Nikki held tightly onto the lean, tall man sitting in front of her, feeling nothing but muscle and sinew. Who were these guys? What were they going to do with her? Despite her fear, the desperation to find her sister rose harder within her. The Jokers . . . she had been afraid of them. Very afraid. She didn’t speak much Spanish but hadn’t needed a translator to get an idea of what was on their minds. The way they’d looked at her, the sounds they made, the rocking of their hips as they showed her their tongues had said it all. Had her sister felt the same fears . . . no, was her sister still feeling the same fears?

She couldn’t help it, she couldn’t get the whirl of desperate thoughts out of her mind. She and Stacey were incredibly close. Not to the point where they could feel each other’s physical pain, but emotional pain, that was something different. When Stacey was upset, so too was Nikki, and vice versa. When Stacey struggled with anxiety, relationship troubles, or worries about money, so too did Nikki. Sometimes, the emotional connection between the two of them was almost exhausting. Was that the price you paid for being compassionate and empathetic with others?

Nikki found it hard to believe that something bad had happened to her sister over a chop shop. Chop shops were all over the place in the Southwest. Had Roger gotten into something deeper? Had Stacey seen or heard something that she shouldn’t have? Something that might expose Roger or the Jokers or whoever the hell ran the shop? What had Stacey seen or heard that would put her in such danger? Then again, what wouldn’t?

So Nikki had deliberately put herself in harm’s way, making it obvious to whomever might be watching that her curiosity and determination to find her sister wasn’t going to go away. Since her sister’s disappearance, she had shown up at Roger’s auto shop twice. He’d stopped her at the front door both times, and the last time, Nikki had blatantly asked him if he’d had something to do with her sister’s disappearance. Had he hurt Stacey? What had he done to her?

The man had grown angry and belligerent. “Go to the cops,” he’d ordered. “Leave me alone. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Nikki didn’t believe him for a minute. Not for a single second. He knew. She felt it. Of course, the cops wouldn’t put much stock in her feelings . . . they needed evidence, and evidence she did not have, just her suspicions. She’d been terrified, but had waited impatiently for something to happen, and it had. She had—

The bike jolted over a dip in the road and her ass lifted about three inches off the seat behind the Steel King riding as if he and the bike were one. She felt the gentle turn of his hips as he rounded a curve, the muscles in his back working the handlebars, the shift of hard thigh muscles as he shifted gears with his foot. She clutched at the man’s waist and pressed her forehead into his back and held on for dear life. She’d never ridden on a motorcycle before.

The ground sped past with dizzying speed, terrifying her that she’d fall off. The dirt and then asphalt blurred faster as he accelerated. The wind tugged at her hair, her clothes, filling her with terror. If she fell off now, she’d be roadkill. The guy’s ab muscles tightened against her grip, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of odd security. He wouldn’t let her fall. How did she know? She just felt it. A grunt issued from her throat. That’s all she had lately. Feelings. Nothing concrete to base them on, and yet she sensed that he wasn’t going to hurt her. She had good intuition, but at the same time, she didn’t know this guy from Adam. Once he got back to wherever he was taking her, he and his bike riding buddies could do whatever they wanted. They could treat her even worse than the Jokers had.

The Jokers. She’d had no idea that they would act so quickly. She’d barely gotten back to her apartment after that last visit with Roger. Barely gotten in the house and tossed her keys into the small dish on the side table in the tiny, linoleum-floored foyer before the door burst open behind her. She hadn’t even had a chance to turn around before a blow to the back of her head had made everything go black. When she’d woken, bound, a bunch of gang bangers staring at her, abject terror had surged through her, a word that itself wasn’t even enough to describe her primal fear. She had fought against hyperventilation, heard only the sound of her heart beat pounding in her ears, her head spinning with lightheadedness, trying to fight off the urge to vomit.

