The sun is rising and I am on fucking edge. Torch’s texts have been spotty bits of bullshit here and there. Nothing like I need to hear in order to settle the unease churning in my gut.

I need to see her.

With a new phone, thanks to Jinks and his stockpile of electronics, I grab my shit and head out. “Mornin’, Grunt,” I say, spotting Jace leaning back against the side of the garage.

“Hey.” Dropping his cigarette to the ground, he crushes it with his boot. “You know, that bike’s a lost cause.”

“Could say the same about you, kid,” I taunt, fucking with him. “My girl went down. She’s not out.”

“We’ll see,” he shrugs. “Heard anything on Henley?”

“Headin’ down there now,” I reply, heading his way. “You comin’ or goin’?”

“Headin’ out for a bit.” Blowing out a breath, he shoves his hands into the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. “Need to head up the mountain and check on shit,” he says, and I know he really means he needs to make sure his old man hasn’t died in the middle of the night from alcohol poisoning. Jace may not refer to it as home anymore, but his conscience won’t let him write the bastard off completely. I can’t say I could do the same.

“Sonsabitches,” Huck grumbles staggering around the side of the building. “Goddamned ‘coons are in the trash again.” Patting down his pockets, he fishes out a lighter and a pack of firecrackers. “Today, they take the dumpster. Tomorrow, it’s the whole goddamn lot.”

“Take your drunk ass back inside.” Shaking my head, I yank the package from his fingers. “Last thing we need is the cops showin’ up here for your early fireworks display.”

“Crazy old bastard,” Jace laughs, shaking his head. “You don’t use firecrackers on trash pandas. Gotta use bottle rockets.”

“Listen up, Grunt.” Looking between the two of them, I narrow my eyes at Jace. “Don’t add to the shit show,” I warn. “If Stone calls me up and says you and the old man were shootin’ the lot up with Roman Candles or some shit, I’m puttin’ one up your ass.” Taking a step forward, I stare down at Jace and wink. “Lit.”

“Right.” Swallowing hard, he holds up his hands and takes a step back. “No fireworks. Got it.”

“Smart kid,” I tease, ruffling his hair, knowing it pisses him off. He may be a punk, still working for his patch, but Jace Kennedy has come a long way. A lot of that had to do with the little come to Jesus moment when Stone and some of the guys beat his ass when he nearly ran down some kids getting off the school bus.

My eyes shift to Huck. “Don’t give me that look,” he warns, matching my stare. “I’m not too old to put you on your ass.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Clapping him on the back, I head for the garage. “I’m pissin’ down both legs.”

Walking down to end of the building, I raise the garage door. Grabbing the keys off the hook, I head for my 1967 Pontiac Firebird Convertible. Not taking the time I usually do to admire the beautiful bitch’s black and red paint job, I take down the top and slide behind the wheel.

When I found this car, it was a goddamn worthless junker, left to rot at the back of the lot. Huck and Vic swore I’d never get the old She-Devil started, let alone road worthy. After throwing all my extra cash at her, and rebuilding her from the ground up, they ate their words when I burned off half the tread on my tires in front of the clubhouse. Took a lot of patience and work on my part, but Trent Morrison doesn’t run from a challenge.

I love this bad bitch almost as much as my Harley.

Starting her up, I rev the engine, giving it time to wake up before laying on the gas and letting her run.

There is something about the long stretches of winding road. It is impossible not to feel the power in each curve, or the way the wind feels at eighty-miles an hour. When I hit an open stretch of highway, and the roar of the engine silences the whole world around me, it feels like everything is right in the world. It takes away all distractions around me, giving me room to think. I live for this shit. In this life, those moments of silent reflection can be what makes or breaks a man. This is where I get myself right, where I find the voice in the wind that drives me. It also gives my mind time to process the shit thrown our way. And when needed, the ability to shut off and just enjoy the ride.

Something I count on, especially in times like this.

We all have our past bullshit, those inner demons we struggle with. Instead of letting them eat at me, I push through all that shit and use those bastards like fuel to get me off my ass and into action. Shit happens and we are forced to react. Most times it requires us to change. Every move we make has a way of affecting the path we are on. Both the good and the bad have equal footing in changing our direction in life. It’s how we turn it around that makes the real difference.

Without the club, my brothers, and long rides on winding stretches of road, I would have either been in prison or dead years ago. My mother having worked for the club, giving me men in my life like Huck, Vic and Doc, helped me find who I was meant to be. She had no idea what she was giving me. Hell, neither did I. But I’m grateful.

Pulling into the lot, I park in the empty space next to Henley’s SUV. Climbing out, my eyes drift to the spot where her battered body landed. The blood-stained concrete is now surrounded by police tape and a couple orange hazard cones. My chest seizes tightly at the memory of her unmoving and helpless. Women weren’t made to be broken by violence. Shit like that will fuck with your head. The venom it leaves behind is ugly, leaving you branded with that darkness for the rest of your life. If it’s left to fester, it rots you from the inside out.

I don’t want that for her.

Walking inside, I head for the elevators. At the front desk, an old woman sits chatting like a hyperactive parrot. Phone pinned between her ear and shoulder, she types away on her computer. “Of course, Sir. I’ll see to it personally. My name is Phyllis and I’m the director of patient relations.” She stops, clearly listening as the guy on the other end talks. “Absolutely, Mr. Hammon. Have a wonderful day and give my best to your father. Buh-bye.” Hanging up the phone, she looks up, her bright smile fading the moment her eyes land on me. She clears her throat. “Good morning, Sir. Welcome to Johnston Memorial Medical Center. How may I assist you?”

