I'm fuming. What the hell did he expect me to think? I'd rather have it spelled out than worry about whose bed I'm sleeping in each night or, better yet, who I'm blowing at the bar. I've spent my life facing threats and not hiding. Asshole.

I'm on the bike again and I'm holding on for dear life. He's pissed off and flying like the wind back to the clubhouse. I keep my eyes closed as he takes the sharp curves through the hills without slowing. The hot, dry air hits my face and ...