At the Jefferson Street intersection, the man turned his head and spoke to Sydney. She only knew because his lips moved inside a bushy beard and she caught herself staring.

"What?" she shouted over the noise of his motorcycle.

"Where do you live?"

She slipped the pistol into her jacket pocket and pointed. "Let me off at the next intersection."

The light changed to green. She held on with both hands. The man looked down and then raised his gaze to the road. She hadn't thought of where the pistol had pointed when she'd grabbed the weapon.

She'd been alone on a seldom-used county road, and he'd been a jerk kicking her off her game. The way the other bikers fled, she suspected the man taking her home was probably the president the way the others listened to him. That was the only reason why she allowed him to take her back to the city.

If Victor would've given her the phone to use tonight, she never would've taken a ride with a stranger. Not that the stranger gave her much choice.

She only acted like she was going to get on the back of the motorcycle to get the gun. That plan had backfired, but at least he gave the pistol to her to hold. He obviously wasn't going to hurt her when she could kill him. The walk to Brikken Motorcycle Club property had worn her out, and she hadn't looked forward to walking the four and a half miles back. Victor really needed to see that punishing her by keeping the cell phone only hurt his business.

Next time, she'd demand the cell so she could call a cab or Uber.

He stopped near the curb. She slid off the motorcycle and jumped up on the sidewalk to face him. When he moved to get off the bike, she looked down and ran, making a snap decision. Knowing the area, she backtracked and cut through the alley.

The bag bounced against her back interrupting her stride, making her slower than normal. Straining to hear the noise of his motorcycle, she held her breath as she ran. On the back street, her lungs screamed for air, and she sucked in a breath. She cut through someone's front yard and ran up the next street, hoping the disadvantages of being on a motorcycle would slow the man down and she'd be able to get home without him finding out where she lived.

On Thirteenth and Palos Street, she slowed to a jog. Her calves burned from the exertion after already walking miles today.

The closer she got to home, the madder she became at Victor. Sure, the bikers shelled out bets easily enough, but it was more convenient for her to work the bars in Tacoma. As her boss, Victor should understand going outside the city limits put her at a disadvantage—like at a biker club.

Victor's older two-story house came into view. She slowed to a walk and looked behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. The dude on the motorcycle failed to catch up to her.

She opened the three-foot-high cast iron gate, walked the twenty feet to Victor's front door, and knocked. Glancing at the street, she rolled her eyes at the grumblings coming from inside the house.

Victor had already drunken himself into an inebriated state.

The door opened. A waft of alcohol hit her in the face, and she rocked back on the heels of her sneakers.

"How much?" Victor put his cigar in his mouth and held out his hand.

She shrugged off the duffle bag and handed the money she'd collected over to him. "Two thousand. It's their second-time betting with me."

The first time, every gambler made a guaranteed profit to hook them. Smaller amounts meant to make them more confident to bet more. The second time, more money was needed to play, and they always lost. The third time, they'd hand over money in desperation to make up what they'd lost, and their profits would only be enough to entice them the next time.

Gambling was an addiction. It was easy to con people who enjoyed a good bet to play.

Victor unzipped the duffle and dug inside for the pouch where she kept the money. She pulled the edges of her jacket together. Every night, the same thing happened. Victor would go through her bag and make sure she hadn't kept any money for herself. After working for him for six months, she figured he'd trust her by now.

Victor was the brother-in-law of the woman who was Sydney's foster mom a year ago. But, it wasn't until she was looking for a job that she ran into him and he gave her an offer she couldn't turn down.

There were only two ways to go. Struggle with her situation or accept the inevitable and find a way to survive. Never one who curled up and called it quits, she took the offer and became good at conning people.

She wasn't out to screw Victor over. He gave her a roof over her head and a way to make Sunday visitation with her sister, Kiley. The Mathew's were strict foster parents. If she missed her scheduled visit, they could keep her from visiting her sister.

The whole reason she ran away was that the Mathew's agreed to take Kylie in. Not her. Only her sister. Social services planned to keep them together and send them back to the Jones', a home that wasn't emotionally or physically good for Kylie.

