I’d have to send Buck a postcard from the road and thank him for that too.

I put the phone on its base, walked to the door, did the spy thing just like Mrs. Jimenez did, and then rushed one door over to my apartment.

I turned the knob, walked in and saw Mrs. Jimenez tied to my crappy chair, duct tape over her mouth.

Then I saw nothing more because a fist connected with my face so hard, it knocked me right to the floor.

Or at least I assumed it did.

I didn’t know.

Because before I hit the floor, I was knocked right out.

4

Venom

They slowed the car, but didn’t stop, when he reached across me, threw open the door and shoved me out.

I hit the pavement on a roll and the pain made me miss just having a hangover.

I stopped rolling when I hit the curb, and I settled, breathing heavy, waiting, automatically categorizing what hurt the most.

Right now, it was my hip, which was what hit the pavement.

And my hip hurt bad.

I heard running feet. Fast, heavy footfalls. Whoever was running was wearing something like boots.

I opened my eyes and pushed up on a hand.

I might need to flee. I didn’t know how I’d do that. I’d lost both shoes and there were a variety of places on my body that were burning and there were a variety of other places on my body that were stinging.

But if I had to run, I would.

I shoved up farther to sitting and saw jeans-clad legs in front of me, feet in black motorcycle boots. I looked up to see Driver, the young biker bartender, standing over me.

“Jesus, shit,” he muttered, his eyes locked to my face.

I could just imagine what it looked like.

That said, I didn’t want to imagine what it looked like.

But I could.

He crouched down beside me at the same time he pulled a phone out of his back pocket.

I scooted away from him.

“You’re okay, darlin’,” he muttered as he scooted in his hunker right along with me.

I looked up to the apartments, whispering, “My neighbor, Mrs. Jimenez.”

“She’s good,” he said, and I saw he had the phone to his ear. When he spoke next, he spoke into it. “Buck, Driver. She’s home, brother, but beat to shit. You want me to take her to Lefty?” He paused as my heart skidded on the word “Buck” and then he went on, “Right. I’m on it.”

He touched his phone and shoved it back in his pocket.

“You think you could hold on to me on the back of my bike?”

“Mrs. Jimenez,” I repeated.

“We found her in your apartment, babe. She told us what went down. Buck called her boy who came to get her. They tied her up but didn’t hurt her. She’s shaken up, but like I said, she’s good. Now, do you think you can hold on to me on the back of my bike?”

I closed my eyes.

Mrs. Jimenez.

On this thought, visions of her tied to a chair with duct tape on her mouth flooded my head so I opened my eyes again.

“I need to go get cleaned up,” I told him, trying to push up to my feet. His hands went to my armpits and he straightened, hauling me carefully up with him.

Fire shot through my ribcage and I winced.

“Fuck,” he muttered, releasing my armpits, but both his hands slid lightly to my waist.

“I need to go get cleaned up,” I repeated.

“Girl, you need to see a doctor.”

I shook my head, and that hurt too, so I stopped doing it.

“I don’t have any insurance.”

“That’s okay, Aces does.”

I blinked up at him.

That hurt too.

“Aces does?” I asked.

“Babe,” he said impatiently. “Can you hold on to me on the back of my bike?”

“I—”

“You can,” he decided for me, grabbed my hand and pulled me to his bike.

That hurt too.

The door to the exam room opened and Driver walked in.

I focused on him.

“Lefty” I found was actually Dr. Lefkowitz and he wasn’t a lefty.

Dr. Lefkowitz wore a lab coat, he had a stethoscope and gentle hands, but he also had long, thick, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, a beard which needed a trim, and I saw a hint of a tattoo on his neck.

So, I decided, Dr. Lefkowitz was either a member of the Club or a supporter.

He’d also examined me, gave me an ice pack for my face, cleaned me up, X-rayed my head and chest and gave me some pain pills.

Now, I was semi-reclining on an exam table wearing a hospital gown and covered with a thin blanket, and my torn, bloody clothes had disappeared since coming back from the X-ray area.

“Can I have my clothes back?” I asked Driver as he walked to me.

“How’re you feelin’?” Driver asked back as a reply.

“Like I’d like my clothes.”

Driver smiled then stated, “Let’s see what Lefty has to say. He’s lookin’ at your pictures now.”

I turned my head away.

As I did, I thought for perhaps the seven thousandth time that I needed to call Tia, as in really needed to call her.

Because I obviously wasn’t going to make our rendezvous and I wasn’t going to do it because her husband just beat the heck out of me and was so angry that I’d spent the night with West “Buck” Hardy at the Aces High Dive (this, apparently, how everyone referred to their clubhouse), it could be described as being on a rampage.

And Tia needed to know when Enrique Esposito was on a rampage.

I looked back at Driver and asked, “Can I use your phone?”

He started to answer when the door opened.

His eyes went to it and so did mine.

At what I saw, I pulled in a deep breath that, incidentally, hurt.

Buck stood there wearing a tight, black T-shirt, faded blue jeans and black motorcycle boots.

He was also wearing a scowl.

Lastly, I realized that his ex-wife Kristy had it right.

Yesterday, I did not meet a man who I thought could strike in anger.

But the man standing in the doorway staring at me now definitely could.

Hard.

To the point he shouldn’t be called Buck.

He should be called Striker.

He walked to me while I watched, and braced (which also kind of hurt), and Dr. Lefkowitz followed him.

“West, I—”

“Quiet,” he whispered in a way that I closed my mouth.

Oh dear.

Yes.

I totally saw it.

Restrained.

Coiled to strike.

Restrained or not, his fury still held immense heat to the point I figured his fangs didn’t shoot poison.

They shot fire.

“The good news, Ms. Delaney, is that, miraculously, you’ve got no fractures,” Dr. Lefkowitz spoke.

Since I was Ms. Delaney, I tore my eyes from Buck to look at Dr. Lefkowitz who’d come to stand where Driver was on the opposite side of the exam table. I also saw that Driver had stepped back.

“Ribs are just bruised, no breaks and no facial fractures,” he carried on. “The bad news is that you’re gonna hurt like a mother for a while, and that swelling in your face means no beauty pageants in your near future.”

He smiled down at me in a kind albeit badass way.