Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

Chapter One

Rooster

The depth of my love for Shelby knows no bounds.

Now that we’re separated, that fact is abundantly clear.

I don’t submit to terror. No, I’m used to doing the terrorizing.

But as I stand in Shelby’s dressing room trying to process what’s happened, dread slithers into my body.

My worst fear has come true.

He has Shelby.

That sick, creepy fuck who’s been scaring the shit out of her for weeks with his insane letters has actually gotten his hands on her.

All because I was fucking around on the other side of the arena instead of being where I should’ve been—protecting my girl.

I never thought he’d try something this soon. Tonight. I was so damn confident I’d catch him before he got anywhere near Shelby.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? So arrogant?

She has to be here.

But she’s not.

My mind struggles to accept the truth. My gut won’t stop screaming.

The woman I love is gone.

Someone took her.

I race past Jigsaw, knocking him into the wall.

Outside the dressing room, I scan the near-empty hallway. “Shelby!”

My fear-clogged voice bounces off the indifferent cinderblock walls, mocking me.

I yank out my phone and study her texts. The last one said to knock three times. She sent it less than fifteen minutes ago. What the hell happened between then and now?

Sirens pierce the air around the arena.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Police? Fire? I can’t tell.

Are they here for Shelby? Is she hurt?

Jigsaw’s shoulder brushes mine. “Think that has something do with Shelby?”

“I don’t know.”

The sirens increase in volume.

I turn left, jogging toward the loading dock exit.

Bane’s big ass is rushing down the hallway. Where was he when Shelby needed him? This asshole was supposed to watch Shelby for five fucking minutes and couldn’t even do that.

My fist cracks his jaw, spinning him sideways.

“Logan!” he mumble-shouts. “The fuck?”

I hammer my fist into his face once more before Jigsaw bear-hugs me, yanking my body sideways. “Not now,” he growls against my ear.

“Get off me.” I shake out of Jigsaw’s hold.

Cupping his cheek, Bane eyes me warily. “What the hell, man?”

“Where the fuck were you? She’s gone—”

“There was a fire on Dawson’s bus. What do you mean she’s gone?” Bane’s gaze darts behind me as if Shelby’s tucked in my back pocket or something.

He’s lucky I don’t punch him again. He left my girl to go fuck around with a fire? What was he going to do? Blot it out with his hands? “You a fucking fireman now?” I growl.

“Logan!” The door leading outside slams shut behind Trent with a heavy metallic clank. All three of us focus on Trent’s anxious face. “Did you let someone from the venue take Shelby’s trunk?”

My body jerks in Trent’s direction. “What? No. Why?”

“Some guy is loading her trunk into a white van outside.” He tugs at his sleeve. “His shirt looked like the one all the arena guys are wearing.”

I’m already moving toward him. “She’s not in her dressing room.”

My mind flashes back to Shelby’s clothes and shoes, carelessly dumped all over her room. More than the normal mess Shelby makes.

The pieces rapidly click together in my mind.

Jesus Christ. Did this psycho load Shelby into her trunk like a piece of fucking cargo?

“She’s in that trunk.” I feel it down to my fucking bones, and I bolt toward the exit.

“Motherfucker,” Jigsaw growls, jogging right behind me.

Trent doesn’t question my assumption. He backs up, shoving the door open again. “I knew something was wrong. I tried to stop him,” he says in a rush, following us outside. “He told me Shelby said it was okay. It didn’t sound right. But I wasn’t sure…” His voice falters as his footsteps quicken behind us.

The bright lights of the parking lot wash over our small group.

Outside, fire engines, an ambulance, and several cop cars are all jammed into the lot. The acrid stench of burning rubber hangs in the air.

I scan the crowded area, searching for any white vans.

“There! That one.” Trent elbows me and points to an older, plain white cargo van with no windows in the back. Virginia plates. Rusty patches on the bumper. Mud-caked tires and splashes of dirt along the sides.

While my mind catalogs as many details as possible, my feet are already moving toward the vehicle.

The stairs are clogged with too many people, and I can’t waste another second. I jump off the side of the loading dock and land hard on the concrete below. The impact jars my legs and rattles my teeth.

Shake it off.

My boots thunder over the pavement as I dodge firefighters with hoses, cops, and nosy assholes.

Behind me, Jigsaw’s pounding the pavement just as hard. “Keep going. I’ll get the plate number,” he huffs out.

So fucking close.

People shout as I run past them. I knock into a few. They’re nothing more than a blur.

I hit the back of the van with a thud and yank on the one door handle. The other door only has holes where the handle should be.