She ran away so Kylie could go to the Mathew's with a plan to somehow find a way to keep in contact with her sister. Her answer to the problem was to con the Mathew's into believing she was Kylie's older, adult sister with a job, a home, and a life away from Kylie. And, as long as she kept her visits to their house private and never brought attention from their neighbors to remind them that Kylie was a foster and not a birth child of theirs, they allowed her in the backyard to visit her sister every Sunday.

Kylie, while not happy to be away from Sydney, thrived with a family that gave her many advantages she wouldn't have received somewhere else. That's all that mattered to her. She wanted the best for her sister.

Victor threw the duffle bag at her. She stumbled and pulled her hands out of her pockets, picking up the bag from the porch.

"You'll go back to the club Monday night. Reel them in." Victor slammed the door in her face.

She flinched. At least he wasn't going to push her to work tomorrow on visitation day.

Stepping off the porch, she walked to the side of the house and followed the worn dirt path through the grass to the backyard. She reached into her pocket to grab her key and came into contact with the cold metal of the pistol.

Groaning, she pulled out the gun and held it away from her. She never meant to take his pistol. All she wanted to do was get away from him to stay safe.

He was older, which meant he'd be slower than her. She clicked her tongue. No wonder he was coming after her. She'd stolen his weapon.

She stopped in front of the twelve-foot travel trailer and put the gun in her other hand to dig her key out of her pocket. It took her several attempts to unlock the bent door that stuck shut even when it wasn't locked.

Inside the old, rundown trailer, she put the weapon on the couch and felt along the ceiling for the light, sliding the switch on. Able to see the contents of her place, she sat on the couch, slouching into the worn cushions. The place was barely habitable.

She'd moved in during the spring and froze half the time. Now that it was summer, the trailer was no better than a tin can full of stuffy air. She never opened the windows because Victor had a habit of coming out into the backyard at all times and he had no respect for a closed door. He'd probably poke his big head right through the window if she aired the place out.

She pulled her feet up on the couch and leaned over, grabbing her pillow. All she wanted to do was sleep. Tomorrow, she'd manage to wash her body from the sink and use the garden house in Victor's backyard to wash her hair. She closed her eyes. Her living conditions didn't matter to her.

Kylie was safe, comfy, and happy. As long as she was clean, presentable, and followed the Mathew's rules, she'd get to see Kylie.

Her body relaxed, and sleep hovered at the edge of her consciousness when banging rocked the trailer. She groaned. What did Victor want now?

Sometimes, he was a real asshole. Especially, when he'd spent all evening drinking—which was most nights.

She heaved herself off the couch and unlocked the door. Pushing against the aluminum frame, she couldn't get the door open. Victor thought he was giving her a deal by letting her live in the trailer for free, but it'd be nice if she could come and go without working up a sweat.

More banging echoed in the small space. She threw her shoulder against the door. Pain ricocheted from her elbow down to her wrist.

"Just a second. I'm trying," she snapped. "Can you pull from the other side. The door is stuck. Again."

She held the handle and pushed with her other hand. Frustrated and tired, she kicked the bottom corner, and the door flung open.

The light in the trailer shined into the biker's face who'd given her a ride home. Panic spurred her into action, and she reached out to grab the door.

He wrapped his broad hand around her wrist stopping her. "I need my pistol back."

"Let me go, and I'll get it." Taller than him when in the trailer, she'd feel better if he backed away and she could close the door first. He could have the stupid gun. She didn't want it anyway.

He released her hand. She eyed him, waiting for him to force his way inside and when he remained outside, she shuffled two feet away and quickly grabbed the pistol. Pointing it at him, she waved the barrel. "Step back."

His mouth tightened making a scar on his cheek turn white. His dark eyes almost disappeared under his glare. He refused to move. "Just hand me the gun."

Was this guy afraid of nothing?

Indecisive whether to give it back, for the simple reason that he'd be armed and she'd be the one at his mercy, she looked over his shoulder into the dark yard. If she could throw it over his head, he'd have to move to get the weapon, and she'd have time to shut and lock the door. She swallowed hard, forgetting that idea. He filled the whole doorway.

"Either shoot me or give me the pistol. I don't have all night." He held out his hand.

With no other choice than to hand him the gun, she held it out. "I was going to give it back on Monday."

