REBECCA
A month ago to present…
I barely make it through the rest of my shift.
My legs are still shaky, my uniform smells like him—dark cologne, sex, and that faint trace of bourbon—and every time I move, I feel the phantom grip of his hands on my hips, the stretch of him inside me.
I keep catching myself touching my neck where he left that mark, hidden under my collar like a dirty secret.
What the hell just happened?
I tell myself it's a one-time lapse. A momentary loss of sanity. Rich, dangerous men like Alessio Vitali don't chase girls like me. They use them and move on. Yet the way he looked at me when he pocketed my panties—like he was already planning the next time—has me clenching all over again.
By the time I get home to my tiny apartment, I'm exhausted and wired at the same time.
I shower until the water runs cold, trying to scrub the feel of him off my skin.
It doesn't work. I can still taste him. Still feel the way he booped my nose like I was something precious right after fucking me raw.
I pull on an oversized shirt and sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop, the same ritual I've done every night for four years. Rachel's folder opens automatically. Photos. Police reports. Old texts. Rumors. Every dead-end lead I've chased since she vanished.
Tonight, a new message is waiting from Charly, my PI.
My stomach drops. Black Canyon Reapers. The same MC whose bikes tore through town the day Rachel vanished.
I still remember the roar of their engines, the way the ground vibrated under my feet as they rolled past like they owned the road.
I'd been so sure it was nothing at the time.
Just another club passing through. Now the coincidence feels like a knife twisting in old wounds.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn. Rachel. My baby sister. The one person who was supposed to stay. If there's even a chance she's connected to them…
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to scream at Charly to give me the old lady's name, to tell me everything right now, to let me drive straight there and tear the place apart until I find my sister.
But I can't. Walking in desperate and asking questions will get me killed or tossed out before I even get close.
I type back instead, with my heart pulsing in my throat with suppressed energy to do something.
The reply comes faster than I expect.
I close my eyes, breathing through the wave of fear and guilt that crashes over me. I'm not sure. I'm never sure. But Rachel is out there somewhere, and every day I wait is another day she might slip further away. I've failed her once. I won't do it again.
A full month slips by in a blur of sleepless nights and careful planning.
I spend two weeks obsessively researching the clubhouse layout, their bikes, their routines, anything that might give me even the smallest edge.
I drive past the place multiple times during the day (never stopping), memorizing faces, schedules, escape routes.
Every night I fall asleep thinking about Alessio's hands on me and wake up reaching for my phone to check new leads on Rachel.
Then, one night, a little after one in the morning, I finally make my move.
I drive out there with my heart in my throat.
I stop at the gas station first, buy a pint of cheap whiskey, pour half of it out, and slip the paper bag into my jacket.
I watch the parking lot for a long time from the shadows until it goes quiet.
Only then do I climb out of my old, rusted truck, keeping low as I approach the bikes.
A woman's loud, drunken laughter stops me cold. I duck back into the shadows, pulse thundering, waiting until the voices fade before I creep forward again.
The woman and a man walk by, not bothering to look at me or the bar. After another short hesitation, I pick the Harley I now know belongs to Flea, one of the higher-ups in the MC, disable the fuel pump relay just enough to make it crank but not start, and slip away before anyone notices.
I take a small sip of the cheap whiskey.
My pulse is still racing when I circle back around to the corner of the lot and wait, the half-empty paper bag clutched in my hand.
I take another sip and purposefully spill a few drips over my shirt.
The whiskey's sharp scent clings to me. I lean against the fence, trying to look like I'm just killing time after a long night, but my mind keeps drifting back to Alessio.
The way he'd pinned me on that counter, thick cock stretching me open with every brutal thrust. The filthy growl in my ear—This pussy was made for me—while he fucked me so deep, I felt him for hours afterward.
How easily he'd made me come, like my body already belonged to him.
God, even now, standing in the dark, waiting to con my way into the Reapers' clubhouse, my thighs press together at the memory.
I'm still sore in the best way. Still wet just thinking about him licking my arousal off his fingers with that wicked, satisfied look in his crystal blue eyes.
I shake my head hard. Focus, Beccs. This isn't the time to fantasize about the dangerous mafia asshole who fucked me in a public bathroom and stole my panties like a trophy. Rachel is what matters. Not Alessio. Not the way he makes me feel seen and wanted and terrified all at once.
I lean against the fence in the shadows, the half-empty paper bag clutched tight, trying to look like I'm just killing time after a long night. The cheap whiskey scent clings to me like cheap perfume. Minutes drag by. My heart won't stop racing.
