Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Kelsey
Present Day…
The bare walls of my new apartment stare back at me, a blank canvas waiting to be filled.
Not that I have much to fill it with.
Everything I own fits into two suitcases and a backpack—the life of someone who's learned to travel light, to disappear at a moment's notice.
I unpack slowly, placing folded clothes into the rickety dresser, arranging my few toiletries in the bathroom.
The apartment is tiny, just a studio with a kitchenette and bathroom, but it's mine.
Safe. Anonymous.
Or at least, I hope it is.
My hands shake slightly as I pull out the small wooden box from the bottom of my bag.
Inside, wrapped in an old t-shirt, is the burner phone Tara gave me before I left Montana.
"Only for emergencies. If they find you, call this number. The club will help."
I check it out of habit—no messages.
Okay, good.
Setting it aside, I continue unpacking, trying not to think about the DVDs I found hidden in Mom's things after she died.
The ones that showed me exactly what kind of monster my father really was.
The truth about our family business that made me sick to my stomach and that’s how I became Kelsey.
The bile rises in my throat at the memory, and I force it down.
There’s no use dwelling on it now.
I'm in Chihuahua, Mexico, thousands of miles from Billings, Montana.
Far from Benji and Craig.
Far from the Warlow name.
I'm just Kelsey now.
Not Cady.
I’ll never be Cady ever again.
She died when she found those DVDs.
A heaviness settles in my chest when I think of Sam, my youngest brother.
He’s the only decent one of the bunch.
The only one who helped me get away after I went to the police with what I'd found and got my father locked up.
I hope he's okay. I hope he isn’t being pressured by our brothers or father to be part of the family business.
I just hope Benji hasn't figured out Sam helped me escape.
I glance at my watch—still a few hours before I need to sleep.
Tomorrow's my first day at the cat café.
Tara set it up through her club connections, and I'm grateful for the job, though I don't love being close to the club.
I wanted a fresh start, a new life.
Still, beggars can't be choosers when you're running for your life.
The thought of working in another café eases some of my anxieties. It’s already a huge change to be leaving the United States.
At least a café is familiar. Something I know I'm good at.
I need a break from unpacking, from thinking.
One night to pretend I'm just a normal girl in a new city, not someone running away from the demons who are trying to chase her down and kill her.
There's a bar not far from here that the landlady mentioned when I moved in.
She called it tourist friendly, so it sounds perfect for someone trying to blend in.
After a quick shower, I put on jeans and a simple black tank top—nothing flashy, nothing memorable.
I secure my hair in a loose ponytail and add just enough makeup to look put together without drawing attention.
The night air is warmer than I'm used to when I step outside.
Chihuahua's heat is different from Montana's—drier, more relentless, even in the evening.
I walk quickly, eyes scanning my surroundings out of habit.
Looking for exits, for threats, for familiar faces that shouldn't be here.
I don’t know why, though. I’m not going to find anyone. For goodness sake, I’m in an entirely different country.
The bar—La Cantina, according to the neon sign—is busy but not packed.
Good. It’ll be easier to blend in with a decent crowd.
I take a seat at the bar, ordering my usual—a whiskey neat—and let myself relax a bit.
The bartender sets the drink in front of me with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat, washing away some of the tension that's been my constant companion since Montana.
I'm nursing my second drink when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that tells me I'm being watched.
Instinctively, my body tenses, ready to flee.
I scan the room casually, trying not to look alarmed, when my eyes land on him .
Fuck.
It can't be.
But it is.
Across the room, leaning against the wall with a beer in his hand, is Boulder.
The fucking prospect from Montana.
The guy I fucked in a bathroom at the dive bar next door.
Jesus, what kind of luck do I have?
For a moment, I consider making a run for it.
But it's too late.
Our eyes lock, and I see the exact moment he spots me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He pushes away from the wall, making his way toward me with that confident swagger that had drawn me to him in the first place.
My heart pounds in my chest.
This is bad. So fucking bad.
What is he doing in Mexico?
Did he track me here or something?
Is this some kind of coincidence?
Wait, I sound like an idiot. His charter is here, duh. He’s a prospect at the Mexican charter.
Before I can decide what to do, he's sliding onto the stool next to mine, that cocky grin firmly in place.
"Well, well, Montana," he says, his voice exactly as I remember it. Deep. Rough. "Didn't expect to see you in Mexico. You following me or something?"
I force myself to stay calm, to match his playful tone. "You wish, Rock." The nickname slips out before I can stop myself, a reminder of our night together.
