Page 72 of Undone

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hunting

THE AIR SMELLED OF DEW AND CURLING WOODSMOKE as I walked out into the gray fall day. How I left things with Luce didn’t sit right with me. I had an hour before we rode for Canada. I hopped on my ride and rode back down that same windy country lane I had the day before.

I frowned as the tires of my bike encountered rough, deep tracks left by a truck. These prints weren’t here yesterday. I revved the engine, going as fast as I could in the muddy tire marks until I reached her door.

“Luce!? Baby?”

She didn’t answer. But that was to be expected after what happened between us the day before. I pressed my face to the cold glass window and looked in.

“What in the fuck?”

Her place was barren; wiped clean.

Not a trace of her was left.

My roar of rage echoed across the trees, reverberating back. With one swift kick, I broke down the damn door.

I was wrong.

There was still a trace of her—the smell of it teased me. Honey, wildflowers, and paint still clung to the air. I breathed in deeply, shaking with rage. I knew I wouldn’t find any clues, but that didn’t stop me from looking.

I would find her.

No matter how far, or how long it took.

But I knew she must’ve had help. The only person capable of erasing someone this quickly and setting them up again, was closer to me than my own family.

With a snarl, I practically ripped the doors from their hinges as I barreled into Rog’s bar. “Where is she?”

He didn’t even look my way as he poured a pair of shots. My men shifted uneasily, unsure of what was coming. Half might back Rog—if it came down to a fistfight. The vein in my neck was popping. I was breathing hard… pissed AF that he had the audacity to sneak my girl right out from under me and under his wing.

“She ain’t yours.” Smoke practically came from me, I was so heated as I reached the polished wooden bar.

“Well, she sure as shit ain’t yours,” he shrugged, and gave me his back. It was an insult; plain and simple. He turned his back on me—the Prez—the man who is always to be treated with respect; not dissed like a bad hook-up.

“We can do this here or out back,” I challenged.

Conversations stopped short. Federico mouthed, “Oh fuck,” followed by a litany of Spanish curses.

“Let’s go boy,” Rog beckoned, after he had flipped open the spring door in the bar and walked out. Both my fists were balled and ready as I followed him out the backdoor and into the dirt lot behind it. He walked straight to the edge of the lot where once scorched earth was finally growing green again. Suddenly he turned, his index finger poking my chest. “You fucked up, boy.”

“Who you callin’ boy?”

“Just settle the fuck down. You’re losing your shit. A Prez can’t do that… you need to be straight or you can’t lead.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorted, after kicking a few rocks with the tip of his boot.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time, Rog. Where is she?”

He shrugged, “You and I both know I ain’t gonna tell ya’ and it’s for the best. She showed up at my door last night looking like she went three rounds with a rabid dog and by the looks of ya’, she did.”

I hung my head in shame. “Ah, fuck. FUCK!” I blasted, kicking the shit out of a tree stump.

“Feel better?” He taunted, raising an eye.

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