By two in the morning, the clubhouse door swings open. Loud music and thick smoke spill out into the night, followed by raucous laughter. Six men and two women stumble out, all leather, boots, and swagger. I stay pressed against the fence, pretending to take a break, breath held as I watch them.
Fistbumps. Complicated handshakes. The group mills around the bikes.
Flea, a bulky guy with a mean scar across his jaw, breaks away and heads straight for the Harley I sabotaged.
He swings a leg over, twists the key. The engine cranks but doesn't catch.
He tries again. Nothing. The others gather around, throwing out suggestions: spark plugs, fuel filter, battery.
I take a slow swig from the paper bag for courage, feel the burn hit the back of my throat, then I start walking over casually.
"Bike trouble?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my pulse is hammering.
The whole group turns. A couple of the men burst out laughing the second they see me. I know exactly what I look like: big innocent eyes, soft features, the face of an angel who wandered into hell by mistake. The women with them smirk, sizing me up like competition.
Flea looks me up and down, amused. "The fuck? You lost, sweetheart?"
I lift my chin. "What if I can get this thing running?"
More laughter. One of the guys elbows Flea. "What'cha gonna offer her, Flea?"
Flea's grin turns menacing. "How about a dance on my cock, gorgeous?"
I pretend to look him over slowly, then shrug. "No thanks. I'll pass."
I indicate the dead bike. "No sweat off me, ride bitch with one of your buddies, then."
I turn like I'm about to leave. The women snicker. One mutters something about fresh meat. The men are staring now, half laughing, half panting as I step away from them.
Flea barks a laugh. "Fat chance, but let's see what'cha got, angel."
I hand my paper bag to one of the guys, roll up my sleeves, and lean over the motor.
I give them just enough of a show—arching my back, letting my tank top ride up—without overdoing it.
The men go quiet. The women's snide comments get sharper.
I ask for a tool. Someone hands me one. A few minutes later I've fixed the relay I disabled. I step back, dusting off my hands.
"Take her around the block," I tell Flea, reaching for my drink again.
He gives me a long, considering look as he revs the engine and the Harley roars beneath him. Then he nods once and takes off around the block.
While we wait, the rest of the bikers stare.
Hard. Their eyes crawl over my tight tank top, the curve of my hips in my jeans, the way my ponytail swings when I shift my weight.
I ignore them, lifting the paper bag to my lips and taking a slow sip.
The cheap whiskey burns going down, but it helps steady my nerves.
The two women with them whisper something nasty. I don't flinch.
A couple minutes later, the Harley rumbles back into the lot. Flea kills the engine and swings off, looking impressed despite himself.
"Runs like a charm," he says, patting the tank.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and step forward.
"So what do you want?” he wants to know.
“Need someone at the bar? I kinda could use a job."
“Are you as good with the drinks as you're with bikes?” he counters.
I shrug. “Is anybody going to order anything more complicated than a beer or whiskey?”
One of the men chuckles, boxes another in the side. “Hey, remember that asshole who ordered… what the fuck did he order?”
“Some cosmo shit,” the other supplies.
“We kicked his ass all the way to the fucking cosmos.” They laugh.
I look at Flea; he looks at me. Flea glances at one of the older guys beside him. The man shrugs, clearly not caring either way.
"I've been ready to fire Pearl since day one." The older guy makes a face.
Flea turns to the man. “Get rid of her.” Then he gives me a slow grin. " Be here tomorrow by five, sweetheart." His gaze drags up and down my jeans and tank top, lingering on my chest. "And wear something a bit sexier."
I mock salute him, keeping my expression cool. "I'll be here."
I feel every single one of their eyes burning into my back as I walk away, hips swaying just enough to sell the confidence I don't fully feel.
The second I'm out of sight, I duck into a dark alley between two buildings and wait, heart pounding, until I hear their engines finally roar to life and fade into the distance.
Only then do I slip back to my truck, hands still shaking as I drive home through the empty streets.
The second I'm safely inside my apartment, I pull out my phone and text Charly.
Me:
I got myself a job as a bartender at the Clubhouse.
I set the phone down and sink onto the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. I did it. I'm in. But the victory tastes like fear and cheap whiskey. Rachel… I'm coming. Just hold on.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Alessio's low, filthy voice whispers again, telling me how he'd claimed me so completely in that bathroom.
I squeeze my thighs together and curse under my breath.
I have bigger problems right now. But God help me, I can't stop thinking about him anyway.
I lie in the dark, my finger drifting between my thighs like a traitor, and I know I'm in trouble.
Because for the first time in four years, finding Rachel isn't the only thing keeping me up at night.