Stalk Her Page 4

  These fucking locks wouldn’t keep her safe, but I sure as hell would.

  Fuck, I had it bad for her.

  And then I’d gone back to my SUV and stayed there the rest of the night.

  I knew she’d figure out she wasn’t alone eventually, but depending on how fast she realized that would tell me exactly what kind of secret I was dealing with where she was concerned.

  It would tell me a lot until Shyne, the patch I’d dispatched to find out information on her, got back to me.

  And she noticed me pretty fucking fast.

  She was on the run. She was nervous she’d be found. That’s why she clocked me as fast as she did. That’s why she was brave enough to approach my SUV.

  She didn’t know the lengths I’d go to find out who she was, where she was from. Because I’d already deemed her mine. I already made the decision that I wouldn’t let her go. No matter what she was running from, no matter what she was hiding, Poppy was already mine.

  So I drove off, left her standing in the middle of the street on her way to work wondering who I was, what I was doing watching her. And when the time came, which would be sooner rather than later, I’d let Poppy know my intentions.

  I’d show them to her.

  Chapter Seven

  Butcher

  I pulled the SUV to a stop in front of the gates of the MC compound. Two prospects came to the gate, knowing it was me, and opened it immediately. I drove the vehicle up to the building, parked in the lot beside the MC, and cut the engine.

  For a minute, I just sat there, hearing the sound of bass coming from the garage off to the side, hearing the shouts of the men talking to each other. I needed to get with Shyne and see what he found. He hadn’t contacted me yet, so I assumed he had nothing, but I was too impatient.

  I needed to know what I was dealing with where she was concerned. I needed to know how to make things good for her so she didn’t feel like she had to run. That she didn’t have to hide.

  I needed her to know that with me she’d be safe. That I would protect her with my life.

  I climbed out of the vehicle and made my way toward the front of the club. The bay doors of the garage were open, but the structure was a good distance from the compound. I could make out a few of the guys, trucks being worked on, a couple of motorcycles parked outside. Heavy rock poured from the speakers, loud enough that I could hear the words.

  I shoved my hands in the front pockets of my jeans, walking forward. The front door opened and a club girl came out, her clothes in disarray and that “just fucked” look on her face. Her hair was a rat’s nest around her head, and her red lipstick was slightly smeared along her cheek. Her eyes were glossy, her gait unsteady. It was fucked up—drunk or high, hell, maybe both.

  One of the prospects followed her out, holding the door open so I could enter. I looked over my shoulder at him. He brought his hand down on the woman’s ass, the sound of his palm connecting with the cheek making a squeal of delight come from her.

  She looked over at the prospect and grinned, a little bit of that smeared lipstick on her front tooth. She was a hot mess, but she probably fucked that prospect like a thoroughbred horse who’d just won the race.

  And that’s what the girls who hung around at the club were good for—fucking the MC boys and helping them find that release and unwind. Typically, they didn’t want anything more than that, just to be associated with us, just to say they had a cock from The Devil’s Right Hand MC. But there had been a couple on occasion throughout the years who thought they could be more than just a piece of ass. They thought they could be an old lady, tied to one specific member of the club and essentially be their wife.

  But a lot of the guys in the MC had hard, long lives. Even with some of the young members, they’d seen a hell of a lot more than they should have. And because of that, they were skeptical, didn’t allow themselves to fall in love. They didn’t allow themselves to be with women for more than a night at a time.

  And me? I, on the other hand, hadn’t been with a woman in longer than I cared to even admit. With work, running the business, and keeping track of our legal and illegal dealings, my focus and priority had been on everything else aside from female companionship.

  Besides, I wasn’t a club whore kind of guy. I didn’t like that shit. Never had. Never would.

  But then I saw Poppy and something in me changed, like this light switch going on, like this room filling up with an iridescent glow shining on the darkness that had always been my life. I couldn’t even pinpoint what exactly it was about her that drew me in, but what I did know was it felt real. It felt right.

  And so my goal, my mission, was to make her mine, to watch her, find out about her. She worked damn near seven days a week, second shift until closing. She walked to and from that shitty bar job. She had no vehicle, not that I’d seen, and up until now, I realized she was a runner, afraid of something or someone.

  And I wanted to show her—prove to her—that whoever had hurt her, whoever had made her feel like she wasn’t safe, like she couldn’t have a home and be rooted, would feel my fucking wrath.

  That was a damn promise.

  I made my way to the back where I knew Shyne was.

  I could hear the low, steady bump of music coming from the back office, the door partially opened. I placed my hand on the smooth, cold wood and pushed it inward. Shyne sat behind the desk, the laptop open in front of him, his phone sitting beside him, the music coming out of it. He had his baseball cap on backward, scruff covering his jaw, his unearthly blue eyes focused on the screen.

  I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe and crossed my arms over my chest, just watching him, seeing him in his element. He was the clubhouse tech genius, our resident hacker.

  With a little bit a time and patience, Shyne could get into any system or database on the net. He was a fucking genius.

