Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

For us, there’s only now, and we try not to think about our pasts ever catching up with us.

“Good guess,” I say to Allie in answer to her question about why I was waiting outside the castle. “But really, I’m out here to intercept Dawn, who should be here any second with her husband, Victor.”

Allie’s eyes widen, “Oh my gosh, are you going to run interference to warn her not to bring up the situation with her brother and the yakuza—”

“Yup,” I answer before she’s even finished with her guess.

One of the grooms is my old work colleague and Olivia Glendaver’s best friend. And she doesn’t want anything to ruin his big day—which Dawn Zhang could totally do if she tells the truth when he asks her how her brother, his ex-boyfriend, is doing. So, I’ve been put in charge of intercepting Dawn as soon as she and her husband arrive—which should be any minute now that their delayed flight out of Rhode Island has finally landed.

See what I mean about nighttime soap drama?

But anyway, my gossip game is A++ after years of being a side character in The Phantom and Olivia Show. So Allie knows all the special guest stars in their universe, including the obscure ones she’s never met.

“Ooh, I’ll wait with you,” she says, dropping down to sit on the stone steps beside me. “Maybe his sister will have an update for us too. I can’t wait for another episode of that story!”

“See. This right here is why we’re best friends,” I let Allie know with a wry laugh.

She laughs too, and the Southern accent she tries not to use in her professional day-to-day comes back full force as she declares, “I’m just saying, this single mom Kentucky life is thin on drama. I need an infusion of other people’s wherever I can get—”

Roaring engines in the distance cut her off.

And the laughter disappears from our voices. From our minds. From our very souls.

We know that roar. It’s the growl of ruin and danger, announcing a motorcycle gang’s arrival at the roadhouse. It’s the sound of our pasts catching up with us.

Every nerve, every drop of blood, every breath freezes inside my body.

“Don’t freak out,” Allie says, even as we both rise to our feet. Like prairie dogs who have caught the scent of a predator.

“It could be anybody,” she assures me. “It doesn’t have to be them—”

But then she stops cold, her pretty face collapsing into horror.

It is them. It’s the Ruthless Reapers.

I know that even before I turn to see the ten bikers roaring toward us with their president, Waylon, at the front of the pack.

“Maybe…maybe he won’t remember us,” Allie says beside me, her voice shaky and hopeful.

“Red, Allie, is that you?” Waylon asks, stopping his bike right in front of us while the rest of the gang drives on toward the parking area around the side of the house.

He knew Allie’s real name, but of course, he doesn’t know mine.

I didn’t give it to any of the bikers at that roadhouse. I wasn’t that stupid—at least not until O2’s father looked down at me with those piercing blue eyes.

Allie, so capable beyond her years, just stares at Waylon, her face as stunned as I feel.

“What are you doing here?” I ask for both of us.

“Security. Something about a surprise show for the gay brother of some big-shot alcohol guy,” Waylon answers. Then he kills the engine. “What are you doing here, Red?”

Oh my God! Oh my God!

Panic washes over me in such thick waves it nearly collapses me to my knees. But I shore myself with one last, desperate thought. Isn’t Griffin Latham mostly retired and working some bigwig position at AudioNation these days? Maybe the Reapers are working security for some other star—

“Okay, you better come with me,” Waylon says with a heavy sigh. “He’s been looking for you.”

He’s been looking for you.

Like it’s been five days since I saw him last, not five years.

And that lets me know, without a shadow of a doubt, who’s come to perform tonight. There’s only one person who the Reapers’ prez would refer to as “he”—like he’s some kind of deity who needs no introduction.

This is my worst nightmare.

I glance at Allie.

Best friends. We’re best friends now for reasons we never talk about.

Without saying a word, we both break toward the castle’s front doors.

We run…run through the castle toward the backhouse daycare and our secret children as if we have hellfire at our feet.

CHAPTER 24

GRIFFIN

Gotta admit, I don’t hate Jenni for making me come out to this backhouse daycare.

I figured Zhang’s assistant was exaggerating. But this kid, who everybody calls O2 for reasons nobody bothers to explain to me before she opens her mouth, turns out to be just as stellar as she claimed.

She sings sweet and clear, and without yelling like a lot of kids do—even the professionals with coaches out in L.A. No, her projection game is on lock, and I nearly fall out of my seat when she does the entire rap, matching my animated-wolf-growl note bar for bar.