Chapter Twenty-Two
Logan
Don't wanna lose you now
Baby, I know we can win this
Don't wanna lose you now
or ever again
‘Don’t Wanna Lose You Now’ - Backstreet Boys
Mac should’ve called by now.
The thought circles my head like a buzzard, slow and steady at first, then sharper, picking at me. I pace the length of the clubhouse’s back hallway, boots heavy against the scuffed wood floor, phone clutched so tight in my hand it feels like the plastic might crack.
I’ve already called her six times, straight to voicemail every damn time.
Texted her. Nothing.
It’s not like her.
Not after the way she looked at me before she left this morning.
Like she needed to prove something.
Like she had unfinished business.
The hall smells faintly of old oil and leather polish, the faint murmur of voices from the bar bleeding through the walls. It’s all background noise, nothing I can focus on.
“You alright?” Cain’s voice comes from behind me, low and careful, the way you’d talk to a dog strung too tight on a leash.
I turn to face him. “Mac had an interview this morning. Said it wouldn’t take long. She left before nine. It’s past eleven.”
Cain’s brows pull together, his expression unreadable but heavy. “She goin’ off the grid on purpose?”
“No,” I say too fast, sharper than I mean to. I drag a hand down my face, the rasp of my stubble grounding me for half a second. “No. This was important to her. She would’ve called. She always calls.”
Dom appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he’s been listening for a bit. His eyes flick between us, sharp and assessing, the way they get when he’s already cataloguing possible threats. “You think something happened?”
“I don’t know,” I bite out, the words tasting like rust. Then I force a breath, dialing my voice back a notch. “But I’ve got a knot in my gut I can’t shake. Something’s off.”
Dom folds his arms. “You know where the interview was?”
“She said the address once, but I didn’t write it down. Just said it was for a hotel management job outside of town. Near the interstate, maybe?”
He nods and pulls his phone from his pocket, already thumbing across the screen with fast, practiced motions. “If I can get a hit on her license plate or phone GPS, I’ll find her. Give me ten.”
Cain steps closer and sets a hand on my shoulder. His grip is steady, grounding. “You’re not crazy, brother. Your gut’s saved all our asses more than once.”
“I should’ve gone with her,” I mutter, jaw tightening until my teeth ache. “She said she wanted to do it on her own, prove she could stand without looking over her shoulder. I didn’t push. I let her go.”
“You didn’t let her do anything. She’s her own woman.” Cain gives my shoulder a squeeze. “But we’ll get her back.”
Dom’s eyes are glued to his phone, his fingers moving quick. “Got a last ping from her phone about forty minutes ago. Warehouse district. Not exactly a five-star hotel.”
My blood runs cold. A low hum starts in my ears. “That’s not right.”
Dom glances up, his expression darker. “It gets worse. The phone’s off now.”
Cain steps in front of me as I lunge toward the door. “We go smart. We go together. We don’t let emotion get us killed.”
But it’s already boiling in my veins, hot and blinding.
If someone touched her, if someone lured her in, thinking they could break her again, they’re about to find out just how much worse I can be when the gloves come off.
Cain’s saying something behind me, probably about waiting for backup, but the words don’t stick. I’m already moving, shoving through the door into the sharp daylight. The air is cold, but I barely feel it. My bike’s waiting, chrome catching the sun.
I jam my helmet on, fingers fumbling with the strap, and kick the engine to life. It roars under me like it’s hungry too, like it knows exactly what we’re going to hunt.
I peel out of the lot before anyone can stop me, tires spitting gravel, the clubhouse shrinking in the mirror.
The warehouse district.
She never would’ve gone there without a reason.
She never would’ve gone radio silent.
Not called. Turned her phone off.
Not Mac.
Not after him.
I remember the way her voice trembled the first time she told me about Anthony. The words came slow, like dragging them up from the bottom of a well she’d buried deep.
“He was my boss. He acted like he wanted to mentor me… but it was control. All control. The day I quit, he cornered me in one of the hotel rooms. Locked the door. If I hadn’t gotten away, I don’t know what—”
She never finished. She didn’t have to.
I remember the way she looked afterward, like she hated needing anyone. Like every kind thing I said was a threat she didn’t know how to survive.
“You don’t need to fix me, Logan.”
“I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to stand with you.”
And she finally let me.
Until this morning.
Until she kissed me like it might be the last time and said, “I have to do this on my own.”
Now she’s gone dark. And I’ve got one name circling my head like a vulture that’s already tasted blood.
Anthony Watson.
The bastard who did this to her.
What if he found her again?
I open the throttle, pushing the speed past safe, past smart. Wind screams past me, slicing through my jacket, biting at my skin, a cold burn that cuts straight through to bone.
She should’ve called.
She always calls.
The exit for the warehouse district comes up fast. I almost miss it, yanking the handlebars hard enough to make the tires skid. The back end fishtails, and for a split second, I’m inches from the guardrail. Horns blare behind me, a chorus of pissed-off drivers.
My heart’s pounding so hard I can taste copper in the back of my throat.
I don’t care.
I’d crash a thousand times if it got me to her one second faster.
I tear through the turnoff, weaving past rusted chain-link fences and stretches of cracked pavement littered with broken glass.
Dom’s coordinates are fresh in my head. Third building from the end.
Looks like it will eventually be polished into something nice, but right now it’s a skeleton, scaffolding, tarps flapping, shadows in every corner.
There.
I see it.
Mac’s car.
Parked. Alone.
The sight punches the air out of my lungs. No sign of her. No movement in the windows. The place is too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I kill the engine. My hands are already on my gun, the metal cool and solid in my grip.
The roar of my brothers’ bikes echoes down the street behind me, growing louder, closer, a wall of sound that almost steadies me.
Every step I take toward that building feels like thunder.
I round the car, crouch low beside the crumbling brick wall, listening.
Something in me goes ice-cold, then flashes to red.
I move.
I’m coming, baby.
Hold on.