Chapter Twenty-Four #3
It had been a little over three weeks since Throttle had been hurt.
Casey still didn’t know the details or the extent of the injuries, but she never expected to.
The outlaw code shut her out. She’d known that going in.
She chose to get involved with Rags, so she couldn’t exactly throw a fit when he didn’t share parts of his world.
She figured it was club business, and if she were a gambler, she’d bet it had everything to do with what went down at that biker clubhouse in the Peaks district.
She’d heard about it on the news, but never mentioned it to Rags.
“At least he’s not in the hospital anymore,” she said.
“Yeah. He’s cooperating with his physical therapy. He just loves to bitch.”
“I bet you’re swamped tonight and tomorrow clearing the snow.” She turned the stove knob to low. “Do you have enough people helping you?”
“Yeah. I got a good crew.”
She heard hard rock beats in the background, the rumble of men’s voices. “Are you at the club?” she asked.
“Yeah. I miss you, baby.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
“I gotta head out soon to clear the roads. We already did a pass earlier today.” His voice dropped. “If I were there, I’d have my arms wrapped around you, kissing you and pinching your sweet tits.”
A spike of desire shot through her.
“Hang on,” he yelled. “Sorry, Case. A couple of the brothers are helping with the plowing. They’re saying we gotta go.”
“No worries. Go do your job and be safe out there. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“You’re always on my mind. You’re the fire in my blood, darlin’.”
His words, and that gravelly voice, stroked her.
“Rags, get off the fuckin’ phone and get your ass movin’,” someone growled.
She giggled. “You better go or you’ll lose your helpers.”
“These assholes. Okay, baby. I’ll call you when I get a break.”
“Stay warm.”
“The only thing that keeps me real warm is you and me being inside you.”
“If you keep talking like that, we’re gonna end up having phone sex.”
“Fuck, woman.”
“Rags!” someone bellowed.
“Go. Call me when you can, sweetie.”
“I will, Case. Bye.”
A huge smile spread across her face as she set the phone on the counter.
She kept telling herself this was an exciting, sexy affair, but the truth was she adored Rags.
And even though she hadn’t admitted it to Zoe, Raven, or anyone—not even herself—she was falling in love with him.
The realization scared and thrilled her at the same time.
She pulled open the utensil drawer, grabbed a spoon, took the hot pan from the stove, and settled onto the couch. She turned on the TV, letting the images flicker past. Not in the mood to invest in a movie, she landed on an old episode of The Big Bang Theory.
It was right when Sheldon and Amy kissed that she felt it.
The sense of being seen. Her gaze snapped to the front, then back.
She stood, walked into the kitchen, washed the pan, and double-checked the lock and deadbolt on the back door, then the front.
Everything was secured. So why did it feel like someone was watching her?
Casey dimmed the lamp and shuffled to the window overlooking the street.
She peered through the blinds. Her reflection stared back.
She switched the lamp off and looked again.
The road was blanketed in white, sparkling under the streetlights.
Cars were snow-covered humps. Bare branches were dusted with frost. The street was quiet: neighbors tucked inside in front of flickering TVs, electronic screens, crackling flames in fireplaces.
Everything was normal. Still, that feeling crawled up the back of her neck again.
Like the air itself was holding its breath.
She leaned closer to the glass, squinting into the dark. Nothing moved. No headlights. No dogs barking. No footsteps. No one. Just silence and the relentless wind through the pines. She exhaled slowly. “Get a fuckin’ grip,” she muttered, snapping the blinds shut.
Behind her, the characters on the TV carried on with their scripted lives.
She tried to shake the chill clinging to her and took another sip of wine, forcing her thoughts back to anything else: her call with Rags, the ride they’d taken the week before, Zoe’s constant vow to dump Ryan.
Not the woman strangled in her own house two weeks before.
“This is insane,” she muttered.
She was tired. A smile flickered at the memory of why she’d gotten so little sleep the night before. She drained the last of her wine, turned off the TV, grabbed the library books, and climbed the stairs.
A couple of hours later, Casey lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.
Sleep wouldn’t come, even though she was weary to the bone.
She tossed from side to side, punched her pillow a few times, then closed her eyes and practiced a deep-breathing technique she’d learned during the turbulent years with JT.
It had rarely failed her, but that night, it did.