  “I found some shit on your girl,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair and looking up at me.

  I wasn’t surprised he’d known I was here, sensed me. All the members of the club had this sixth fucking sense. It was what made us dangerous.

  Well, one of the reasons.

  He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, taking it off for a minute and running his hand over his scalp, his short dark hair becoming messy before he put the cap back on.

  “Yeah? Whatchu got?”

  He cleared his throat and leaned forward, the leather chair creaking from the movement.

  “Well, she gave Richie a fake name and Social Security number.” He glanced up at me, but I gave no outward reaction.

  “I figured as much. But you found out who she is, I assume?”

  The look Shyne gave me was akin to “who do you think you’re fucking talking to?”

  I smirked, because there wasn’t anything he couldn’t find.

  He started tapping away on the keyboard, the light from the computer washing over his face, lighting it up. And then he turned the laptop around so I could see it.

  “I compiled everything I found—where she’s from, how old she is, right down to if she has a fucking library card.”

  I walked up to the desk and sat down in the chair in front of it, pulling the computer toward me and scanning the files he’d pulled up on her.

  Barely even legal.

  Last name and Social made up.

  And when I saw she originally came from a shitty little trailer park several hundred miles over, I wondered who she was running from.

  As if Shyne read my mind, he pulled the laptop back and started typing, presumably to pull up more information on her. He pushed the computer back toward me a few seconds later, and I looked at it, seeing the image of a man… his mug shot.

  Henry Baldwin.

  Forty-five years old.

  Convicted of arson, armed robbery, abduction, and sexual assault.

  I felt my nails digging into my palms, my anger rushing through me. “Who is this fucker?” He was obviously connected to Poppy, or
Shyne wouldn’t have brought the information up.

  “From what I gathered on him, a real lowlife, piece-of-shit motherfucker who has ties to some petty drug rings and local gangs in his area.”

  I looked up from the computer to stare at Shyne. “Anything we’d need backup for dealing with?”

  Shyne grinned slowly. “Fuck no, Butcher. Henry Boy and his connections aren’t anything you should be worried about.”

  I grunted and nodded once. “What’s his connection with her?” That motherfucker better pray one of those sexual convictions didn’t concern my girl.

  “Looks like he was fucking her mom and supplying dope to her.”

  I cleared my throat and tried not to let my rage bubble over.

  “I’m not sure what the rest of the connection is with the girl, but I can assume.”

  I ground my teeth.

  “She bought a bus ticket with cash, and the place she’s holed up in is dealing with her rent under the table, obviously cash only.”

  I scratched my jaw, thinking all this over.

  “She has a part-time job, not even one she’s had for a while. And she hasn’t gotten paid from Richie yet, so—”

  “She stole money from him,” I finished his thought and stared into Shyne’s eyes, and he nodded once.

  “That was my assumption too. But I can put some feelers out in her hometown and find out for sure.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. No need. Doesn’t fucking matter if this guy wants to be trouble. I’ll deal with it.”

  “We got your back, Prez.”

  I grunted in approval.

  I stared at the computer screen, knowing this asshole was going to be a problem. He wouldn’t give up, not with the knowledge he was used to getting what he wanted, that the circles he ran in probably called him boss. It didn’t matter, because I’d crush him. My fucking MC would destroy him.

  He clearly thought he had some kind of power or claim over Poppy.

  But what he didn’t know was I was one evil motherfucker when it came to being proprietary, and that possession was all for Poppy. If he wanted to go up against me, trying to take something from me that I wanted, deemed as mine, there would be one outcome.

  Him in the fucking ground.

  Chapter Eight

  Poppy

  “Thanks again for the help, Richie,” I said and lifted my hand to wave goodbye. I had a pocketful of decent tips, which made up for the fact that my feet were killing me, my lower back aching, and I had a tension headache.

  But it was nothing a hot bubble bath couldn’t cure.

  I closed the door behind me, all the drunks straggling behind from last call. One of them had his arm propped up on the wall as he threw up, and another one was all but having sex with a skanky-looking broad up against a truck.

  Just another night at the bar.

  I reached in my purse before I moved away from the bar, just double checking I still had my pistol. It had been my mother’s, one she kept under the bed, one she didn’t even keep loaded. Hell, she kept the box of bullets right beside it. Not like she would’ve known how to use the damn thing anyway, because she was wasted out of her mind every single night.

  Maybe I should’ve left it with her. Maybe she was the one who really needed it.

  None of that mattered anyway. She hadn’t given two shits about me when I lived with her, so I shouldn’t care about what was going on in her life now or if she was okay.

  Part of me wanted to check up on her, call her and see if she was all right. She was my mother, after all, even if the only thing she ever did that classified her as a mom was give birth to me.

  But it wasn’t like she’d be coherent enough to actually talk to me. She was out of her mind, high most days, sleeping her life away in that shitty little trailer we called home. The money she’d gotten from disability and government assistance checks helped pay for her nasty habit, inflamed it like gasoline to an open fire.

