Page 23 of Desired By Diesel
"Gracie." I pull back, grip her shoulders, force her to meet my eyes. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
She stares at me. Tears streaming down her face, terror in her eyes. But underneath it, I see something else. Steel.
"Yes."
"Good. Can you drive?"
She nods.
I call King the second we're through my front door.
"Diesel."
"I need backup. My place. Now."
King doesn't ask unnecessary questions. He's been president long enough to know when something's serious. "What's going on?"
"Woman I'm seeing — her ex just took their kid. Violated the custody order. I know where he lives. I need to go get her back, and I need bodies in case this gets complicated."
"On our way."
I hang up and turn to Gracie. She's standing in my living room, hugging herself, looking lost.
"Sit down," I tell her. "They'll be here soon."
"Who?"
"My brothers. The club."
She sinks onto the couch, but her eyes are on me. "You keep saying that. The club. Your brothers. I don't—" She shakes her head. "I don't understand any of this."
I crouch in front of her, take her hands. They're ice cold.
"I'm not just some guy who fixes bikes, Gracie. The Sons of Ruin — that's my club. My family. I should have told you before now, but?—"
"I don't care." Her voice is raw. "I don't care who you are or what you do. I just want my daughter back."
"And you're going to get her. That's what I'm telling you." I squeeze her hands. "When one of us has a problem, we all have a problem. And right now, your problem is our problem."
The first bike pulls up before she can respond. Then another. Then two more. Engines cutting out, boots on concrete, the sound of men who know how to move with purpose.
They file into my living room one by one.
Gracie presses closer to me. I don't blame her. These men look like exactly what they are — dangerous. Leather and ink and barely contained violence, filling up my small living room until it feels like there's no air left.
"This is Gracie," I tell them. "Her ex just violated a custody order and took her daughter. Amelia. Seven years old. I know where he lives — ran his plates weeks ago when I spotted him watching her house."
The room goes still.
There's a particular kind of silence that happens when men like these hear about a child being taken. It's not just anger. It's something colder. More deliberate.
"We're going to get her back," King says. It's not a question. Not a promise. Just a statement of fact.
"Address is in Phoenix," I say. "Hour and a half. Maybe less if we push it."
"Then let's stop talking and start riding." Rogue's already moving toward the door.
"I'm coming." Gracie's on her feet.
