Page 53 of Ginger

“I have a feeling she’ll be his old lady before this is over,” Reno said. “So stop worrying so much.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, hoping they were right.

Epilogue

Ginger

I woke with a jolt, my hand instinctively reaching across the empty space beside me. Cold sheets. The suite felt hollow without Bronx's commanding presence or Reno's watchful gaze. Morning light sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, illuminating dust particles that danced in the still air.

Sitting up, I pushed tangled hair from my face and listened. Nothing. Not even the sound of water running in the bathroom or coffee brewing in the kitchenette. The digital clock on the nightstand read 7:43 AM—typicaly too early for the men to have gone far.

"Bronx?"

I slid from the bed, my bare feet meeting the rough carpet. The air conditioning hummed, raising goosebumps on my skin. I pulled on Bronx's discarded shirt from last night, the fabric still holding his scent—leather, tobacco, and that cologne I couldn't name but would recognize anywhere.

The main room of the suite was just as empty as the bedroom. Half-empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table alongside cigarette butts crushed in a glass ashtray. Reno's leather jacket hung over one of the dining chairs. I wondered if a meeting had been called. The kind they couldn't discuss with me.

I wandered to the window and peeked through the gap in the curtains. As I turned back toward the kitchen, thinking about coffee, a flash of white caught my eye. A piece of paper had been slipped under the door, the corner just barely visible from where I stood.

My stomach knotted. Notes under doors never brought good news. Not in our world.

I approached cautiously, as if the paper might bite. Kneeling, I slid my fingers beneath it and pulled it free. The paper was folded three times, no name written on the outside. It couldn't be from Bronx—he would have woken me if he had something to say. Or at the very least left his message on the nightstand.

That left few possibilities, and none of them good.

I carried the note to the sofa and sat at the edge, one leg tucked beneath me. My hands trembled slightly as I unfolded it, revealing handwriting I recognized immediately. KiKi's looping script, rushed but still somehow elegant.

Don't worry about me anymore, I've decided to run away—maybe as far as Alabama to stay with my aunt. I'll reach out when it's safe.

I read it three times before the meaning fully registered. KiKi was gone. Run away. From Vegas. From the club. From all of us.

The breath I'd been holding escaped in a slow, controlled exhale. My first emotion wasn't shock or even worry—it was relief. Relief that she'd gotten out before Vegas could decide he was angry enough to hurt her.

I stared at the paper in my hands, my fingers running over the indentations her pen had left. Relief now mingled with a deep sadness. Not for KiKi—she had a chance now—but for myself. I’d lost the only friend I really had in this place.

My gaze fell to the note again. If Vegas found this, he'd know I had information. He'd think I helped her, encouraged her. The fact that I hadn't actively assisted her escape wouldn't matter to him. Knowing and not telling was betrayal enough in his eyes.

The decision formed instantly, a survival instinct honed by years of navigating dangerous men and their volatile tempers. The note had to disappear. Now.

I stood, moving with deliberate calm despite the anxious flutter in my chest. Methodically, I tore the fragile paper into small pieces—first in half, then quarters, then into confetti-sized bits that couldn't be reassembled. My fingernails dug into the paper, creating tiny crescents in my palms as I reduced KiKi's goodbye to nothing.

The bathroom seemed the safest place. I walked in, flicking on the light. The metal trash can beside the sink was empty except for a few tissues and an empty toilet paper roll. Perfect.

I dropped the pieces into the can and pulled a book of matches from the pocket of Bronx's shirt.

"Sorry, KiKi," I whispered, striking a match. "But you're on your own now. This is the best I can do to help keep you safe."

The flame caught the paper fragments, curling their edges before consuming them entirely. I watched as they blackened and shriveled, the small fire casting dancing shadows against the bathroom wall. The flames reflected in the mirror, creating twin infernos that matched the turmoil inside me.

When the last piece had turned to ash, I ran water over the remains, making sure nothing recognizable survived. Black smudges swirled down the drain, carrying away the only evidence of KiKi's final communication.

I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my copper hair hung in tangled waves around my face. I didn't look like someone who could protect herself from what might be coming, but appearances had always been deceiving. I'd survived worse than Vegas’ temper. And now that I’d destroyed the evidence, no one would know I had a clue as to where KiKi went.

The sound of motorcycles rumbling in the distance pulled me from my thoughts. Someone would notice she was gone, sooner or later. I needed to compose myself before then, needed to appear normal. Unaware. Surprised when Vegas eventually came looking for his missing girl.

What would Vegas do when he discovered KiKi was gone? Would he believe she'd simply left without help? Would he take his rage out on the club, demanding they find her? Or would he look closer to home, at the women who had been her friend?

My mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. Vegas was unpredictable at the best of times, downright psychotic at the worst. He’d been both supportive of me, and had nearly thrown me to the wolves. I hadn’t been able to figure him out. Was he a monster or did he have a softer side like Bronx and Reno? The only certainty I had right now was that someone would pay for KiKi's defiance.

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