  Growing up, I’d have to scour for food and money, loose change between the torn and stained tweed couch cushions, praying I found a dollar to buy a hamburger from the fast food restaurant down the street.

  When I was old enough, I’d gotten a part-time job. That had helped pay for my food, and it was then, as I stared at my measly little check, that I knew my life was truly fucked up. Of course, I’d known already, but seeing what I’d earned, knowing I had to use it to eat, to buy clean underwear and socks, told me how shitty my mother really was.

  And it was depressing. It was life-sucking. It also made me stronger and turned me into the woman I was today.

  I felt the gun move across my fingers, the smooth, cold, and hard metal giving me relief, confidence.

  As I walked home, I let my mind focus, the cool breeze blowing over me, chillier than normal for this time of year. But I welcomed it. I was tired of the muggy, sweltering heat that lingered after the sun had set.

  The sound of my shoes hitting the pavement was what I focused on. I didn’t pay attention to the car horn honking, music blaring in the distance, or people talking behind me who lingered around the bar.

  I rounded the corner and continued to make my way toward the apartment complex. I still had my hand in my purse, my fingers wrapped around the grip of the gun, the feel of it in my palm giving me strength and calming me slightly.

  I’d been walking for about five minutes, halfway to my destination, when that prickling sensation started on the back of my neck and moved toward my limbs. I didn’t stop but slowed considerably, keeping my gaze ahead of me and scanning my surroundings.

  Maybe I should have increased my pace. Ran.

  But I didn’t want to be the prey who sensed the predator and tried to escape.

  I didn’t want to be that person in life.

  I knew the danger was behind me. Felt it lick over my skin.

  Over the past few days, I’d been feeling more on edge, and it didn’t help realizing I was being followed, that the dark SUV was at the forefront of my mind. That was why I was anxious.

  The thought that he found me, that I should run, hide... fight back.

  I made sure to scan my surroundings before leaving anywhere. But I thought they’d either given up or they were being stealthier, because I wasn’t seeing that SUV anymore. Of course, anymore meant the last couple days.

  And then I heard the vehicle behind me, slow and steady. I did stop then, ready to end this once and for all. Ready to confront the person who was making my life even more stressful.

  My anger overrode my fear, confusion, and worry. I tightened my hold on the gun even harder, took a step forward, and another one. The vehicle stopped, the headlights shining right on me.

  There was no one else around, the neighborhood I was in shady, shifty. No one would think twice if they heard me fire off a shot. And maybe that was best.

  And so I pulled that gun out and pointed it at the vehicle, my heart racing so hard and fast I could feel it in my throat, hear it in my ears.

  I swear I could feel it rushing through my body. The fight or flight instinct was riding me hard right now, survival mode telling me to just leave, to run. To hide.

  But I couldn’t run forever. I had to face my problems. I had to know who was following me, watching me, but I wasn’t going to surrender. I wasn’t going to submit. And so I took a step closer, and another, and another. And then I was almost to the driver side door, the windows so dark I couldn’t see anything. But I know whoever was sitting there watched me, was staring right at me.

  I felt their eyes on me, their intensity. I felt my fear down to the very marrow in my bones.

  And then the driver side window started to roll down and everything in me froze, tensed. I stopped breathing, and I swear my heart stopped beating. My hand was shaking as I moved back a step and then to the side, getting a better look inside the car. My heart jumped into my throat when I saw who sat in the seat, who watched me, shadows playing around his body, the light from the dashboard giving him an almost ominous app
earance.

  Butcher.

  Although I felt relief, felt myself actually start to lower my hand, I shook my head slowly but felt myself tense even more. I knew I should have feared him, but… I didn’t. I pointed that gun right at him, focused, and wiped the emotion off my face as best as I could. I narrowed my eyes, needing him to see I would not back down.

  “Do you even know how to use that thing, girl?” His voice was so deep and husky, sending vibrations through me.

  “Want to find out?” My voice was steady and calm... dripping with venom.

  He smirked. “You’re a fierce little thing, aren’t you?”

  I narrowed my eyes, refusing to let the pitch and tone of his voice do wicked things to my body.

  “Do you normally stalk women in the middle of the night?” My voice did shake then, but I couldn’t help it. That fear of the unknown mixed with my excitement at seeing Butcher.

  He was silent for long moments, and I wondered if he was thinking about his answer, trying to make up a story. And although I hadn’t known this man for very long, I knew, just knew he wasn’t the type to lie.

  He probably called things like they were, the cold, hard truth with no apologies or fucks given.

  “If it means protecting you, then yeah, I’ll stalk the fuck out of you, Poppy.”

  I felt my heart jump into my throat and found myself lowering the gun, even though I probably should’ve kept it pointed right at him. Even though he’d been following me, watching me, probably had dug up information on me.

  The gun was pressed to the side of my thigh now, my fingers still tightly wrapped around it. “Why are you following me?” Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut or turned around and kept moving, but I needed to know.

  I needed to know what I was up against.

  “Why don’t you get in the SUV and I’ll drive you the rest of the way home?”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Are you fucking serious?”