Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

“It’ll probably take the cops a while to even track down the name of the trust. Hope’s the one who had me search for it,” Z says. “I’m also tracking down any family members in the area you can pay a visit to if we can’t get the address. So far, it looks like the uncle was his only relative.”

Fucking great. And this stalker thinks he’s going to populate a new family with Shelby.

A second later, the decision is made for me. Agent Jackson and his buddies race past us. Guess my info panned out. Jigsaw and Pants follow, flinging questions at Jackson.

“Cops are on the move,” I say to Z.

“Head up to the clubhouse. Ice is getting everyone ready to roll out as soon as we have the address. You’re gonna need the van…” His voice falters. “Just in case.”

No need to question Z. The implication is clear. I’ll need the van in case I have to rush Shelby to the hospital.

Or in case I need to drag the body of Martin Suggs to the hog farm.

Chapter Six

Shelby

I hate soup.

It’s hotter than Hades most of the year in Texas. When you walk outside in summer, it gets so humid, it feels like you’re swimming in soup. No need to eat it.

My captor seems to be a big fan. One look in his cupboards as he’s preparing supper reveals a whole lot of canned soup.

A stockpile of soup.

Like he plans to be holed up here for a long, long time.

Time for us to…be together.

A bunch of wasps buzz in my belly, stinging me with fear from the inside out.

I study the kitchen. Dated marigold-yellow appliances. A door that I assume leads to outside with rusty-red and tan gingham curtains covering the window at the top. The window over the sink has the same interior latched shutters I’ve noticed covering the rest of the windows, blocking any outside view. This one has matching gingham window treatments.

It doesn’t give the place a homey feel. At all.

Either this guy just moved in or he hostage-proofed the place before bringing me here. I haven’t spotted a phone, a knife, or anything I could use as a weapon. Even the chair I’m currently perched on is shackled to the table with only enough room to pull it out and sit. No way to pick it up and smash it over his head.

Better the chair be chained down than me, I guess.

The pan he’s warming the soup in is a decent size. I fantasize about picking it up by the short handles and flinging the hot liquid in his face.

Of course, if I miss, I risk burning myself as well as pissing him off.

While he’s been cordial so far, the threat of violence looms in the air.

Weakness permeates my limbs. I haven’t fully shaken off the drugging, and my extended nap in the trunk, yet. Every part of my body aches. My mind won’t stop screaming about my grotesque predicament. In an instant, I’ve gone from Shelby, a woman who gave the best performance of her tour and couldn’t wait to hug her boyfriend, to the prisoner of a crazy person.

It’s a huge adjustment.

“What’s your name?” My voice barely comes out above a whisper. I can’t force it any louder.

“It is about time we get to know each other better, isn’t it, darling?” He smiles at me over his shoulder.

I can’t decide which endearment I hate more—little rabbit or darling.

When I don’t answer, he scowls, and returns to stirring the pot on the stove. Round and round. I’m dizzy from watching him.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks.

“Sprite?”

“Coming right up.”

Well, ain’t that sweet. A glimpse inside the fridge reveals he’s also stocked up on my favorite soda. He pulls a can from one of several six-packs in the fridge, grabs a plastic cup off the counter, and sets both on the table in front of me. After a quick pat on my head that makes my vision blur, he returns to the stove.

I pop the tab on the soda and suck half of it down, not bothering with the cup. The cool, crisp bubbles soothe my raw throat but the sugary drink leaves me thirstier. “Could I have some water too?”

This time he frowns. Gee, so sorry if I’m asking for too much.

He sets a glass of tap water in front of me and I whisper a “thank you” before taking a few long swallows.

His stare lingers and my gaze roams the kitchen. Anywhere to avoid him. No knife block, rolling pin, glassware—not even a heavy cutting board. Nothing useful.

While I’ve been happily on tour singing my heart out every night on stage, this person’s been planning my abduction and imprisonment. How could I not know this cosmic shift in my life was coming for me?