Page 120 of That Girl is Trouble

“Service drops off at the tree line,” he says finally. “Might get a few bars in the barn. I imagine that’s where he called from, but other than that, it’s a dead zone. You won’t be able to call for help.”

“I need a gun.”

“Told you. They’ll search you.” He opens his glove box and pulls out a switchblade. With a flick of his wrist, he flips it open to show me the sharp edge, then closes it again. “Might be able to conceal this.”

I snatch it from him and move to hide it in my bra, but he shakes his head.

“Not there. They’ll check. Thoroughly,” he adds. “Try your boot.”

Nodding, I shove it into the heel of my short leather ankle boot, lining it up at the seam. “Out,” I command. And when he opens his mouth to argue, I cut him off. “Clock’s ticking.”

Preacher mumbles profanities as he jumps from the truck, and then he disappears into a copse of trees. Rossi was clear. I don’t bring another soul in with me. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to go at this alone. Preacher will just have to trek half a kilometre through the bush to get to us. It’ll have to work.

Swallowing the lump lodged in my throat, I kick the truck back into gear and drive another two minutes down the dirt road until I hit the bumpy laneway. The brush from the surrounding forest here is overgrown and taking up most of the driving real estate. I’m about halfway down when I spot the dark SUV.

I slow the truck as I approach. When I’m close, the front doors of the SUV open and two men climb out, both in black winter jackets. The taller one wears a black tuque and black leather gloves, and the other sports a pair of dark shades, even though with the shortening November days it’s practically twilight.

One motions for me to stop, and when I do, he points a gun at me while Mr. Shades takes a look around the truck. A glint of something hits my sightline from the cupholder as I track the guy’s movements. Rossi’s ruby ring. I’m not sure why, but I grab for it and slip it onto my thumb.

Once assholes A and B are satisfied that I didn’t smuggle anyone in with me, Tuque Guy pulls open my door, grabs me by the front of my jacket, and yanks me out. I yelp and try to right myself as I stumble over my feet.

Tuque Guy sneers as he tightens his grip on my jacket. “You must be the biker slut.”

“That’s right,” I bite. “So where’s my biker?”

He tosses me back hard, and I bounce off Mr. Shades’s chest. “Search her,” Tuque Guy orders.

I tense when hands wander up my body. On instinct, I jerk away, but he only tightens his hold. Preacher was right. They search me thoroughly and spend too much time making sure I didn’t hide anything in my bra or between my legs.

They find my phone, but they don’t bother checking my boots.

After I’ve been adequately groped, I’m tossed into the back of the SUV. From there, we head farther down the road until it opens up into a large field. Old farmland. This town is crawling with it. This particular piece of property belongs to Axe. I think I remember coming here with him for a quick minute after he picked me up from a pit party summer before last. There are a few condemned buildings towards the back. And what I imagine used to be a wheat field is now overgrown with weeds as tall as me, all brown and drooping now that the winter cold has moved in.

As we park, a much newer building comes into view. It’s a barn—gambrel roof, wood slats lining the outside—but it’s been renovated to be a little more industrial, with large metal sliding doors at the front and a bay door to the side.

Preacher says the club uses the land for storage. He didn’t lay out exactly what kind of things they keep here, but I can take a couple guesses.

Mr. Shades hauls me out of the SUV, his grip around my arm bruising as he drags me into the barn. Inside looks more like a warehouse. There are no animal stalls and no farming equipment. The floor is concrete, and there are pallets and crates stacked high against the walls on either side. What looks to be boxes of automotive parts are spread out over several low tables.

“Katherine.” Vic Rossi’s voice echoes across the room, and my heart fucking stops.

Axe is tied to a chair, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Even though his back is to me, it’s obvious he’s hurt. Blood drips onto the floor from an injury I can’t see, and as I’m pulled in front of him, a sob slips its way out of my mouth.

“Oh my god, Axe,” I gasp as I take in the damage. His lip is split, his nose broken, and one eye socket is almost swollen shut. Blood trickles from his mouth and down his chin, staining his white T-shirt red.

His eyes widen when he sees me, and he shakes his head solemnly. “Kitty,” he rasps. “You shouldn’t have come.”

I make to run to him, but I’m yanked back and tossed at Rossi’s feet, my knees hitting the concrete floor with a painful thump.

“Go take watch outside,” he says to Mr. Shades. Then he turns his attention to me. “So glad you could join us.”

I move to stand, but he grabs a hold of my hair and presses me back down.

“No, no. On your knees is exactly where I want you. Like your boyfriend’s handiwork?” he asks, pointing to his face. Dark bruises circle his eyes, his lower lip is a little swollen, and there’s a gash across his cheek that looks to have needed stitches.

“I’d say it’s an improvement,” I grit.

Rossi barks out a laugh. “Oh, I’m just dying to teach that mouth of yours a lesson,” he says as he jerks my head towards Axe. “Hope you don’t mind the improvements I’ve been working on. I think he looks better, don’t you? Although Patrick here might have broken his nose. Sorry about that, Donovan.”

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