By: Chantal Fernando

farther north. I actually enjoy the drive; it’s nice being away

from the city. Before it gets dark, I check into another sketchy

motel and all but collapse onto the bed. Driving at night isn’t

safe—there are animals that cross the roads. After a good

night’s rest, I spend the next day looking for a job—applying

anywhere and everywhere. I’m not fussy; I’ll do just about anything

right now. Beggars can’t be choosers. I’d never had to use

that saying before in my life, coming from a fairly wealthy family.

But just because my parents had money didn’t mean we

were happy. Far from it, actually. A quiet knock at the door

makes me groan. I’d just gotten comfortable. I force myself to

get up, expecting housekeeping. I open the door slightly, just

enough to see who it is through the chain lock.

My jaw drops, and panic instantly sets in.

Definitely not housekeeping.

Unless they decided to hire a hot-as-hell, angry biker.

“Open it, or I will,” he demands, his eyes blazing. I consider

my options for a few seconds before I slide open the lock. He

could just break down the door if he wanted to, so there really

is no point. I open it and take a few steps back as he enters.

Crystal-blue eyes narrow on me. A muscle ticks in his jaw

as his gaze rakes over me, checking to make sure I’m okay. He’s

wearing worn, ripped jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt that

accentuates his muscular build. He looks good; he always did


“Just in the neighborhood?” I ask, hope filling my voice.

“What the fuck, Faye?” he rasps, gripping the doorframe.

I take another step back. I don’t know what he’s capable of

right now. The old Dex would rather cut off his arm than hurt

me, but do I really know him now? I don’t even know how the

hell he found me.

Does he know? Of course he does.

Nothing gets by Dexter Black.

He bangs the door behind him, the noise making me flinch.

“Pack up your shit,” he demands, eyes searching the crappy

motel room, which is now looking considerably smaller with

his hulking presence. “We’re leaving.” He doesn’t look happy

with what he sees. In fact, his scowl deepens. He crosses his

arms over his broad chest and stares me down, waiting for me

to move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, putting my hands on my

hips and glaring at him. He’s not the boss of me. Yes, he’s a


sexy man with whom I had one night of hot, passionate

sex, but that doesn’t mean he gets to tell me what to do. I might

have liked him bossy in bed, but this right here is a different


He takes a deep breath, as if calming himself. “I’ve been

looking for you for two days. I’m trying not to lose my fuckin’

temper here, Faye, but you’re pushing me. I don’t think I’ve

ever been this patient in my fuckin’ life.”

This is him patient?

“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply, lifting my chin up. “And

you can’t make me.”

We stare at each other, the tension building.

I can actually feel the moment before he snaps.

His fists clench, and the tightness in his jaw looks almost


I step back into the frame of the open bathroom door as he

loses it.

He picks up the TV and throws it into the wall. The crashing

sound makes me jump, but he doesn’t stop there. He

punches the wall several times, then slides the few glasses off

the table in one smooth movement.

More crashing.

There goes my deposit.

He turns and points his finger right at me.

I gulp.

My eyes widen as he grabs my bag and starts packing anything

of mine he comes across. I walk up to him and try to grab

it away from him, but one deathly look has me retracting my


“Temper tantrum over?” I ask, trying to keep my voice


He looks down at my bare feet, then at all the glass scattered

on the carpet floor. “Don’t move.”

I do as I’m told as he brings me a pair of my shoes. I slide

them on and look up at him.

Why does he want me to go with him? What good can come

from it? What I need to do is move on with my life and settle

down somewhere quiet and safe. Somewhere without sex-ona-

stick bikers and their douche-lord cheating brothers. Somewhere

where my parents aren’t around, and I can be myself.

“I just want to be left alone, Dex,” I say, tears forming in my

eyes. I’m tired, so fucking tired. My life isn’t meant to be like

this, and I hate the fact that he’s seeing me this vulnerable.

I hate it.

I’m not this weak—not usually.

And he’s the last person I’d want to see me like this. He’s