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The door slams and I flinch. Grisham’ temper is palpable and he’s taken it right out the door with him, leaving the room about twenty degrees cooler.
I stare at the jacket he’s thrown at me. It’s a dinner jacket, like a businessman would wear. It seems so contrasting to the tattooed, knife-wielding MC president who was just in front of me, yet I can envision him in it, dressed up, hair freshly washed, beard freshly groomed. I can see him in the candlelight of a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. The image does weird things to me, makes my stomach flutter. I jump around a little, trying to rid myself of the image. This man is not my friend. He’s not for me. I need to think my way out of this situation, not think of what it would be like to go on a date with him.
But still ... he didn’t claim me. He didn’t force me into sex. He didn’t beat me. There was something ... decent about him. Something that makes me want to trust him. That’s probably dangerous. I hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me not to trust him. But Drew, by nature, is actually a pretty trusting guy. I think I must have gotten those genes.
My father never really let me get involved in club business. He’s old school and in his world, women don’t lead. They don’t do business with the boys. I’m around it, sure, but only when he is and never in any official or useful capacity, because he doesn’t want his members to mistake me for some club girl. He’d rather pawn me off in some arranged marriage to “keep me safe.” Whatever.
Oh, I’ve snuck out a few times and had a grope session or two, but my dad is an eagle-eyed, iron-fisted fascist when it comes to his only child, so any attempts to rid myself of my V-card have gone unfinished. And any dude who even gets close enough to try ends up with a new scar or two.
No fun.
But my V-card is not the issue right now, especially since I now know there was never a plan for Grisham to claim me, as his vice president threatened. That means I need to figure out a plan to get past the huge-ass dudes stationed at my window and at the door. If that big animal thinks he can keep me locked up in his bedroom like some simpering little whatever, he can forget about it.
The thing I don’t get is, if Grisham didn’t order my kidnapping, then why the hell is he keeping me here?
Look, people talk in motorcycle clubs, and no one has ever said that David Grisham is impulsive. They say he’s intense and intelligent and that if he loses his cool, there’s a damn good reason for it. I know this guy’s story. He built the Barking Angels from the ground up. He’s one of the youngest motorcycle club presidents in the area. He’s got a little empire built here, and everyone says he’s a success because he doesn’t sample the product; he doesn’t compromise his values for a buck; and he doesn’t make stupid mistakes.
Stupid mistakes like kidnapping a neighbor club leader’s daughter.
He sort of reminds me of my dad, I suppose. They’d probably be friends if they weren’t about to blow each other off the map.
I pace back and forth for a while, but then I have to pee. There’s a huge bathroom attached to Grisham’ room, so I pad my way in, finding the giant, two-person soaker tub very inviting.
Then it hits me. How I’ll get out of here.
*