The wind had picked up, shrieking through pine and oak trees outside her window, carrying the faint rattle of a loose gate and a heavy, wet snap of a branch—a sound too close to belong to the breeze.
She rolled over and pulled the blanket tighter around her, ignoring the way her skin prickled, as if a cold gaze were pressing against her back.
Her breath caught, and she held still, listening.
Nothing but the wind again. What’s wrong with me? I’ve been imagining all kinds of crap tonight.
She punched her pillow again, closed her eyes, and slowly counted backwards from one hundred until her pulse began to slow.
Then she heard it.
A crisp sound, like stepping on dry cornflakes, followed by a soft, dull thump as if heavy boots had broken through the ice to the powdery snow beneath.
She bolted upright, her pulse leaping into her throat.
It’s just the house settling. The cold’s messing with the siding.
Even as the thoughts raced through her mind, she knew it was bullshit.
Something… or someone was outside her house.
She dashed downstairs, and, for the umpteenth time, checked the front and back door locks.
Then she crossed to the window facing the street, her bare feet whispering over the floor.
With one finger, she lifted a slat of the blinds an inch.
The street was empty. Nothing moved but the branches of the trees.
She checked the window latch: it was secured. She let out a long breath, pretending her mind was playing tricks on her, but knowing in her gut someone was outside… waiting.
Then a soft creak outside the kitchen window set every alarm she’d been holding back. Snap. Thump. The rhythm was too deliberate for a falling branch, or a stray animal. Someone’s right outside my window.
The floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she moved toward the kitchen.
She reached the window over the sink—the only one facing the back—and parted the curtains less than an inch.
Her neighbor’s back porch light was on, its glow pooling over her garbage and recycle bins near the fence.
She stared for a long moment. Just as she started to pull away, something moved.
Just at the edge of the light there was a flicker, a shadow pulling back into the dark, like it had been caught watching.
Her breath stalled in her throat. She stepped back a fraction, her pulse pounding hard.
A metallic clink sliced through the night.
She focused her gaze back at the bins. Every instinct screamed run, but she stayed frozen, staring into the black space beyond the light.
Minutes crawled by, then she saw a shadowy figure emerge from behind the bins.
Goosebumps carpeted her arms while the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
From her angle, it looked like he was coming toward the houses.
Her neighbor’s screen door screeched open, and his Doberman burst out, barking wildly.
The bins clanged together as the shadowy figure darted away.
Casey slumped against the counter, dragging in shaky breaths before dashing upstairs for her phone. She tapped Rags’s number and waited.
Outside, past the glow of the streetlight, the brown-haired man stood half-hidden among the pines, cursing the damned dog.
He dug into his jacket, pulled out a lozenge, and unwrapped it—the faint crackle swallowed by the wind.
He popped the cherry cough drop into his mouth, the sharp sweetness cutting through the cold.
His eyes stayed fixed on her upstairs window, unblinking.
When the light finally went dark, he exhaled, a thin plume of vapor slipping through his lips.
He slid his hands into his coat pockets, weighing whether to try getting inside, or call it a night.
He didn’t like giving up. Quitting meant failure.
As he mulled his next move, a snowplow screeched to a halt in front of her house.
The door flew open, and a man jumped out. The strangler’s breath hitched. The biker. Adrenaline surged through his veins when the biker, rather than rushing up to the front door, turned and sprinted straight toward him. Fear sizzled up his spine. He took off running and sliding.
“I know you’re out here, you fucker!”
The biker’s voice cut through the wind.
The predator kept running, tears streaming down his face from the cold, lungs burning, chest pounding.
Then he saw his car. “I’m almost there,” he muttered, stepping over a speed bump.
He opened the door manually, careful not to draw attention, and a sliver of satisfaction coursed through him when he heard the biker curse after tripping.
He slammed the car door, fired up the engine, and fishtailed into the street, just as the biker’s fist smashed against the trunk.
Sweat trickled down the strangler’s back as the car righted itself, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.
When he finally cleared the neighborhood, relief washed over him, followed by bile rising in his throat.
The realization hit him hard and fast: the biker was an unexpected obstacle.
He’ll try to keep my princess from me. It was a snag in his otherwise meticulous plan, but one that made the hunt more exciting.
He would prevail. Failure was never an option.
When he reached Main Street, he flicked on the headlights and headed home, already planning his next move.