“Visiting.” I jab the button for the elevator, thankful as hell that Torch gave us the floor and room number when he talked to Stone. “Don’t trouble yourself, sweetheart, I know where I’m goin’.” The last thing I want is this nosy old bat telling me what to do. Or keeping me from Henley a minute longer than it takes for me to find her room because she is the Walmart greeter of the fucking hospital.

“Sir.” Clearing her throat, she pushes to her feet. “You’ll need to sign in before you—”

Her words are cut off by the ding of the elevator. Stepping inside, I press three. Nodding, I give her a wave as the doors start to close. “Have a wonderful day,” I say mocking her tone from her phone call. “Buh-bye.”

When the elevator doors open again, I spot the cop from last night talking to a woman at the nurse’s station. Shit. I should’ve expected he would be kicking over rocks around here to see what turns up.

Looking up, he doesn’t even bother ending the conversation before heading my way. “Mr. Morrison,” he mutters, puffing out his chest.

“Sheriff,” I grunt, with a jerk of my chin.

“Sheriff Levi Fowler,” he corrects me. “It’s been brought to my attention that you were a witness here last night to what happened to Henley Wolfe.”

“That so?”

“It is.” Blocking my path, he clears his throat. “What can you tell me about the accident?”

Accident. The word digs at me like nails on a chalkboard. “Now you wanna hear what I have to say?” I ask, invading his space.

“I don’t have time for bullshit.” Taking a step back, he glances at the closed door to the room I know Henley’s in. “The way I see it, you should’ve been locked up for that stunt you pulled last night. But yes, if it helps my investigation, I’m interested in what you have to say.”

“I think we both know,” I growl, glaring down at him. “If it were you callin’ the shots, you would’ve put two in my chest and watched me bleed out.”

He doesn’t respond, not that I need him to. I know how this shit works. He sees me as a threat, as the villain he needs to take out. Like I need something else to deal with.

“Yo!” Looking over, I see Torch standing in the partially opened doorway.

“That’s my cue.” Clapping Fowler on the shoulder, I pass him. “Gotta see about my girl.”

“Your girl?” Fowler says, whipping around. “Funny. Henley’s never mentioned you to me.”

“Pretty sure my sister ain’t swapin’ secrets with a badge,” Torch bites out, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. “Take a walk.”

“I won’t be leaving until I’ve spoken with Henley,” Fowler fires back, coming up behind me. “Be sure and let her know I’m waiting.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ll get right on that.”

When we step into the room, I have to bite back a growl when I see Henley lying in the bed. She looks so goddamn small. Fragile. Nothing like the fierce, wicked-tongued woman I know her to be.

There is a bandage on one side of her face, covering her temple and part of her cheek. Her arm is wrapped in gauze and secured in a black sling. She is wired up to monitors and has an I.V. coming out of her arm at the crook of her left elbow. Though, even with her face and body battered, she appears to be relaxed.

Seeing her like this fucking hurts.

“She been awake?” I ask, not taking my eyes from her.

“On and off,” Torch says, closing the door behind us. “From the looks of it, they’re keepin’ her pretty doped up.”

“On and off my ass,” she breathes, her eyelids fluttering. “How can I possibly sleep with you lurking over me like a heavy breathing creeper?” Her face turns my way, eyes fluttering open. Those stormy grays now glassy and bloodshot. “Hey, Colt.”

Torch’s eyes snap to me, but I can’t take mine off her. My worst fear was never hearing her say my name again. “Hey.” Coming to stand on the opposite side of the bed, I run the tips of my fingers over the large bruise forming on her jaw. “How ya feelin’, Hotness?”

She turns her face into my touch, her lips pulling into a small smile. “Get your eyes checked, Beefcake,” she whispers, her voice sounding small and weak.

“Nah,” I chuckle, relief continuing to swell in my chest. “Twenty-twenty here, darlin’.”

“You scared the hell outta all of us,” Torch informs her, coming around and squeezing her hand. “Thought you were checkin’ out early on me.”

“Don’t cash in the life insurance yet,” she mutters sleepily. “You’re not that lucky.”

“Smartass,” he grumbles, but doesn’t bother to hide the smile on his face.

“Overbearing, jughead asshole,” Henley snorts, blinking slowly.

“Careful,” Torch warns. “You’re in no shape to give anyone any shit.”

“Oh, Donovan, you’d be surprised how little effort it takes for me to be an asshole.” Torch and I both chuckle at her comment. “Did you call Roman?”

“Haven’t had time to reach out,” Torch tells her, not sounding very convincing. “I’ll get it done.”

“Mhm.” Licking her lips, Henley sighs. “Rebel too. She’s probably freaked I didn’t come home.”

“Let me handle that shit.” Giving her hand another quick squeeze, he releases her. “You rest.”

“Sure. Okay,” she breathes, turning her gaze to me. “Jesus, Colt. You look like shit.” Searching my eyes, her brows furrow. Concern and worry flashing across her face. She shifts in the bed, hissing out a breath. Wincing, she presses her unbandaged hand to her side. Leaning up in the bed some, she reaches for me. “What happened?”

“Blew out a tire on my bike,” I tell her, taking her hand. “Nothin’ for you to worry about, babe.”