Harlow #2
“Does what get easier?” Princess asked.
“Waiting for them to come back,” Harlow said.
Princess considered the question. “No.” Great. “You just get better at hiding how much you hate it, too.”
Harlow looked toward the door. “They shouldn't be doing this because of me.”
Princess snorted. “They aren't.”
Harlow frowned. “What do you mean?”
“They're doing it because someone is hurting women,” Princess said.
“But they wouldn't know about it if I hadn't shown up at Wade’s bar,” Harlow explained.
“Exactly.” Harlow stared at her coffee, and Princess leaned an elbow against the bar. “You think that's a bad thing?”
“I don't know,” Harlow admitted.
“You found out something horrible, you ran, and you told someone,” Princess said.
“I didn't exactly plan it,” Harlow insisted.
“Most brave shit happens because somebody runs out of better options,” Princess said.
“My life before I met Butcher was a lot like yours. My father was exactly like your father, yet the guys helped me to get free from that life. You just have to be brave enough to accept their help,” Princess insisted.
Harlow looked at her. “I don't feel brave.”
“Probably because you're not stupid. You know how dangerous the situation is,” Princess said. That made her laugh, and Princess smiled. “Being scared doesn't mean you aren't brave.”
Harlow swallowed. “The woman that they are going after—Sarah, she worked for me,” Harlow said.
“I heard,” Princess admitted.
“I should've known that something happened to her when she stopped showing up to work,” Harlow insisted.
“Probably.” Harlow stared at her, and Princess shrugged. “You want me to lie to you?” Princess asked.
“I expected you to tell me it wasn't my fault,” Harlow said.
“Would you believe me if I had?” Princess asked.
Harlow laughed. “Wade said exactly the same thing.”
“That's unfortunate,” Princess breathed.
“Why is that unfortunate?” Harlow asked.
“Means that I’m starting to think like him,” Princess said.
“Oh God, that’s awful,” Harlow breathed. Princess laughed, and the clubhouse door opened. Harlow was off the stool before she even saw who entered. Ripper walked through the door, and her heart dropped because he was alone.
“Where's Wade?” she asked.
Ripper frowned. “Outside.” Relief hit so hard her knees weakened. She hated how quickly Wade had become someone whose absence frightened her. Then she saw blood on Ripper's shirt, and her relief vanished.
“What happened?” she asked.
“It’s not mine,” he said, as though that would help her feel better, but it didn’t.
“Whose blood is it?” Princess asked. The door opened again, and Butcher walked in, followed by Wade. Harlow forgot how to breathe when she saw the blood on his face.
“Wade,” she breathed. She crossed the room before she could stop herself.
His eyes found hers. “I'm fine,” he lied.
“You're bleeding,” she insisted.
“It’s not mine,” he said. Apparently, that was the biker’s answer to everything. Harlow grabbed his face, and Wade went still. She turned his head toward the light. There was blood along his jaw, and a small cut near his eyebrow.
“You said it wasn't yours,” she challenged.
“Most of it isn't,” he corrected.
“You're hurt,” she whispered, framing his face with her hands.
“It’s just a scratch,” he breathed. She glared at him, and he smiled. “Did you miss me?” he asked, changing the subject.
“No,” she whispered.
“Liar,” he accused, still wearing his teasing grin.
Harlow wanted to kiss him, and the realization hit hard.
She didn’t want to kiss him because she was scared or needed comfort.
And she didn’t want to kiss him because he'd walked through that door alive and something inside her had snapped loose.
She wanted him—period, and that was becoming a problem.
Butcher tossed his keys onto the bar. “Everybody sit down.”
Harlow's attention immediately shifted to him. “What happened?” Wade shot Butcher that look again—the one where they silently communicated, and Harlow hated it. “What happened?” she asked again.
Butcher pulled out a chair. “We watched the warehouse.”
“And?” she asked.
“There are guards,” he said.
“How many?” she asked.
“Six outside that we counted,” Wade said.
“What about Sarah? Did you see her?” Harlow asked. Butcher hesitated, and Harlow's stomach twisted. “Did you see her?” she repeated.
“No,” Butcher said. Her shoulders dropped. “But we saw women.”
She froze. “How many?”
“At least four,” he said.
“Were they outside the warehouse?” she asked.
“One of the doors opened when a truck arrived, and we got a peek inside the warehouse. That’s where they are being kept,” Wade said.
Harlow felt sick, and Wade stepped closer. “Sit down.”
“I don't want to sit,” she hissed.
