Rhythm of the Road (Lost Kings MC 16)

“We can talk about it another time. Rest your throat.” He flashes a quick smile. “I’ll be back for your trunk, so keep it decent when Rooster gets here.”

I mouth “shut up” and push him toward the door.

After he’s gone, I grab the bottle of water on my dresser and twist off the cap, sucking down almost half of it in deep, greedy swallows.

A salty tang coats my tongue and I stare at the bottle for a second before setting it down. Have to remember to ask for a different brand from now on.

I open the door and nod to Bane. “Have you seen Rooster?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m going to…” I mime taking off my dress and stepping into a pair of pants. He gives me a half-smile and reassuring nod.

“Thanks.”

I grab my phone and send Rooster a quick text.

Me: Where are you?

No response.

Me: I’ll be in bathroom changing. Can you grab a bottle of water or Sprite on your way back? Stuff in room is nasty.

I stare at the phone for a few minutes, waiting for an answer.

Still nothing.

Odd.

Maybe they actually caught Mr. Creepy Letters.

I hurry into the bathroom to change. Inside, it’s stuffy as hell. I glance up to the bathroom window. It’s wide open, letting in all the evening heat. I slam it shut but unless I stand on the toilet, I can’t latch it.

“Shelby?” Bane calls out.

“Yeah?”

“I gotta run down to Dawson’s. I’m locking the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me or Rooster, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” The outer door clicks closed. I scurry to check that it’s actually locked.

I send Rooster another text.

Me: Door locked. Knock three times.

I close and lock the bathroom door behind me.

A wave of dizziness washes over me and I stagger to the sink, bracing myself against the cool porcelain, setting my phone on the edge.

Can’t breathe.

Get dress off. I’ll feel better once it’s off.

I work the zipper as far as I can and squirm-wiggle my way out of the rest of it, allowing the dress to pool at my feet.

That’s better.

Beads of sweat roll from my temple, down my cheeks. I flip on the faucet and lean over to splash water on my face.

Mistake. Now I’ve made a mess of all my stupid stage makeup. Where’s my remover? Out in the other room?

Fuzziness clouds my mind.

I splash another handful of water on my face and snag a paper towel to blot my skin.

Get dressed.

I yank off my boots, almost falling on my ass.

What the hell’s wrong with me?

First, pants. One leg. Then the other. I wobble and bump my butt against the wall, leaning back to fasten my jeans.

My T-shirt seems to have sprouted three armholes. I jam my fist through the neck, then have to take it off and try again. Finally, the long, loose cotton flows down to my hips. I scoop the ends, attempting to tie a knot but my fingers don’t seem to want to work.

Whatever. It looks fine.

I stuff my feet back into my boots and stagger forward. My palms land on the slippery sink and slide.

Bang.

My forehead smacks against the mirror.

“Ouch.”

I rub the spot.

Is this heat exhaustion? Dehydration?

Behind me, there’s a soft screech. The shower curtain rustles.

My heart thunders, trying to gallop out of my chest.

A man steps out.

Holy fuck, I’m in a horror movie!

The fleeting thought that I wish I had a weapon—gun, taser, pepper spray, or heck, even Heidi’s ball peen hammer would be a relief. But I’ve got nothing except the cowgirl boots on my feet. Unfortunately, my legs are encased in concrete. Too weak to even knee this guy in the balls.

A scream sticks in my throat.

Dim recognition tickles the back of my mind.

He’s wearing the same black and yellow polo shirts the other employees of the arena wear. But that’s not it.

The fan. He gave me a fan at one of the shows.

“Shh.” He places one finger against his lips and rushes forward. Malicious insanity burns in his eyes.

Terror steals my breath.

My palms hit his chest and I push. “Get. Away,” I slur.

He staggers back a step, eyebrows lifting all the way to his hairline.

“Easy, little rabbit. I’m here to take care of you. It’s time for us to be together.”

Warnings explode in my head like fire alarms, piercing the fog clouding my brain.

Mr. Creepy Letters is in my bathroom!

I need to get away. Yell for Bane. Grab my cell phone.

“Rooster!” I scream.

“Oh, is that the big, bearded man’s name?” He flashes a sinister smile that stings my guts. “He’s indisposed at the moment.”

What does that mean? Did he hurt Rooster?

Fear that somehow I contributed to the man I love getting hurt rips through my chest.

I’m backed into a corner. The door seems so far away. I reach for my phone, but the man shoves it off the sink. It flies in the air, landing on the floor, cracking my pretty mint green and flamingo print case.