who was being harassed and only hit when the other guy took a swing. Pity for him, the guy went down hard and happens to be rich.”
She curses softly. I hear the click of a car door. “Okay, I’ll head over and—”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“That’s not necessary. I can meet you at—”
“I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes.”
“Stone.” Her voice sharpens with irritation. “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”
“Josie.” I let her name hang there. “It’s after ten. I’m gonna assume you’re running on caffeine and fumes. Let me come get you.”
Silence. I hold my breath.
“Anyone ever tell you, you’re a bossy bastard?”
I chuckle, tension bleeding out of my shoulders. “You’re the only one brave enough to bust my balls, honey.”
Honey.
The word slips out before I can catch it.
Goddamn.
The pause that follows is loaded. I can almost hear her deciding whether to call me on it.
“Fine,” she says instead, letting it go. “Fifteen minutes.”
“I’m already on my way.”
I hang up and head for my bike, ignoring the curious looks from my brothers. Let them wonder. Right now, I don’t care about anything except the fact that in fifteen minutes, I’m going to see Josie Bright.
It’s just business, I tell myself as I kick the engine to life. Nothing more.
But the lightness in my chest says otherwise.
The ride to Josie’s place takes twelve minutes. I know because I’ve made this drive before—late nights after strategy sessions, telling myself I was just making sure she got home safe. Never admitting the real reason I kept finding excuses to be near her.
Her house is dark when I pull up and there’s no car in the driveway.
I check my phone. Fourteen minutes since we hung up. She should be here by now. Her office is only a ten-minute drive, fifteen if she hits every stop sign.
I wait.
Another five minutes pass and there’s still no sign of her.
Frowning, I call her. It rings through to voicemail.
“Josie, it’s me. Where are you? Call me back.”
I hang up and pace beside my bike, checking my phone again.
Eighteen minutes pass and there’s still nothing.
A cold sensation prickles at the back of my neck. The same instinct that’s kept me alive for the twenty-plus years I’ve been running this club. The same gut feeling that’s warned me of ambushes and betrayals and deals gone wrong.
Something’s not right.
I try her again. Voicemail again.
“You’ve reached Josephine Bright. Please let a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you shortly.”
“Where the fuck are you?” I growl. “Pick up your damn phone, Josie. Don’t make me worry.”
I hit end, pacing once more.
Maybe her phone died. Maybe she stopped for gas. Maybe—
But the cold feeling is spreading now, settling into my chest like ice water. Josie doesn’t ignore calls. Josie doesn’t run late without texting. Josie is the most punctual, organized, on-top-of-her-shit person I’ve ever met.
“Fuck it.”
I swing my leg over the bike and head for her office.
The route is quiet this time of night. Empty streets, dark houses, streetlights casting pools of orange on the asphalt. I take the same path she would have, tracking her drive to work.
I see the lights first.
Red and blue, flashing against the buildings. An ambulance. A police cruiser. And in the middle of the Miller Road intersection, a tangle of metal that used to be two vehicles.
One of them is a silver Honda.
No.
I’m off my bike before I consciously decide to stop. Running. Shoving past a cop who tries to hold me back, ignoring his shouts, my eyes locked on that crumpled vehicle, on the paramedics working frantically on the driver—
Josie.
She’s pale. Too pale. The warm olive skin that usually glows with life is ashen, almost gray under the flashing lights.
There’s blood on her face, matting the dark hair that’s always so perfectly styled, streaking down the elegant neck I’ve imagined pressing my lips to more times than I can count.
Her arm is bent wrong. Her eyes, those sharp hazel eyes that miss nothing, are closed.
She’s not fucking moving.
This isn’t her. This broken, bloodied woman isn’t the Josie who strides into rooms like she owns them, who argues case law with a fire that makes me want to push her against a wall and kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
This isn’t the woman who wears her suits like armor and her intelligence like a weapon.
“Sir, you can’t be here—”
“That’s—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, force the words out. “That’s Josie Bright. I’m her—”
Technically, I’m her client and nothing more.
I’m the man who should have been with her. I’m the one who told her I was coming to get her. If I’d just driven to her office instead of her house—if I’d been faster—if I hadn’t wasted eight goddamn months—
“—boyfriend.” The lie comes easy.
The police officer eyes my patch, but takes me at face value. “Sir, the paramedics are stabilizing her to get her to the hospital. Are you able to follow?”
I nod. I can’t speak. Can’t do anything but watch as they manage to maneuver her body from the car, onto a stretcher, and load her into the ambulance. As the doors slam shut, as the sirens wail to life, I walk over to my bike, climbing on as the vehicle tears off down the road.
I sit on it for a moment, staring at the wreckage. At the shattered glass glittering on the asphalt, at the skid marks, at the other vehicle—a black SUV, empty now, its front end crumpled but its driver nowhere to be seen.
I glance at the police officer. “Where’s the other driver? Did they survive?”
He hesitates, and it’s then I realize he’s securing the scene.