Page 30 of Ginger

I jerked my head toward the window. The black vehicle was still there, engine running. "You noticed it too?"

"Hard not to," Bronx muttered. "Let's go. Stay between KiKi and me."

We left the café, and I could feel eyes watching us from the SUV. Bronx kept his body angled slightly toward it as we crossed to the parking lot. Vegas and Miami were already on their bikes, engines rumbling.

"I'll meet you there," KiKi said, her voice strained as she headed for her car.

"No," Bronx called after her. "Stay with us. I don't like this."

As if on cue, the SUV's doors opened, and three men stepped out. I recognized two of them immediately—they were two of the men who’d tormented me before I came to the club.

"Get on the bike," Bronx ordered, pushing me toward his Harley. "Now."

Vegas and Miami cut their engines, both dismounting in one fluid motion. They moved to flank us, creating a wall of leather and muscle between us and the approaching men.

"You boys lost?" Vegas called out, his voice deceptively casual.

"This doesn't concern you," the tallest of the three men replied. He wore an expensive suit that seemed out of place for a breakfast run. His eyes locked on me. "Ginger. It's time to go home."

My blood turned to ice. I gripped Bronx's arm, my nails digging in.

"She is home," Bronx growled, his body coiled like a spring ready to release.

The man in the suit smiled thinly. "Mr. Rayburn has been very patient. His patience is running out."

Vegas stepped forward, his posture relaxed but his eyes deadly. "I don't know who the fuck Mr. Rayburn is, but this woman is under my club's protection."

KiKi had frozen halfway to her car, caught in the open with nowhere to hide. Miami noticed and subtly shifted position to keep her in his sightline.

"We don't want any trouble," the suit continued, his gaze never leaving me. "Just the girl. Mr. Rayburn is prepared to compensate you generously."

"Not interested," Vegas replied flatly.

The second man—shorter, with a boxer's build and a scar across his jaw—moved his hand inside his jacket. In an instant, every biker had a weapon drawn. Bronx pushed me behind him so fast I stumbled.

"That would be a mistake," Miami said quietly, his gun pointed steadily at the man's chest.

The parking lot had gone eerily silent. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.

"Here's what's going to happen," Vegas said, his voice carrying in the quiet. "You're going to get back in that fancy SUV and tell your boss that Ginger belongs to us now. She's not for sale, not for trade, not for anything."

The suit's expression hardened. "You don't understand who you're dealing with."

"Neither do you," Vegas replied.

For several heart-stopping seconds, no one moved. Then the suit nodded almost imperceptibly, and the men backed toward their vehicle.

"This isn't over," he called as they climbed inside. "Mr. Rayburn always gets what he wants."

The SUV pulled away slowly.

My legs gave out, and Bronx caught me before I hit the ground. "I've got you," he murmured against my hair.

Vegas turned to face us, his expression thunderous. "Clubhouse. Now. And when we get there, you're going to tell me exactly who the fuck Mr. Rayburn is and why he's so interested in you."

KiKi hurried over, her face pale. "You can ride with me."

"No," Vegas cut in. "You'll ride with Miami. Ginger is with Bronx. I don't want you two cooking up stories before we get back."

---