"Right." He popped the insides out of the handle of the pistol, checked the bullets, and shoved it back in with a click.

Confused about how the gun worked, she studied how he slid a small switch on the side. Even if she had a chance to shoot him when she held the gun, she wouldn't know how. She also wouldn't do anything to ruin her chance of seeing Kylie tomorrow.

He looked at her and slid the pistol behind him bringing his empty hands forward. Caught up in watching the almost mechanical movements, she forgot all about shutting the door until he stepped inside the trailer, forcing her backward until her legs bumped into the couch and she toppled over and fell to the cushions.

"You live here?" He gazed around the small space.

He could stretch his thick arms and touch each end of the trailer. She scrambled to her feet, still feeling small next to him.

"I didn't invite you in." She pointed, almost touching his arm.

"You've got two-thousand dollars that belong to Brikken members. I want the money." He opened the micro-fridge, frowned, and then opened the freezer that was no bigger than a shoebox. "What the hell?"

He pulled out a bag of frozen snap peas. "You don't have food."

"I do, too." Insulted, she scooted sideways until the edge of the cabinet under the sink pressed into her thigh. "I like sugar snap peas."

He closed the freezer and looked at the couch behind her. "You sleep there?"

His long, wavy hair hung past his shoulders, and his beard covered whatever his T-shirt said under his vest. She lowered her gaze. For such a hairy man, he hardly had any hair on his tattooed arms.

"I asked you a question. Do you sleep in here?"

She folded her arms in front of her. "Have you never went camping?"

He grunted, opening the cabinet above the couch. She leaned to the side, afraid he'd touch her.

If she could get him out of the trailer, he'd forget about asking for the money. Victor would never allow her to give it back. Though, she couldn't swear on that because none of her hits ever found out where she lived. She'd always made sure no one followed her home.

"If you'll leave, I'd like to close the door before the mosquitos fly in toward the light." She scooted closer to the opening, planning to run.

He grabbed her upper arm. "Where's the money?"

"I don't have it." She tugged, but he wouldn't let her go. "Please. I'll bring it Monday. There's nothing I can do tonight or tomorrow. I don't keep the money on me. I've already handed everything over to my boss."

His gaze narrowed. "That was your boss at the front door when you arrived?"

"No." She shook her head, more afraid of Victor kicking her out and not letting her work for him than if the biker hurt her. She was one step away from losing visitation rights with Kylie if she ended up on the streets again.

He blurred in front of her. She blinked rapidly, desperately fighting the tears but after struggling to maintain a life by herself every sleepless night, every dangerous situation, every heartache she'd suffered, she couldn't do it any longer.

How could people expect her to carry on like nothing was wrong when struggling to keep a roof over her head and snap peas in the freezer seemed like too much work?

"What the...?" Hands landed on her shoulders.

Human contact only expounded the heavy load. She gasped on a sob, caving in on herself. Her forehead hit his chest. The pathetic noise coming from her mouth humiliated her. Her life had never been rich with a kind touch.

"Hey, hey, now." The man held the back of her head with his hand. "Stop the tears."

The authority in his voice weakened her legs, and her head slid down his chest before he grabbed her and stood her firmly on her feet. The jolt left her gasping.

"Stop." He shook her.

She hiccupped, staring at his broad chest. Desperation exhausted her. Her talents for gaming the system came from years of seeing through people's agendas. Playing another player developed into a game where finally she experienced the high that she associated with the feelings she denied herself.

A generic equivalent for love.

The man—God, she didn't even know his name— captured her head in his rough hands and tilted her face. She inhaled roughly, squaring her shoulders. Though it made no difference in her size. He still overwhelmed her.

"Tears don't sway me." His deep voice deepened. "Wash your face. You've got makeup smeared all over yourself."

He let her go. Shocked over how much it hurt to be criticized, she turned, grabbed a towel, and wet the cloth from the water jug on the counter. Using the time to clean herself, she hid the way her body shook.

She couldn't give him the money back, and she understood that he'd make her pay. Gambling was a dangerous occupation. She'd known that from the beginning.

Her luck had finally run out.

There were worse things than dying. She only wished she could see Kylie one more time and tell her how sorry she was for failing her.