Page 8 of Text Me, Take Me

“And my gun was?”

“A CEO with a pistol is no match for them. You might’ve got the better of Mason because he was unprepared, but he won’t be next time. And even if you can hire some security agency or whatever, you’ll have to play by the rules. The Vultures won’t.”

“You’re assuming a lot,” I snarl. “You don’t know who or what I am.”

“You’re not just a CEO?”

“I’m the one asking questions here.”

“Just take me to Glendale. I’ll figure out what to do.”

“I’m not putting you in a position to get hurt.”

She reaches for the door, attempting to open it. But it won’t work.

“I’m not going to let you leap out of my car while it’s moving.”

“Where are we going?” she demands.

“While I figure out what’s going on, I’m taking you to my estate in Topanga Canyon.”

She gasps. “What? Why?”

“Because you won’t let me call the cops, and that asshole looked like he was ready to use that knife.”

“But—No, I can’t—I won’t be a prisoner. No freaking way.”

Guilt tugs at me. She doesn’t want to be a prisoner. I don’t want to be a jailer, but I can’t just let her go. If I did that and The Vultures got their hands on her… and I saw her on the news. Evie Davis, bright-eyed and beautiful, killed by those biker bastards, I wouldn’t forgive myself.

I glance at her, attempting to make my expression safe and understanding… if that’s possible. “Then tell me what’s going on. Why are they after you? Why can’t I call the cops?”

She groans, running her hands through her hair. Her braid is coming loose, making her look wild and somehow more attractive. “It’s none of your business.”

“If making it my business keeps you alive, Evie, I’m making it my damn business.”

“Wait, a second…” She looks at me with fresh accusation in her gorgeous eyes. “What were you even doing at my apartment?”

“Right place, wrong time,” I grunt.

“What? That doesn’t even make sense. Are you saying it was a coincidence?”

“If you give me your friend’s name, you don’t need to worry about her.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“You want answers? Join the club.”

She huffs again. “Tasha Lin.”

I take out my cellphone. “Compose text, Rafe Torress:Rafe, I need a favor. Put a protection detail on Tasha Lin of Apartment 3B, 1446 Laveta Terrace, Echo Park. She works in Glendale. Send text.”

“Who’s Rafe Torress?”

An old friend, a man in a world I left behind a long time ago.

Ignoring her question, I say, “Why are The Vultures after you?”

She folds her arms, squashing those tempting tits together. I try to focus on the road.

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