Page 17 of Journey

I skid to a stop and turn to face Ghost. Jackyl just texted me that Wren’s at the bar tonight, and I’ve got questions… lots of fucking questions.

“Out.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ghost counters. “Any place in particular?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, so Ballinger’s again?”

“Nope.”

He grins mischievously. “Have fun then.”

“Bite me,” I snap before whirling around and racing out of the clubhouse.

I throw my leg over my Harley and start her up. The rumble of the machine lulls me into a false sense of security, and I use the ride to replay my last conversation with Tracer in my mind.

“Dude, you were right.”

I close the door to Tracer’s room and move to stand behind him. He’s been digging into Wren for me, trying to make sense of my second encounter with her.

“About?” I ask, not at all sure I want to know what he’s found.

“That chick is crazy with a capital ‘C’.”

I groan. “How so?”

“Let’s just say, life with her would never be dull.”

“How. So?”

“You might wanna sit down,” he suggests, nodding toward the lounge chair he has in the corner. “There’s a lot of information to digest.”

I hesitate for a moment before moving to the chair, sitting, and throwing my legs over the arm. “Okay. Hit me.”

“For starters, she’s squeaky clean as far as a criminal record, so that’s good.”

“Because I’d give a damn if she had a record.”

“Fair enough. But at least it’s less likely that she’s in cahoots with any enemies of the club.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good.”

“Now onto the not-so-good.” Tracer takes a deep breath. “She grew up in foster care, bouncing from one fam?—”

“So her parents were pieces of shit,” I snap, inexplicably angry on Wren’s behalf.

“Well…”

I level my stare on him. “Well, what?”

“Her father is a piece of shit. Worse than that, actually.” His eyes harden. “He killed her mom and baby brother.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “When?”

“From all accounts, Wren was five and present when it happened. Fucker used a hammer as a weapon.”

“Please tell me he’s dead,” I snarl.

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