They’d said nothing to her, but the look in their eyes needed no words, no translations. She wanted to demand answers. Where was her sister? Where had they taken her? Was Stacey even still alive? She’d said nothing but clamped her jaw tightly, cursing herself for her stupidity, her naivety. These might not even be the same gang members who had taken her sister. And, as the police had calmly reminded her the last time she’d spoken to them, she didn’t have any actual evidence that her sister had even been kidnapped.

She was so damn foolish. And now look at what happened. Another gang or club as her so-called captor emphasized, also obviously had grudges against the Jokers, but were they good guys or even worse guys? Steel Kings. She had never heard of them before. Where did they come from? As a matter of fact, where was she?

She remembered being in a truck, covered by a tarp, the smell of pot wafting into her nostrils, calming her in spite of her efforts not to breathe it in. She didn’t want calm. She wanted anger and frustration. She even welcomed her fear because it kept her senses sharp and alert.

The sound of the motorcycle rumbling in her ears, the vibration of the engine beneath her, the rock-hard musculature of the man in front of her took up her entire world of senses right now. What would happen to her? No, she wasn’t going to let this be her last moments. No matter what, she would escape these guys, and she would find her sister. She had to!

Nikki would do anything for her sister. She had to keep searching before the most awful of thoughts became true. Whoever had taken Stacey wasn’t planning anything good. At the worst, she could already be dead. Second worst—and something that she really didn’t want to contemplate—her sister might be sold as a sex slave. To disappear forever into an underground visited by the worst of the worst. Sequestered in a house somewhere, or maybe taken to a ship bound for some international destination.

Worst-case scenarios flooded her thoughts, prompting a catch in her throat, warm tears to fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks, only to be swept away by the wind and the speed of the motorcycle upon what she rode. Perhaps taking her farther from her sister, destroying any hope she might have of finding her again.

Stacey! Stay alive, I’m looking for you!

The thought brought her little comfort. Who would be looking for her? Blinking through her tears, the headlights of the motorcycle barely catching the tail lights of the other members of the club as they sped down the narrow asphalt highway, Nikki tried to swallow her fear. As long as she was on the motorcycle, he couldn’t do anything to her. As long as she was on the motorcycle . . .

At that moment, the bike slowed and he swerved. Despite her alarm, she remembered to lean into the turn with him, aligning her body perfectly with that of the guy in front of her. He pulled into a turnoff and then stopped in front of a small, cinderblock structure. A restroom, a rest stop, but it was empty and deserted. No other cars in sight. He pulled the bike to a stop, turned off the engine, and climbed off.

“You have to pee?”

Did she have to . . . yes, she did! She nodded, then slowly climbed off the bike, alarmed when her legs barely wanted to hold her upright. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, and every muscle in her body felt stiff. She glanced toward the small structure, two brown doors interrupting the gray structure, two dim light bulbs in metal cages shining over each, attracting moths, flies, gnats, mosquitoes, whatever other creatures buzzed around the night . . . 

“Where am I?” she asked abruptly. He eyed her for several moments with a frown.

“Where do you think you are?”

Without thinking, she snapped back a reply. “How the hell should I know? The last thing I knew, I was in Albuquerque. Now would you mind telling me where the hell I am?” A lifted eyebrow was his only reaction, and she instantly regretted her outburst. She shouldn’t be smart mouthing anybody, not in her situation. He offered a small shrug.

“Just west of downtown Oklahoma City—”

“Oklahoma City!” she gasped. Terror swelled upward, and once again the overly familiar surge of nausea roiled in her stomach as a cold chill raced down her spine. Stacey! She fought back the tears and bit her lip to hide their trembling. The Jokers had taken her through New Mexico and Texas and into Oklahoma? Were they taking her where they had taken her sister or somewhere else? Where was Stacey? Arizona, Southern California, Mexico, or was she already on a ship bound for God knew where?

“No, no, I can’t be in Oklahoma! I—”

“You have to pee?”

