Page 52 of Wicked

A surge of excitement runs through me. My stomach knots. I can’t decide whether to ditch the dress and makeup and hide under the covers, or to pull from within my core the inner strength I lost as Sam and his friends humiliated me over and over.

A flush darkens my chest, creeps up my neck, and settles in my cheeks. I glare at the girl in the mirror. She’s angry. She wants revenge. I jerk my head at her in defiance, and straightening my shoulders, I walk out of the hotel room with my head held high. Revenge isn’t the answer.

I take the empty elevator to the lobby. Each floor I pass on my way down, my heartbeat quickens and sweat beads along my hairline. I’m losing my courage. The anger swirling in my core is fading. I need Shephard.

The inner strength he screams into me and the will of steel he demands of me every time we go at it in the boxing ring is slipping. I eye the numbers. Five, four, three . . . I reach out, ready to jab at number ten, the floor I’m on. But the elevator stops at the lobby and the doors open.

A rush of conversation and the noise of plates and drinking glasses clattering flows over me like a heat wave.

Grasping at the thread of courage before it slips from me, I take a step, and another. At the podium, I give the hostess my name. She shows me to a table set in the middle of the room.

The knot in my stomach grows, and I want to hurl, though I doubt much will come up. I haven’t had anything to eat except a package of trail mix on the four-hour flight. Shephard had insisted I eat more, but the thought of going home again upset my stomach.

“Do you have a different table?” I mumble, staring at my toes.

The table affords Shephard and I no privacy. We’d be the center of attention whether we like it or not. Already, the guys at the bar are glancing my way, looking me up and down.

“I’m sorry, but Saturday nights are our busiest.”

“Okay, thank you.” I want to kick myself for my timid tone. Taking my seat, I straighten my shoulders and glance at the menu.

Where is Shephard?

The top of my forehead tingles. I ignore the intense stares from across the room and the stares of the guys at the bar boring into my back. The chair’s cool wooden surface on the back of my thighs is a welcomed distraction.

I run my fingers over the items on the menu. Focus. Deep breaths in and out. My heartbeat slows. Where the hell is Shephard? Finally, I can’t stand the staring. I’m stronger than this, cowering into myself. I straighten in my seat, glance up, and meet the men’s gazes head-on.

There are four large guys sitting in a booth in my line of sight. Two have their backs to me. The one with pitch-black hair nudges the arm of the guy sitting next to him. Dirty Blond in turn nods my way. The beefy guys across from them shift in their seats and return my stare.

I know their type. I described the kind of guys they are to Ryker when we first talked. These guys are cocky, think they’re God’s gift to women, sex on the mind, and ruthless when there’s money or status at stake. Except this group of guys is also crazy dangerous.

My attention darts to the front of the lounge. Where is Shephard? I don’t have my cell. Movement from my left snags my attention. I turn, and time stops.

Ryker is walking—no, swaggering—toward me with a shit-eating grin. He’s the cat that ate the canary, the leprechaun sitting on a pot of gold, the knight who has found and claimed his damsel-in-distress.

Why is he here?

My attention catches and hangs on the man behind him.

Shephard.

I ball my hands in my lap.

This, Ryker here with us, is a part of the cat-and-mouse game we’re playing with Sam and his friends on the outside. They’re loyal to him, the loyalty earned through violence, money, and respect. They’re angry the judge handed him the longest sentence he could for Sam’s crimes against my body.

“Harper. Babe.”

I rise. Ryker pulls me into his big, muscular arms. I’m so small—or he’s so huge—I disappear inside his hold.

“Why are you here?” I murmur into his shirt.

I glance up. He’s not smiling. His dark brows are pulled low.

“Shephard texted. He said you needed me.”

“How’d he get your number?”

“Fuck if I care. I’m here, aren’t I?”

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