"Rock, huh? That's new."
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as I’m racing through the possibilities.
Is he just here by chance? Does he know who I really am? "Boulder, rock... same thing, isn't it?"
He laughs, signaling the bartender for another beer. "So what brings you to Chihuahua? Vacation?"
Relief washes over me.
Okay, good. He doesn't know anything.
He thinks this is just some wild coincidence.
And why wouldn't he?
To him, I'm just Kelsey from Tart.
The girl with the black eye who fucked him in a bathroom and disappeared.
"Something like that," I lie smoothly. "Needed a change of scenery for a couple of weeks."
"Hell of a change. Montana to Mexico?"
"Go big or go home, right? I never take time for myself, so it seemed like a good choice." I take another sip of my whiskey, praying he doesn't notice how my hand trembles slightly. "What about you? Did you have a good time while you were in Billings?"
"I did, it was nice to see the family. Back to prospecting now." He gestures around vaguely. "Home sweet home."
"Home is in Billings, though, isn’t it?"
"Home is where you make it, and Chihuahua is my home now." His eyes scan my face, and I wonder if he can see the panic rising in me. "Small fucking world meeting you in a bar like this, huh?"
Small fucking world indeed.
Of all the places in Mexico, I had to end up in the bar he strutted into tonight.
"Yeah," I manage. "Small world."
Boulder leans in closer, and I catch his scent—leather, cedarwood, and something distinctly male.
I don’t know how to put my finger on it. It’s a musky scent. But, a good sort of musk.
It triggers memories of that night in Montana, of his hands on my body, his lips on my neck.
Heat rushes through me, unwanted but undeniable.
"So, you planning to disappear on me again tonight, Montana?" he asks, his voice dropping to that low rumble that had done things to me the last time we met.
I should say yes.
I should finish my drink, pay my tab, and get the hell out of here.
Never come back to this bar.
Maybe even beg Tara for forgiveness and find another Mexican city to start over in.
But I'm tired of running.
And one night—one more night of forgetting who I am and what I'm running from—sounds too tempting to pass up.
"Depends," I hear myself say. "You offering something worth sticking around for?"
His grin widens, and I know I'm playing with fire.
But fire has always drawn me, even when I know I'll get burned.
"Oh, I think I can come up with something," he says.
Three drinks in, and we're laughing like old friends.
Boulder's hand rests on my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns that send sparks shooting through me.
The bar seems to have faded away, leaving just the two of us in our own little bubble.
"You never told me what really happened a couple months back," he says suddenly, his green eyes serious as they flick to where my black eye used to be. "With your eye."
I stiffen immediately, the pleasant buzz from the alcohol evaporating. "And I'm not going to."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Fair enough. We all got our secrets."
Relief floods through the second he drops it.
Most men would push, would demand to know, would try to fix it.
But Boulder just accepts it and moves on.
"So..." he says, leaning in closer. "You want another drink, or you want to get out of here?"
The smart answer is another drink.
Stay in public.
Don't go anywhere private with him.
Don't risk exposing yourself any more than you already have.
But I'm so fucking tired of being smart—of being afraid, of looking over my shoulder.
"Let's get out of here," I say, downing the last of my whiskey.
His eyes darken with desire, and he throws some bills on the bar, not waiting for change.
His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me toward the door, and I know what I’m getting myself into.
The touch is possessive in a way that should scare me, but instead sends a thrill through my body.
Outside, the night air has cooled slightly, but it does nothing to ease the heat building inside me.
Boulder's bike is parked nearby, sleek and dangerous.
"I'm staying at the clubhouse," he says, handing me a helmet. "You good if we head there?"
The clubhouse.
Where other club members will be.
Where I'll be exposed to more people who might recognize me if they've spent time in Billings.
It's a risk.
But going back to my empty apartment, of falling into the black hole of my thoughts and fears, is suddenly unbearable.
Family business stays in the family. I’ll find you, sis.
I can remember the words he wrote like the note is still in front of me.
It was the final sign I needed to leave Billings, and I’m not letting my fear control me tonight.
"What happens in Chihuahua stays in Chihuahua, right?" I say, forcing a playfulness I don't fully feel.
Boulder's answering smile is predatory. "If that's what you want, Montana."
Montana, I guess that must be a new nickname for me.
The ride to the clubhouse is a blur of wind and adrenaline.
I hold onto Boulder's waist, feeling the solid warmth of him, the power of the machine between our legs.
It's intoxicating, this feeling of freedom, of recklessness.
