Page 13 of Tempting Fate

I perch on one of the leather chairs sitting against the wall and slip my phone free from my purse. After hanging up on Zeke when he called during the meeting from hell, I turned my phone off. My cousin, Benedict, or Toker as he’s better known, likes to play phone pranks whenever he knows I’m run off my feet, and sometimes my brothers get in on it if they’re hanging around the club with him. Heading them off at the pass felt like the right choice at the time, considering I was already busy fending off the son’s accidentally wandering hands whenever his excuse about needing my help brought me within reach.

Now that I’m stuck without an escort home and zero understanding why it’s happened, I’m beginning to regret that decision. Dealing with Toker’s joke calls for “Dr. P Zalot” and my brothers’ lame inquiries as to the status of my refrigerator would’ve been better than trying to breathe through the crushing anxiety that’s trying to choke me in the wake of my unexpected alone time.

I’ve rarely been alone for five and a half years.

If Zeke isn’t around, Slash shadows me, or Toker takes me to the gun range. When the three of them are on runs, my brothers move in for the duration. On the odd occasion that they’re too busy, my best friend, Nadia, hangs out with me. At this point, I’m not sure if it’s a necessity or a comfort, and I’m not keen to find out. While I’m better able to manage my reaction to unexpected touch, I don’t think I’ll ever get over my residual fear of being left defenceless in the dark.

Because darkness is the real mind fuck.

That night.

The pitch-black cottage.

Alex’s depravity unleashed.

Knowing no one was coming to save me…

It takes less than thirty seconds for my phone to reboot and in that time my mind manages to cycle through my fears. My pulse pounds in my ears. A thin veneer of sweat coats my skin. I swallow down the bile that surges into my throat as the memories I’ve shoved down deep into the obscure recess of my brain attempt to drag me into a panic attack. The beep of my phone as messages come through saves me seconds before the screaming in my head emerges from my lips.

ZEKE: Bad news, sweet thing

ZEKE: Church is gonna run late

ZEKE: Wait at the office with Gabriel

ZEKE: I’m sorry to keep you waiting

ZEKE: But you know I’ll make it up to ya ;)

Seeing that Zeke’s message was sent two and a half hours ago does little to dampen my worry. It ramps up to an entire new level when I open the only other text message I’ve received since then.

CHARLOTTE: The men are tied up. Dad said to head straight home when you’re finished. Venom will meet you there when he can. Xo

I stare at the message for a long moment. It’s unusual for Charlie to reach out via text. It’s even stranger for her to contact me over Shamrocks’ business. Frowning, I try to read between the lines to decipher if she’s attempting to tell me that the MC is in trouble without saying it outright. A weird feeling invades my stomach the longer I stare at the message, so I hit Zeke’s number on my speed dial.

His phone doesn’t ring.

Instead, a series of weird sounds erupt on the line. Since his phone is always on, and he answers me even when he’s riding his Harley, the worry niggling in my gut subsides. The only time Zeke is unreachable is during church, and that’s only due to my dad’s paranoia. He makes them stow their phones into a special magnetic box Cub designed to stop their phones being tapped or tracked.

If Zeke’s phone isn’t connecting, then Charlotte’s message makes sense.

My fiancé and the rest of the club are busy.

I need to make my way home alone.

“Have a good night,” I offer as I stand on shaky legs and gather my things.

“You too,” the temp murmurs without lifting her head from the folders she’s sorting through. “Hope the traffic isn’t too bad—the delivery window is pretty specific.”

Quirking an eyebrow, I check that she’s talking to me and not on the phone. When she meets my perusal with steady expectation, I reply, “Um, sure. I guess.”

The redheaded temp receptionist’s gaze burns hot on the back of my head as I wait for the elevator. Her odd behaviour distracts me for a few minutes, but as soon as I’m alone, my anxiety ratchets back up to panic attack levels. To call the descent to the underground garage nerve-wracking would be an understatement. I plot out the journey home in my head, anticipating stop lights, backed-up roundabouts, and slow traffic since it’s peak hour. Once I’m on the employee parking level, I scurry to my SUV, then plonk my tired backside in the driver’s seat. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I exhale the chaos of the afternoon, only for it to be immediately replaced by dread at my next task.

I’m more stressed about driving home by myself than I was over batting the younger client’s hands away for hours. It’s been four years since I’ve driven anywhere without a Harley escort, Zeke driving my vehicle, or on the back of a bike. The freedom I thought I’d feel when the need for a bodyguard lessened hasn’t eventuated.

If anything, I feel naked without one of the Shamrocks with me.

“You can do this,” I mutter to myself. “Just start the car and drive. You’ll be home within forty-five minutes.”

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