Shooter’s low growl made her jump.
“I hope you aren’t horrified when this is said and done. As far as I’m concerned this prick just declared war.”
“He’s crazy, Shooter. I don’t put anything past him.” She shuddered, thinking of the rages she’d seen him launch into when things didn’t go his way.
“Then he’s me
t his match. He’s fucking with the Lords and one pissed-off Marine.”
His words soothed her. Shooter didn’t say things he didn’t mean or couldn’t do. Blinding light flooded her rearview and she gasped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s got their lights on behind me.” She moved into the other lane, and the car followed. “Oh god. I think it’s Peter.”
“Where are you?”
The steady tenor forced her addled brain to focus. A quick glance to her left provided her with a viable answer.
“Between Wilshire exit and Monroe.”
“Get off on Monroe, go to the Express gas station right off the road. I’ll meet you there, park right by the door and no matter what, do not get out of the car.”
She gripped the wheel tight to keep her car straight as her body shook. Memories of his forced participation and oppressive control assailed her. Sucking air in through her nose and letting it out of her mouth, she managed to make it to the next exit and pull into the gas station.
Parking directly in front of the door, she breathed a sigh of relief when the car sped past her. She rested her head against the center of the steering wheel. This time she would not be a victim. He’d exploited her weaknesses and damn near broken her. She hadn’t spent all that time putting herself back together only to shatter on impact. This time she wasn’t alone or isolated. There were people to help her. Empowered and enraged, she sat up straight. He didn’t have the right to make her feel that way. She’d taken that back in therapy. Life had taught her she couldn’t dictate the chaos unfolding around her, but she could control her response to it.
He should be afraid. Her doctor had everything documented. If anything happened he wouldn’t get away with it. The thought of his tan skin, brilliant, sky-blue eyes, fine aristocratic features and perfect white smile made her bare her teeth.
It was time she took her pound of flesh. The last step to recovery had begun, she was taking her life back. Peter wouldn’t be allowed to come in and stunt her progress. Alert, she took in her surroundings. The car behind her had ensured she couldn’t get a glance at it, but she was positive it’d be a luxury vehicle of some sort—the Stants didn’t do mediocre. His drolly spoken, “Kitten,” played in her head.
God, I dodged a bullet getting out when I did. She would have been bullied, battered, taunted and paraded. Her mother had fawned over him, oohed and ahhed over his impeccable manners and prestigious background. Caught up in the fact that this beautiful male had taken an interest in her, she hadn’t seen the warning signs when they had begun to pop up.
Like any abusive relationship, it had started off good, too good, looking back on things. Of course, that was how they got you. The thought of him trailing her all the time turned her blood cold.
How could I not have noticed? Has he been in the house? He had enough money to buy anything he wanted, so she didn’t put shit past him. You didn’t tell him no. She began a mental checklist of all the things she’d need to change. Motion sensor lights, new locks, an alarm. The roar of motorcycles had never sounded so sweet. Craning her neck, she searched the crew of ten for Shooter.
He pulled up beside her car with his game face on and her heart soared. Unlocking the car, she stepped out and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He smelled like leather, sandalwood and him. Pressing her face in his neck, she breathed deep.
“You okay, baby?”
“I am now.”
“Did he approach you?”
“No, he drove by. But I know it was him.”
“I want you to lock up your car and come back with me. One of the prospects will drive your car back.”
Too tired to haggle, she nodded. “Let me just grab my purse.”
Settled on the back of his bike, pressed against his broad back, she held him tight and realized Shooter had become her second home.
* * * * *
Fury didn’t even begin to cover how he felt about Peter Stant. The thought of him watching Juliette’s every move made him see red. He squeezed the handlebars of the bike to dissipate the energy built up inside him. The fuck liked picking on those weaker than him. Shooter needed to pay him a visit and see how he enjoyed being treated like someone’s bitch.
The cool air in his face did nothing to take down his rocketed core temperature. He wanted to go to Peter’s house, kick down the door, drag him out and beat the message to stay away into him. But he had to handle this with finesse. Peter had money and power. He needed to make sure he caught him alone, away from cameras and witnesses. He’d told Moose what was up before he’d left and that he’d contacted Tiny. Specs was working on pulling up everything there was on file about him.