By the time we arrive, I'm more than ready for what's about to happen.
Boulder barely has the door to his room closed before my back hits the wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine.
There's nothing gentle about this—it's primal, desperate, exactly what I need to drown out the noise in my head.
It reminds me of being back in Billings, the need, the rush, every bit of heat that coursed through us that night.
His hands are everywhere, pulling at my clothes, mapping my skin like he's trying to memorize every inch.
I'm just as frantic, tugging his cut down his arms, pulling his shirt over his head, running my palms over the tattoos that cover his chest and arms.
"Condom," I gasp as his lips trail down my neck.
He pulls away long enough to grab one from a drawer, then returns to me.
When he lifts me, I wrap my legs around his waist, and he pushes into me in one smooth thrust. I cry out, not caring who might hear.
"Fuck, Montana," he groans against my neck. "You feel so goddamn good."
The stretch of him filling me is exquisite, borderline painful in the best possible way.
I dig my nails into his shoulders, anchoring myself as he begins to move.
Each thrust drives me harder against the wall, the friction delicious against my sensitive skin.
"Harder," I demand, my voice ragged with need. "Don't you dare fucking hold back."
He obliges immediately, adjusting his grip on my thighs and slamming into me with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.
I feel every inch of him—thick, hot, and relentless.
"Like this?" he growls, his face inches from mine, eyes dark with lust. "This what you need?"
"Yes," I gasp, my head falling back as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "Right there. Don't stop."
My body's on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation.
I can feel the cool wall against my back, the heat of his skin against mine, the sweat building between us, making everything slick and hot.
He shifts his angle, driving deeper, and I swear I see stars.
My inner muscles clench around him, drawing a deep moan from his throat.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice strained. "I want to watch you come around my cock."
I slip one hand between us, finding the bundle of nerves that's already swollen and sensitive.
The moment I make contact, electricity shoots through me.
"That's it," Boulder encourages, his rhythm never faltering. "Show me how you like it."
I circle my fingers just the way I need to, matching his pace as the pressure builds inside me.
The dual sensations—his cock stretching me, my fingers on my clit—have me racing toward the edge faster than I anticipate.
"I'm close," I pant, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "So fucking close."
Boulder buries his face in my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
The slight pain pushes me even closer, my body tensing as release hovers just out of reach.
"Come for me, Montana," he growls against my skin. "Let me feel you."
His words are the final push I need.
My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure radiate out from my core.
I cry out his name, over and over like a prayer or a curse, completely lost in the sensation.
He fucks me through it, prolonging the pleasure until it borders on too much.
Then his rhythm halts, his grip on my thighs tightening to the point of pain.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come," he groans, his movements becoming erratic. "You feel too goddamn good."
With one final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against mine as he comes, hard.
I can feel him pulsing inside me, the heat of him spreading through my body, triggering small aftershocks of pleasure.
For a few blissful moments, my mind is quiet.
No fear.
No memories.
No brothers hunting me down.
Just the afterglow and Boulder's weight pressing me against the wall.
Eventually, he eases me down, both of us breathing hard.
There's an awkwardness that wasn't there when we were back in Montana, a tension in the air I can't quite place.
"You want me to call you a cab?" he asks, running a hand through his hair.
The question stings more than it should. "Eager to get rid of me?"
His eyes widen. "No, fuck, that's not?—"
"It's fine," I cut him off, reaching for my clothes. "I should go anyway."
Boulder catches my wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Montana, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought... after last time..."
I look up at him, at the confusion in his eyes, and something in me softens. "Last time was different. I was different."
"Different how?"
I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. "Just... in a different place. Mentally."
He nods slowly, releasing my wrist. "And now?"
That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?
What am I now?
A runner? A victim? A survivor?
All of the above?
"Now I'm here," I say simply. "In your room. In Mexico. So maybe let's just... see where this goes? For tonight, at least."
Boulder's face relaxes into that grin that does funny things to my insides. "I can work with that."
He leads me to the bed, and this time when he touches me, it's slower, more deliberate.
Like he's savoring every moment, every inch of skin.
I should be afraid of this—of the tenderness creeping in, of the way he whispers my name against my skin.
But tonight, I'm tired of being afraid.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to being careful, to watching over my shoulder, to keeping my walls up.
But tonight?
Tonight, I'm just Kelsey.
And Kelsey wants this—wants him—with a desperation that would terrify Cady.
As I drift off to sleep in Boulder's arms, one last thought crosses my mind: I am so fucked.
And not in just a good way.