Wade
Earl looked personally offended. “I've been drinking here longer than you've been working here.”
“I've been working here for one day,” she reminded.
“Exactly,” Earl slurred.
Harlow crossed her arms. “No, you’re done.”
Earl looked at Wade for help, and Wade lifted both hands. “Don't drag me into this.”
“You own the damn place,” Earl reminded.
“Yeah, and she's mean,” Wade insisted. Harlow shot him a look, and Earl grumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?” she asked Earl.
“Nothing,” Earl slurred.
“That's what I thought,” Harlow said. Wade bit back a laugh.
Jesus Christ. She'd been working at Wade's Watering Hole for less than four hours and had already cut Earl off, reorganized the register, complained about his bookkeeping, and informed Mitch that his food invoices were a disaster.
She was taking over, and Wade fucking loved it—that was the problem.
He stood at the opposite end of the bar pretending to wipe down a glass while watching her move around his place like she'd been there for years.
Jeans hugged her ass and her blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail.
She'd bought a couple of cheap T-shirts at the store earlier, and the black one she wore now fit her far better than the oversized Savage Bastards shirt she'd slept in—unfortunately, because Wade had preferred the shirt, mostly because he'd spent half the morning wondering what she was wearing beneath it.
He looked away. Nope. Not going there. He'd told her he wasn't touching her while her life was falling apart, and he meant it, even if she had looked at him outside the clubhouse like she wanted him to kiss her. Even if he'd spent the rest of the fucking day thinking about doing exactly that.
His phone vibrated, and Butcher’s name appeared on the screen. Wade checked the message.
BUTCHER: Need you at the clubhouse. Now. Bring Harlow.
His humor disappeared as he typed back.
WADE: Find something?
Three dots appeared, then vanished, and then appeared again.
BUTCHER: Yeah.
Fuck. Wade looked toward Harlow. She was laughing at something Mitch said through the kitchen window. She looked happy and relaxed, for maybe the first time since she'd stumbled into his bar wearing that ruined wedding dress. He hated that he was about to take that away from her.
“Harlow,” he called.
She looked over, and something in his expression must have warned her because her smile disappeared. “What?”
“We need to go,” he said.
Her face paled. “Is it Frank or my father?” she asked. He hated the panic that he saw in her eyes.
“Don't know,” he admitted.
“That's a lie,” she challenged.
“Not exactly,” he said. He sighed, knowing that she was going to want more details before she’d go with him. “Butcher found something.”
Her hand tightened around the bar towel she was holding. “About my father?”
“He didn't say.” She looked toward the front windows. The black Escalade had disappeared about an hour earlier. One of the Savage Bastards had followed it, but Wade hadn't told Harlow that part because she had enough shit to worry about.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He frowned. “Okay?”
“Yeah, let’s go find out what Butcher has found out,” she insisted.
“You don't want to argue with me?” he asked.
“Would it change anything if I did?” she countered.
“No,” he whispered.
“Then I'm learning to accept my fate,” she said.
Wade smiled slightly. “I'm proud of you.”
“Don't push it,” she grumbled.
Wade grabbed his keys. “Mitch.”
The cook stuck his head through the kitchen window. “Yeah?”
“You're in charge,” Wade said.
“Got it,” Mitch said.
Harlow came around the bar. “I'm driving.”
Wade stopped. “No.”
“You look tired,” she assessed.
“I'm fine,” he lied. She was correct—he was dog-tired, but there was no way that he’d tell her that.
He didn’t need her feeling bad about asking him to stay with her last night.
He’d gladly sit guard for her again if she asked him to, and admitting that he was tired would only have her rethinking asking.
“You barely slept last night because of me,” she said, as though reading his thoughts.
“Neither did you,” he said.
“I slept more than you did,” she insisted.
“Still no, you’re not driving,” he said.
She held out her hand. “Give me the keys,” she ordered.
Wade stared at her. “Harlow.”
“Wade,” she growled. If she weren’t so frustrating, he’d find her pretty damn cute right about now.
“You don't know where the clubhouse is,” he said.
She paused. “Fine, you win, but if you feel tired, I’ll drive, and you can give me directions.”
“Excellent argument,” he agreed.
“Asshole,” she grumbled.
“We should get going, runaway bride,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Keep it up and I'm quitting.”
“You've worked here four hours,” he said. “I think that we’ll be able to make do without you, honey.”
“Longest four hours of my life,” she grumbled. “And as for making do without me, I’m not sure that’s true. Your books say otherwise.” Wade grinned, and she shoved past him. Wade watched her walk toward the door. Yeah, he was fucked. Completely fucking fucked.
Butcher was waiting outside the clubhouse when they arrived, and Wade knew that wasn't a good sign.