“Harlow,” he warned.
“I said I don't want to sit, Wade,” she spat.
He didn't argue, and Butcher continued. “The truck backed into a loading bay.”
“What was inside the truck?” she asked.
“We couldn't see,” Butcher said.
Ripper walked toward the bar. “One of the guards caught me getting too close.”
Harlow looked at the blood on his shirt. “What happened?”
Ripper smiled. “He won't be questioning anyone else again.”
She decided not to ask why. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“We need to know what's inside that warehouse before we go in,” Butcher said.
Harlow shook her head. “You saw women.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Then why are we still standing here?” Harlow asked.
“Because there could be twenty armed men inside that place, and we’d be walking into a death trap,” Butcher growled.
“So call the police,” she countered. Nobody answered, and Harlow looked around the room at the silent bikers. “Why did everyone just get quiet?”
Wade rubbed his beard. “Harlow.”
“What?” she asked.
“We can't call the cops,” he said.
“Why not? They might be able to help those women,” she said.
“We don't know who we can trust,” Wade admitted.
She laughed bitterly. “Of course.” Her father and Frank had enough money that they probably had connections on the police force. She should've known before she made the suggestion to call the police. “Then what do we do now?”
Butcher pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “We got this.” He put it on the table, and Harlow moved closer. It was a shipping manifest. Her stomach dropped when she read Kane Logistics across the top of the paper.
She picked it up. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
“A truck driver dropped paperwork near the loading dock,” Wade said.
“You stole it?” she asked.
“We borrowed it,” Butcher said. She looked over at him, and he shrugged. “Semantics.” Harlow examined the page. There were dates and locations listed, and they mostly meant nothing. But then, she saw one line that made her blood go cold.
“No,” she breathed.
Wade moved beside her. “What is it?” Harlow pointed.
KANE FOUNDATION — COMMUNITY OUTREACH
Wade's face changed. “What is that?”
“It’s my father's charity,” she whispered. Butcher cursed, but Harlow kept reading. There were initials besides the entry. R.K. Richard Kane.
Her father was involved. “No.” She dropped the paper.
Wade caught her shoulders. “Harlow.”
“No,” she whispered again. She didn’t want to believe that the man who had raised her was capable of trafficking women.
“Look at me,” he ordered. She couldn't. “Harlow.”
“My father uses the foundation for shelters,” she breathed. She was beginning to put it all together.
Wade went still. “What?”
“Women's shelters. Youth programs. Transitional housing.” The room became deathly quiet, and Harlow's stomach rolled. She stepped away from Wade. “The foundation funds shelters all over the state.”
Butcher looked at the manifest. “How many shelters?” he asked.
“I don't know. Twelve, maybe fifteen,” she said.
“And your father has access to all the buildings?” Butcher asked.
“He has access to everything,” she admitted.
Wade's face had gone frighteningly blank, and Harlow knew that look now.
It meant he was furious. “He could get names,” she whispered.
“And addresses, and he could make women disappear.” Her voice cracked, and Princess moved toward her.
Harlow backed away. “No.” She couldn't be comforted—not yet.
Because something was clicking into place, something she'd heard months ago.
It was a conversation her father and Frank were having.
She'd been walking past Richard's study, and Frank had been inside.
They'd stopped talking when she entered.
At the time, she hadn't thought anything of it, but now—
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
Wade immediately moved toward her. “What’s wrong?”
“I remember something,” she admitted. Harlow pressed both hands against her temples. “Frank and my father were arguing.”
“When?” Wade asked.
“Maybe four months ago,” she said.
“About what?” Butcher asked.
“I don't know. I only heard part of it,” she admitted.
“Tell us what you heard,” Butcher ordered. Harlow closed her eyes, and she heard her father's voice—cold and angry. I gave you access. Don't make me regret it. Frank had laughed, and then he'd said—
Her eyes opened. “Frank used the word, ‘inventory.’”
Wade frowned. “What?”
“Frank called them inventory,” she repeated. The word tasted disgusting in her mouth.
Butcher's expression darkened. “Exactly what did he say?”
Harlow forced herself to remember. “He said, ‘You wanted the foundation profitable. Don't complain about how I move the inventory.’” Nobody spoke, and Harlow's chest hurt.
“I thought they were talking about supplies.” Wade stepped closer, and she looked at him.
“I thought they meant donations for the charity auction.”
“You couldn't have known,” he insisted.
“My father knew,” she whispered.
“Harlow—” Wade said, reaching for her.