Page 83 of The Belle and the Biker

"Anything I can do?"

"No, you've been more than great about this. Thank you."

He walks out, and I collapse on the sofa. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket and make a phone call. Burning all my bridges, I might as well nuke one more. Or it might go well. Who knows.

Axl answers with a growl.

"Are you okay?" I ask him. Axl's problem had been his PTSD—and his refusal to talk to anyone about it. He's had nightmares nonstop since the ambush that killed half his platoon, and he just tried to stuff everything down inside.

His drinking had gotten to the point where he was having blackouts. When he finally tried to stop, his DTs were so bad he collapsed in the street and was taken to the ER. He had to spend a week getting medically detoxed. Now, from what I'd heard, he's back at the club but only working in the club's garage. He's staying away from the bar. The sergeant at arms told me that Axl goes to meetings several times a day, but nobody besides him, and I know that.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Have you talked to Tawny?" Please, please, please… I'm sure they're together.

"No, I think I blew it with her for good. Best thing that ever happened to me. I'm an idiot."

"Join the club."

"Wait, why are you asking about Tawny?" he demands. "What's going on down there?"

I fill him in on what's happening, and I spare no details about how badly I fucked up. Yeah, Astrid called me several times, and I should have told Savannah about everything that was going on with my father's side of the family. She never gave me any reason to doubt her, and all my insecurities were projected onto her like a disaster movie playing in an endless loop.

"Fucking hell, man. You don't know where either of them are, and we still haven't identified the shooter?"

"That about sums it up." Acid worry chews at my gut, and it makes me speak boldly. "Listen, Axl. We both fucked up. When I talked to Tawny yesterday, she was only worried about if you were all right. She wanted to please you so badly that she asked Savannah to do a full Southern Belle makeover because she thought you'd like her better."

"Why the hell would she think that?" His astonishment comes right through the phone.

"Because you made her think that you didn't like her the way she was. Because you were too chickenshit to give her a chance to tell her what was going on."

"You, of all people, have the fucking nerve to say that to me? You?" he shouts.

"Fucking right. Because you still have time to fix things with Tawny, but I don't know how much longer she's going to hang around waiting for you to find your balls, so quit being such a pussy and call her."

"You better come to New York and say that to my face, motherfucker." My phone practically melts from the heat of his rage.

"The minute I resolve this thing with Savannah, I'll take you up on that."

"You fucking asshole. You're out of the club." And he hangs up the phone.

Yep. That went about as well as I could have expected.

Once upon a time, that would have been a death blow to me. And maybe it will feel like that soon. But right now, all I can think about is that Savannah is out there, God knows where, and she doesn't know how to hide or lie low. Her big, sunny personality is larger than life, and somehow she always manages to be the center of attention. That's fine most of the time, but not when a psycho is gunning for her. And yeah, Tawny is with her, and she's a badass bitch who's armed, but she's not a magic bulletproof shield.

I make a few more calls to people in Bitter End, and I try the Bitter End Boutique and talk to her friend Harper, and then I call her cousin Naomi at her hair salon, and for the hell of it, I call Sheriff Buckley and then the mayor.

I tell every single one of them the same thing. "If you see Savannah, tell her I screwed up. Tell her I love her, and I'm sorry."

Is it embarrassing and excruciatingly humiliating? Fuck yeah. But if it has the slightest chance of working, it was worth it.

Finally, I make my way to Sparky's and find Roxy working behind the bar and Tank working the door. When I ask her for a drink, she shakes her head.

"Nope," she says. "You're cut off until you find your old lady. You need a clear head."

"You're right," I say glumly.

I sit down, and Tank joins me. "Look, son. Giving up's not an option. Drinking yourself into a coma isn't an option. Also, that's like giving up. So what's the plan? You were in the military. Run a fucking mission. Do something."

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