“Don’t go looking for trouble,” I whisper.

He gives me that wicked smirk of his. I knew from the very beginning that smirk was going to be the ruin of me. “Always,” he says. “But you know how it is, Sloane. Trouble does seem to have a way of finding me.”

The heat of New Mexico is something I've read about but never really experienced first hand. I leave the car parked on the side of the road as I was told to, and I set off down a long stretch of dust track that stretches out into the distance. No trees. No shade. Only the road and the sun overhead, and my already parched mouth.

According to Rebel, the walk is only a short one, but I get the feeling the bastard may have been lying. He seems to do that a lot if he thinks it means he will get his own way. It strikes me suddenly that I'm actually wrong. Rebel doesn't lie to get his own way. He lies to me to get Lexi's way. It would appear my sister has her man well and truly under her thumb.

Some people might say the same about Zeth and me, though. Zeth, the man who never lies, has lied for me. He will do anything he can to help me or keep me safe. The past few months have shown me that.

It's been a month since I went back to work at St. Peters. A whole month since Charlie and Lacey died. A month since Zeth bought out O'Shannessey's Irish Boxing Club for Boys and turned it into something else—something of his own. The transition from gang enforcer to business owner seems to have been an easy one for my man. It helps, I think, that his new business involves hitting people all day long, except now they're paying him for the pleasure.

I never got to see Lexi when she was in Seattle. After Lacey, the world just seemed too full and complicated.  I couldn't handle facing her. Not just yet.  But now, after a month of work and continual days and nights of being doted on by Zeth, I woke up three days ago and decided it was time. So I got in the car and I drove. I left Zeth, Michael and Ernie behind, and I set out on my own, for the first time not worrying about cartels or English mob bosses who might be out to kill me, and I felt like I could breathe.

I took my time in getting here, following the directions Rebel sent me, but now that I'm here, staring down the barrel of the long road toward the life my sister chose for herself, I'm gripped by an uncertainty. I know Alexis has no clue I'm on my way. Rebel wanted to keep it quiet—in case I changed my mind and never showed, no doubt—and now I'm glad of it. Her ignorance of my arrival means I get to decide if this is what I really want. Do I want my sister back? Do I want to hear her side of the story? A story that seems as complicated and dangerous as my own. The answer to that question is a paradox. Yes, I do want to hear what kept her from letting her family know she was alive. Yes, I want to know why, for two years, she's been living with a biker gang that is apparently still involved in underground crime. And, yes, I want to know why she fell in love with and married a man like Rebel.

However, on the other hand, I don't want to know. I've been so mad at her for so long that knowing her story feels frightening. It might mean I will have to let go of all the frustration and feelings of betrayal, and I honestly don't know how that will leave me. Sad? Hollow? A little lost, perhaps?

Because if all this isn't Lexi's fault, then it's nothing more than terrible, terrible luck and a shitty hand life dealt out, and that's outside my control. I don't like things being outside my control.

I stare down the dirt road, gripping hold of the shoulder straps of my backpack, wondering which option is better: living a life in which my sister abandoned and betrayed me, or one where awful, terrible things happen, and there is nothing I can do about them.

I’m being a coward.

I begin to walk.

Rebel’s idea of a short journey is laughable. I’m sweating and completely out of water by the time I see a building on the horizon. I get that worrying sensation at the back of my mind, like the low complex of buildings aren’t even really there. The hazy, wavy heat lines coming off the desert floor give the impression they could easily be a mirage.

But as I keep walking, I see they are, in fact, very real. The odd glancing ray of brilliant light of sunshine reflecting from chrome eventually tells me I’m in the right place. The dark brown, grey and black blocks on the horizon become different buildings, and eventually a high fence comes into view as well, topped off with razor wire.

The place looks like a prison.

Is this where Alexis has been living all this time? In some weird compound out in the middle of fucking nowhere, surrounded by desert hills and burnt, red rock? This is a far cry from the rain and wind and civility of Seattle. No Starbucks. No fast food chains. No restaurants or cafes. No nothing.

I have about eight blisters on my feet by the time I see a lone figure approaching from the other end of the road. I know it’s a guy from the loping gait and the swing of his shoulders, though I can’t tell who it is until I’m much closer.

Cade. It’s Cade Preston.

What I’d taken as a swaggering pace a couple of moments ago is actually a pronounced limp, as he makes his way toward me. I never saw Cade after Julio took him, but Michael painted a very vivid picture of the injuries he’d sustained. Zeth had been to visit the guy, them being friends and all, and said he was pretty messed up. That was weeks and weeks ago now, though. If he is still struggling to get around, then he must have been really bad. Really, really bad.

“What’s up, Doc?” he says in greeting as soon as he’s within earshot. He’s grinning at me with that broad smile of his, a light dancing in his eyes, though I can see the pain that’s also residing there.