Page 2 of Jett

I feel his eyes on me the whole way down the corridor. “Raine?”

I turn. “Yeah?”

“Tomorrow, grab yourself one of those fancy coffees you’ve been bringin’ me. We need to have a little chat.”

Ice floods my veins. Oh my God, he’s going to fire me.Shit. I can’t afford to lose this job.

“Are you unhappy with me? Did I do something wrong? I can work harder. I don’t have to leave right now. I can stay if you need me to work longer hours. Just tell me, and I’ll do better. I’m not—”

“Raine?”

“Yeah?” My shoulders deflate. Oh God, how? How could I have been so blind? I’m doing a terrible job of keeping this clubhouse.

“I’m not firing you. I wanna talk about a pay rise, and what’s expected of you. And what’s not.”

“I have no problem with hard work.”

“Raine.” He raises his voice. “Shut the fuck up. You’re the hardest-working woman I know. I’m not getting rid of you. I just want you to be happy here, so we’re gonna put some changes into effect.”

“Oh.” I exhale and hold my hand over my heart. “I thought for a minute there you were firing me.”

“And miss seein’ that pretty face, and that arse bent over my desk as you clean my shit? Not fucking likely, sweetheart.”

I blush. Heat creeps up my neck and over my cheeks. Jett’s eyes hood over, and I know he’s aware of it too. “Get yourself home before you get in trouble, Angel.”

“Going,” I mutter and turn around.Jesus, what is wrong with me? He’s a married man, and I get paid to clean his clubhouse.

“No more of those muffins tomorrow, okay? I’m getting fat.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Babe, I’m like a stray. You feed me, and you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Goodnight, Jett.”

“Night, darlin’.”

“I’ll bring you something savoury tomorrow.”

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he murmurs, and I float out of the clubhouse doors with a smile on my face.

***

ISTEP OFF THE BUSand brace myself against the cool autumnal breeze. It’s late, and the roads are practically deserted at this time of night. I lift the collar of my coat and smooth my thumb over the back of my phone. It’s little use against any would-be attackers, but at least I could dial triple zero in a hurry. I’m being paranoid. I just need to get my damn car out of the shop.

“Freaking extortionist mechanics.” My words are swallowed by the wind as I put my head down and hurry through the empty streets. The occasional car passes, and in the distance, the faint roar of a motorbike cuts through the silent night. Funny how I notice bikers and their rides since working at the clubhouse. I glance at the clouds overhead. With the reflection of the city lights and the blanket of cloud cover, it’s a starless sky. It has that eerie yellow glow, as if the earth is sick. I turn and scan the street behind me, but it’s empty. I quicken my pace to make sure it stays that way.

I’m a block from my apartment when footsteps echo behind me. I can’t make out whether the person is male or female, but they are short, stocky, decked out in black and moving at a clipped pace. I hurry forward, pushing my already exhausted body, palming my phone in my pocket as if it were a lifeline. I should have just grabbed my keys. They might not be able to do any real bodily harm, but they’d hurt like hell getting up close and personal with your eyeball.

The person behind me starts to jog—their shoes slap against the pavement as they move closer. Not runners then. I should cross the street. I should pull out my phone and dial triple zero, then grab my keys from my purse. But as I turn and stare at the heavily muscled physique hurtling toward me, I know I have no choice but to run.

I yank my hand from my pocket, and my phone falls to the ground, shattering on the concrete. I don’t have time to go back for it, because the man is getting closer. His face is clearer now. White-blond hair, a square jaw and eyes that are blacker than midnight, and just as fathomless. I turn, my arms pistons at my sides, my legs protesting every stride, and then my hair is yanked hard. I’m pulled back as his body slams into me, and we tumble to the ground. Concrete scrapes my face as he shoves a meaty hand against my skull, pushing me farther into the unyielding surface.

“Please. Please don’t hurt me,” I beg, but my words are barely audible. “Take my purse—I got paid yesterday. I have a few hundred dollars.”

“Shut up, bitch.” His voice is gruff and heavily accented. His weight pins me, one hand crushing my skull, the other unbuckling his belt.

“Please, please,” I sob. “Don’t do this.”

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