He knew his Prez. If Butcher wanted to talk before they got inside, whatever he'd found wasn't something he wanted the rest of the club hearing yet.
Harlow seemed to sense it too. She climbed out of the truck and stood beside Wade—close, but not touching him.
Butcher nodded toward the side of the building. “Walk with me.” Harlow followed, and Wade stayed beside her. Butcher glanced at him. “Need to talk to her.”
“You are talking to her,” Wade said.
“Alone,” Butcher insisted.
“No,” Wade breathed.
Harlow looked between them. “Wade.”
“No,” Wade said again.
Butcher sighed. “She might not want you hearing this.”
That stopped him. Wade looked at Harlow, and her face had gone pale again. “I want him here.”
Butcher studied her. “You sure?”
“Yes,” she breathed. Wade didn't know why those words affected him as much as they did, but they fucking did.
Butcher nodded. “All right.” They walked behind the clubhouse. Ripper was already waiting beside a picnic table with a folder in his hands. Harlow stopped, and Wade immediately noticed. From the look on her face, Butcher had gotten hold of Frank's files.
“Harlow?” Wade whispered.
“I'm okay,” she insisted. He didn't call her on the lie, not this time.
Ripper held the folder toward Butcher. “We traced Kane Logistics.”
Harlow wrapped her arms around herself. “And what did you find?” she asked.
Butcher took the folder. “Your father's company owns six warehouses within fifty miles of here.”
She nodded. “That isn't unusual. Kane Logistics owns hundreds of properties.”
“Three are active,” Butcher continued.
“And the others?” she questioned.
“Supposedly empty,” he said.
Wade already knew where this was going, and he didn’t like it one bit. “Supposedly?” Harlow repeated.
Ripper looked at Butcher, and he opened the folder. “We checked one.”
Harlow's face drained of color. “You went there?”
“Brother drove past it,” Butcher explained.
“And what did he find?” she asked.
“There were trucks outside of the building,” Butcher said.
“What kind of trucks?” she asked.
“Box trucks with no markings on the outside,” he said.
“That doesn't mean anything,” she insisted.
“No, it doesn’t,” Butcher agreed. Harlow looked relieved—too relieved, but Butcher wasn't finished. “One of the plates came back to Donnelly Meridian.”
The relief vanished, and Wade moved closer to her. Harlow didn't seem to notice. “Maybe they're doing business together,” she said.
“It’s possible,” Butcher said.
“My father and Frank have dozens of business deals,” she insisted.
“Also possible,” Butcher agreed.
“Then this proves nothing,” she whispered.
“No.” Harlow's shoulders relaxed slightly. “But we found something else,” Butcher said.
“What else?” she asked. Butcher reached into the folder, and he pulled out a photograph.
Harlow stared at it. Wade couldn't see what it was until Butcher handed it to her.
Her knees nearly buckled, but Wade caught her.
This time, she didn't flinch. She grabbed his shirt with one hand while staring at the picture.
“What is it?” Wade demanded. Harlow couldn't answer. Wade took the photograph from her. A young woman stood beside a black SUV. She was blond, thin, and looked terrified. The picture looked like it had been taken from a distance. “What am I looking at?” Wade asked.
Harlow whispered one word. “Sarah.”
Wade looked at her. “You know her?” She nodded. “Who is she?”
“She worked for my father,” Harlow said.
Every muscle in Wade's body tightened. “Doing what?”
“She was my assistant,” Harlow said. Fuck. Harlow took the photograph back, and her hand trembled. “She disappeared about eight months ago.”
Butcher's expression hardened. “Disappeared?”
“She stopped coming to work,” Harlow said.
“What did your father say about her disappearance?” Wade asked.
Harlow stared at the photograph. “He said she quit.” Wade looked at Butcher, and his jaw tightened.
“Harlow,” Wade said carefully. “When was the last time you saw her?”
She thought about it. “At my father's house.”
“Why was she there?” he asked.
“We were planning a fundraiser. She came over because we had seating charts to finish,” Harlow remembered.
“Did anything unusual happen at that meeting?” Butcher asked.
“No, not that I can remember,” she said.
“Think,” Wade said. Harlow closed her eyes, and Wade waited.
Her eyes opened. “Frank was there.”
“What was he doing there?” Butcher asked.
“I don't know,” she admitted.
“You were engaged then?” Wade asked.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Did Sarah know Frank?” Butcher asked.
“I don't think so,” she said.
Wade watched Harlow struggle through the memory. “Did anything happen between them?”
“I—” She stopped.
“What?” Wade asked.
“Frank said something to her,” Harlow said.
“What was it?” Butcher asked.
“I don't remember,” she said.
“You have to do better than that, Harlow,” Butcher said.