The question was asked patiently, but the man’s stance was anything but patient. He glanced from her down the road where the other motorcycles had disappeared and then back to her.

“What’s your name?”

The frown deepened. “Look, lady, you have to pee or not? If you don’t, we’ll hit the road. It’s not a good idea to be out here alone—”

She barely quelled a snort. Seriously? He was telling her where it was safe or not? She opened her mouth to argue, then decided that that argument could wait. She had to empty her bladder, desperately. With a huff, she quickly turned from him and hobbled toward the bathroom door, yanked it open with an accompanying loud squeak, and entered, listening as the heavy door thudded shut loudly behind her.

Two stalls, both of them with broken doors, but at this point she didn’t care. She walked into one of the stalls, already reaching to unbutton her pants, her nose wrinkling in disgust and a gag rising in her throat at the sight of what remained in the toilet. Maybe the water wasn’t working, but she didn’t care. She held her breath, avoided looking into the toilet, and quickly yanked down her pants, squatted over the toilet seat—no way in hell was she going to sit on that—and peed like a racehorse. A minute later, after finding the last few scraps of toilet paper, she shook her head and yanked up her panties and jeans and left the stall.

She glanced once at the rusty sink in which lay a used syringe, and then, again grimacing in disgust, simply wiped her hands on her pants and reached for the door, wanting to get the hell away from there. Discouragement weighed heavily on her shoulders as she left the bathroom. The guy was still there, half-leaning against his bike, legs crossed casually at his ankles.

She didn’t know what got into her, but she wanted to run, to get away, to run from everything. Back to Albuquerque, back to Stacey, back to the calm life that she’d lived only a week ago. A surge of panic consumed her and without thinking, she turned and bolted into the darkness, knowing even as she took her first steps that she would never escape. She had to try anyway. Forcing her stiff, battered body forward, she ran into the darkness. Behind her, she heard a curse and then footsteps racing after her, catching up, closer, and then she was falling, tackled around the waist, plummeting toward the ground. She landed hard, the air knocked from her lungs, her heart pounding so hard by all rights it should have exploded then and there.

The man straddled her and flopped her roughly over onto her back, his body spread out on top of hers, his hands holding hers to the ground, his face mere inches hers, staring down at her, jaw clenched, lips pressed together in annoyance, his stare locked with hers.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her chest heaved, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips nestled against his own, his legs straddling hers. To her horror, she felt his arousal against her groin. He ground his hips into her groin one time, and then his lips dipped toward hers. No! No! She would bite his tongue off! She would—his lips touched hers, a feathery caress, not at all what she expected. Nikki was so surprised that she froze, her mind tried to understand as his warm lips brushed against hers, almost soothing, almost . . . for a second, and a brief second it was, she relaxed in his grip, surrendered, but then reality came back to her in a rush. A sound escaped her throat, and she pulled away, the sensation of the gentle pressure of his lips against hers permanently implanted in her memory banks.

Without a word, he scrambled off her, lifted her up from the ground, and grabbed her hand. He held that hand like a lover would, but he was no lover. He was her captor, and he wasn’t letting her go. A myriad of emotions raged through her. Shock, dismay, the sexual attraction that she couldn’t deny. Shame on her! Exhaustion suddenly flooded through her, along with despair and fear, not only for herself, but for her sister.

They reached the motorcycle and without a word, he climbed on, then waited for her to climb on behind him. She gazed once into the darkness surrounding them, broken by nothing . . . no street lights, no structures, no nothing, just the blackness of the Oklahoma plains. Oklahoma. She was hundreds if not a thousand miles from her sister.

Nikki choked back a sob, placed her hands on the guy’s shoulders, and then climbed onto the bike behind him. She had no fight left, at least not for the moment. She wrapped her hands around his waist, interlocked her fingers around it, then found the foot pedals where she rested her feet. Once again, he throttled the bike and then shot forward, heading ever deeper into the darkness. Deeper into despair and anguish. Deeper, perhaps, into the end.