Craving Cecilia (The Aces' Sons 6)

My phone lit up beside me and I opened it to a text message from an unknown number.

It’s me, Bumblebee. Got someone headed your way. Stay put until they get there.

I will, I texted back.

I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, relief hitting me hard. My dad was the only person in the world who’d ever called me that, and it had been years since he had. He’d sent in the cavalry and I just had to wait it out. God, I hoped they got here before things went to hell.

It was pretty telling that I’d called my dad and not the police. I grimaced. I’d left the club behind, but I guess the lessons I’d learned hadn’t been so easy to forget. It was instinctive to take care of things in-house, to keep the government—and more importantly, the police—in the dark. Maybe if I’d been at home, or a public place, I would’ve called 911. But I knew in my gut that Cane was into some shit that I didn’t want any part of, and calling in the police would put me right in the middle of it. In the eyes of the law, I’d be tied to him, and so would the tiny human that was currently scratching her razor sharp nails against my collarbone.

No, it was better if I could just get the fuck out of there before anyone knew what had happened. If we could disappear without anyone the wiser, we’d be in the clear. We could leave all of this shit behind us.

I hated the idea of starting over somewhere new, but I’d do it. I could work anywhere. Most of my business was military, but I could find a different place to set up shop. The east coast had a ton of bases, and I could probably find somewhere cheaper to live than San Diego anyway. North Carolina was on the coast, and I was pretty sure that I could find a place there for a lot less than I was spending to live here. I had plenty of cash, and I could easily sell my condo.

I let myself fall down that rabbit hole, planning long-term instead of thinking about the fact that we were stuck in a closet, and I had no idea when help would come or if they’d be there before we were found. Dying inside that closet was not an option. I wouldn’t even let myself think about it.

Eventually, my mind traveled back to what I’d need to do if someone came in that door looking for us. My .38 had six rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Assuming that I hit what I was aiming at, I’d have a good chance if there were less than four men in the house. Ideally, I could take another weapon off of someone, but I couldn’t count on that. I’d be working one-handed, because there was no way I could leave the baby behind.

My plans were interrupted when a small, hungry mouth started rooting around against my neck. She’d held out longer than I’d thought she would, but she was impatient as hell as I tried to get us situated. Making shushing noises, I bounced her as I searched the bag for supplies. If she started screaming, we were fucked.

Just as she started to eat, I heard a sound in the bedroom outside the closet. I strained, trying to figure out what it was as I slid my hand into my purse and grabbed my pistol.

By the time the closet door opened and the light came on, I was ready. Through the small gap in the coats, I stared at the spot in front of us, lifted the .38, and waited.

Chapter 2

Mark

I didn’t sleep well. Years in the military and working as a private contractor afterward meant I’d seen more than my fair share of shit that liked to replay behind my eyelids when I closed them. I’d gotten used to it for the most part, figured out ways to shut my mind down enough that I could get the rest I needed. On the worst nights, I found myself replaying memories of long blonde hair, tanned limbs, breathy sighs and hoarse groans, using good memories to replace the bad. Most of the time, I didn’t even feel guilty about it. I hadn’t been able to use any of my tricks when I’d climbed into bed that night, though, so I’d gotten dressed and headed out to the garage. Something was churning in my gut and I had no idea why, but I’d learned not to ignore the feeling, not even for fantasies of a lover I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade.

I set my phone face up next to me on the bench as I got to work polishing an old bike frame. I’d probably sell this particular piece, since I had no interest in completely rebuilding the bike, but I still got satisfaction out of restoring it. Working with my hands centered me and cleared my head in a way nothing else did. I just wished I had more time for it.