Chapter 4 #2
Ice Pick shifts beside me, his jaw tight. "The Reapers are the muscle, they move the girls, and they handle the logistics. But they're getting paid by someone, and that money's got to come from somewhere."
"Exactly. Follow the money, and you'll find your Collector." Robert closes the tablet. "I've got contacts who can help, people who owe me favors from my DA days. But this needs to be airtight. One mistake, one leak, and they'll bury the evidence and everyone involved."
"Including us," I say quietly.
"Including you." Robert's expression softens slightly. "I won't lie to you, Ms. Langley. What you're attempting is dangerous. These people have killed for less than what you're threatening to expose. If you're not absolutely committed to seeing this through, no matter the cost, then walk away now."
Ice Pick doesn’t interrupt. But I can feel the weight of it on him; this isn’t just about Saints Outlaws anymore. This is a line that can’t be uncrossed once stepped over.
I think about the missing women, the faces I've memorized from reports and flyers. Girls who had futures, dreams, and people who loved them. Now they're just statistics, bodies recovered from shallow graves or still missing, presumed dead.
"I'm committed," I say, my voice steady despite the fear coiling in my gut. "Whatever it takes."
Robert nods, something like respect flickering in his eyes. "Good. Then let's get to work."
We spend the next hour going over legal strategy, discussing what we need to build a prosecutable case that won't get thrown out on technicalities.
Robert is brilliant, I'll give him that, breaking down complex financial structures into simple terms and explaining exactly how we can trace the money back to its source.
But the whole time, I'm aware of Ice Pick beside me, his presence a constant weight. His hand hasn't left the small of my back, and every time I shift, I can feel the heat of him seeping through my clothes.
It's distracting. More than distracting, it's making it hard to concentrate on anything except the way his thumb occasionally brushes along my spine, casual touches that feel anything but casual.
When we finally leave, the sun's starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Ice Pick doesn't head back toward the compound. Instead, he takes a different route, winding through back roads until we're in an area I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I shout over the wind.
"You'll see."
He pulls off the main road onto a dirt path that leads up a hill. At the top, there's a clearing that overlooks the city, lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, this view of a place that's both dangerous and home.
Ice Pick kills the engine and climbs off the bike, offering me his hand. I take it, letting him help me down, and we stand there for a moment just looking at the view.
"I come here sometimes," he says quietly. "When I need to think, when the club gets too loud and I need space to breathe."
"It's beautiful."
"It is." But he's not looking at the city. He's looking at me, his dark eyes intense in the fading light. "You did good today. With Robert, and with the strategy. You're tougher than you look."
"I've had to be. Women in my profession, we either get tough or we get eaten alive."
"Is that what happened to you? Someone try to eat you alive?"
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "More than once. The first editor I worked for thought sleeping with him was part of the job description. When I refused, he torpedoed my career, made sure I couldn't get work at any major publication for two years."
Ice Pick's expression darkens, his hands clenching into fists. "What happened to him?"
"Eventually? He got caught harassing other women and was fired.
But it took too long, and too many women paid the price before anyone believed us.
" I look out at the city, memories bitter on my tongue.
"That's when I decided to go independent.
No more bosses, no more men deciding what stories matter. Just me and the truth."
"That why you went after the trafficking story? Because you know what it's like to be powerless?"
The question hits closer than I want to admit. "Maybe. Or maybe I just got tired of watching powerful people get away with destroying lives."
He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric. "You're not powerless, Ava. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met."
"I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm barely holding it together."
"Then let me hold you together." His hand comes up, cupping my face with that same surprising gentleness. "Just for tonight, let someone else carry the weight."
I should pull away. I should maintain professional distance, remind him that I'm a journalist and he's a source, and that getting involved would compromise everything.
But I'm tired of being strong, tired of carrying the weight of this investigation alone, tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us.
So instead of pulling away, I lean into his touch. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably the worst I've had in years."
"We should stop."
"We should." But neither of us moves, trapped in the gravity of whatever's building between us.
Then his mouth's on mine, and I'm done pretending. The kiss is rough, demanding, nothing gentle about it. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss, and I open for him without hesitation. He tastes like coffee and danger, and I want more.
My hands fist in his leather cut, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him against me. He backs me up until my legs hit the bike, and then he's lifting me, setting me on the seat with my legs on either side of him.
"This is crazy," I gasp when he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck.
"Yeah." His teeth scrape over my pulse point, and I shiver. "But you're not stopping me."
"No, I'm not."
His hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my skin, and I arch into his touch. Every nerve ending's on fire, every place he touches burning with need. This is reckless, dangerous, exactly the kind of complication neither of us needs.
I don't care.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moan as his hands explore, learning the shape of me through my clothes. I rock against him, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans, and the friction's delicious torture.
"Ice Pick," I breathe against his mouth.
"Mason," he corrects, pulling back just enough to look at me. "When it's like this, when it's just us, call me Mason."
"Mason." I test his name again, liking the way it feels on my tongue. "We can't do this here."
"Why not? No one's around. No one's going to interrupt." His thumb brushes over my nipple through my bra, and I gasp. "Unless you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop." The admission's raw, honest. "But I also don't want our first time to be on a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere."
He groans, dropping his forehead to mine. "You're killing me, sweetheart."
"Good. Consider it payback for the last three days of constant surveillance."
That earns me a laugh, rough and genuine. "Fair enough. But we're continuing this later."
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both." He helps me off the bike, his hands lingering on my waist. "Come on. Let's get back before I change my mind about being a gentleman."
The ride back to the compound is torture. Every bump in the road, every turn, every shift of his body beneath my hands reminds me of what almost happened. By the time we pull through the gates, I'm wound so tight I'm vibrating with it.
Sterling gives us a knowing look as we pass the guardhouse, and I have a feeling everyone's going to know about this before morning. Great. Just what I need, the entire club speculating about my relationship with their Sergeant-at-Arms.
Ice Pick, Mason, whoever he is right now, parks near the clubhouse and helps me off the bike. His hand catches mine before I can head inside.
"My room. Thirty minutes. Gives you time to clean up, gives me time to make sure we won't be interrupted."
My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of what I saw in your eyes on that hill. You want this as much as I do." He brings my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Question is whether you're brave enough to take it."
"I've faced down Reapers and hired guns. I think I can handle you."
His smile's dangerous, predatory. "We'll see about that."
He leaves me standing there, pulse racing and nerves singing, and I head inside on shaky legs. The common room's crowded with brothers, club whores draped over laps, and music playing from speakers. A few heads turn when I enter, eyes tracking my progress across the room.
I ignore them all and head upstairs to my room, closing the door and leaning against it.
What am I doing? This is insane. Getting involved with Ice Pick, with Mason, complicates everything.
He's supposed to be protecting me, keeping me safe while I finish this investigation.
Adding sex to that equation is asking for disaster.
But I can still feel his hands on my skin, still taste him on my lips, and the logical part of my brain's losing the argument with the part that just wants to feel something other than fear and exhaustion.
I shower quickly, changing into clean clothes, and trying to decide if I'm really going to do this.
The answer comes when I check my reflection in the mirror and realize I'm not just clean, I'm making an effort.
Hair down instead of pulled back. The shirt that fits better than my usual oversized choices.
A touch of lip gloss I found at the bottom of my bag.
Yeah, I'm doing this.