Page 84 of Jersey

Today that list is a mile long, but as much as I can stay in my room pacing, wishing I'd never set eyes on Caitlyn Rudd, I know better.

I knew the woman was different the fucking second I saw her walking toward that cross the first time. I hadn't even felt that way with Eden, and that's a hard fucking bitter pill to swallow, considering I made vows with that woman.

Somehow, deep down, I knew Caitlyn was going to change my life, and I think mentally I've been fighting against the idea of it despite the physical connection we've had multiple times.

There's no getting her out of my mind. There's no chance that I can let her leave, thinking she means less to me than any other woman I've come across in my line of work.

I have no fucking clue why I couldn't express my feelings for her minutes ago when she left, and I can't say that I have the courage to say them now, but I know she was upset when she left, and I have to make sure she made it home okay.

I grab my leather jacket and the keys to my bike and head out, knowing I can make it down the mountain faster than driving something with four wheels. It still seems to take forever, my head conjuring up all sorts of horrible things that could happen between here and her house.

I'm only partially relieved to not see her car wrapped around a tree on my descent, but nothing prepares me for what I find when I make it to her house.

Caitlyn is fine, better than ever, I'd say, with the way she's hugging the man on her front porch.

Rage fills me up, and my first instinct is to park my bike and ram that guy's head into the nearest fucking tree, but I don't own her. I can't dictate what she does or who she sees. We weren't even close to being exclusive, and if all I wanted was sex from her, the sight of the two of them together shouldn't bother me at all.

I rev my engine, drawing both of their attention with plans to speed off and wash my hands of her completely, but when he releases her and she looks in my direction, all I see is pure panic and terror in her eyes.

I try to read the entire situation, first struggling to shake the idea that she's with someone else from my head. Before I can park my bike, I notice the gun pressed into her side a second before the man wraps his arm around her waist and drags her into the house.

Jesus, is this really happening right now?

I jump off my bike, unconcerned when it tips over on its side, and opt to hide behind her car because it's the only thing in the driveway that provides any form of protection if the guy decides he's going to start shooting at me from one of the windows on the front of her house.

It isn't Scott Wilson, and I don't recognize the guy. I pull out my phone, selecting Casper's contact information as I try to run every face from the club through my mind.

"What's—"

"I have a hostage situation at Caitlyn's house. A man with dark blond hair. I don't know eye color. He's approximately six feet tall and has a lean build. He’s wearing a fucking peacoat and a Christmas sweater. He has her at gunpoint."

"I'm going to dispatch some of the guys. Do you want local law enforcement?"

"They'll just fuck everything up," I mutter. "What do you have?"

"Nothing yet," he says, sounding disappointed in himself as I hear his fingers working over his keyboard.

"I don't see an unfamiliar car anywhere near. What did her security system show?"

Silence fills the line.

"Casper!" I growl.

"That she turned it off at eight seventeen this morning. It's been disarmed all fucking day."

"And the other system?"

"I'm working on it," he says, and I feel vindicated that I've won the argument I had with the guy when he said it was a violation of privacy to have a secondary control on her system that she couldn't deactivate. The woman had windows unlocked and no batteries in her smoke detectors. She'd be dead if I let her just exist in life without interference. Hell, I don't know how she has made it on her own as long as she has.

"I need to go in."

"You need to wait for your team," Casper snaps. "They're already on their way. ETA fifteen minutes max."

"Who are you sending?"

"Everyone."

"He could be doing God knows what to her inside right now," I argue.

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