"Not him," Allison said.

"Does he need to be here?" Chris asked. He was getting to the nitty gritty and he didn't trust the biker standing beside this girl. What if he was one of them?

"I'm going nowhere until she's safe." Jake nodded in Allison's direction.

"He's fine," she said in a huff. As if she needed protection. Didn't he know that by now?

"Okay." Chris looked resigned. What could he say? "If you have information on how to find the child, I'll do whatever you need."

"Chris, the child was taken. I'm not sure the reason. A group of bikers was paid for the kidnapping." Allison twiddled with her thumbs. "Apparently, they decided that having him afforded them protection should they need it. So they kept him."

"Really? So he's a biker?" Chris asked, fascinated with the story.

"He thinks so." Allison rolled her eyes again.

Jake wanted to argue, but stayed quiet instead.

"He's a good guy. From what I could tell." Allison sounded hesitant to say much.

Jake was watching the conversation and trying to figure it all out. Why did this man care so much?

"And where is he, Ali?" Chris looked at her as though he could barely wait.

"Chris, this is Jake. Brighton. Or I guess you could say Charles. This is your son." She waved towards Jake and stepped back.

What the f.u.c.k? Jake couldn't catch his breath. This man was his father? This very rich and powerful man was his father? She had left that part out of the story.

Chris looked at the biker differently. This was his son. The one that'd been taken years ago. Should he hug him? Shake his hand? Offer him better clothes?

Jake had known he was kidnapped. That he was raised by someone else. That the Dixon Crew had lied to him and made him believe his parents died. He didn't know that Chris Charles was his father.

Allison watched the two stare at each other. She was happy, but she wasn't. She wanted Jake to want to be with her. Why? She was so d.a.m.ned independent. She didn't need a man. It was best to take off before this got worse for her.

"Well, you two have a lot of catching up to do. I need to go." She turned to leave. "Jake can tell you the danger I face. You make sure I don't face it. We're all good."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Allison took off, watching all around her for any sign of Dixon's boys. She didn't see any. Maybe that was because she had tears in her eyes. Stupid f.u.c.king tears. She didn't need this.

"Wait!" Jake called out. He couldn't just let her leave without a goodbye.

Allison heard his voice and stopped cold in her tracks. She was afraid to turn around. She tried to clear her eyes, but she was certain she failed.

He chased her to the spot she stood. "Don't go." He surprised himself. He wasn't expecting that. Just a goodbye.

She wasn't expecting it either. It took her by surprise, and she wanted to run. That was the best thing. Run away.

"What?"

"Stay. With me. Stay here. I need you. I want you. I... Please stay."

Could she do that? Give it up? Stay by his side. Allison didn't know what to say. She never expected that. She smiled.

"I'll stay." She hesitated. "For now. Not forever. But you p.i.s.s me off, biker boy, and I'm out."

"Deal."

"And I get to decide how this-" she waved her arm between the two of them, "-goes. And no lip service about my work."

"Deal."

"No strings. Understand?"

Jake grinned at her. "Completely."

"Okay then. I suggest that since you are rich, you get to buy dinner."

Jake took her hand and began to walk off, but she pulled hers away. "I can walk by myself, thank you very much."

THE END.

Ride to Freedom.

Sophia Hampton.

When you are told your Miranda rights-which is unfortunate because it means you're going to be arrested-they say: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

I am one of those provided attorneys.

My mother thinks my career choice is a terrible one. She thinks it provides little income and that helping the dregs of society is a waste of tax money. But, I don't see criminals when I talk to my clients. I see a man who spent his life being abused by foster parents or a woman who needed to steal groceries for her hungry children. I see the possibility of innocence hidden under the heavy weight of judgment.

My latest case involves a woman who tried to steal TV dinners for her three kids by hiding them in her coat. It could have worked, if it wasn't July.

I look over her police statement with a gla.s.s of merlot in my hand. I wish people listened more to their Miranda rights and used their right to remain silent. It would make my job as their public defender so much easier. I see this woman as a mother more than a thief, but I need to convince a jury of that conception. The problem is that people tend to be unforgiving, especially when it comes to impoverished strangers.

The wind slams against my house and I hear something crash outside. It could be a tree branch or my trash can rolling into the road. I set down my gla.s.s and rush to the door. When I open it, I see the rain has begun to pour down.

I step outside and I'm immediately soaked. My garbage can is still upright, shielded by the house. I circle around my home and see that there are no tree branches down. I open the sliding gla.s.s door in the back of my house and I step in. I wring out my auburn hair and peel my wet shirt away from my skin. It clings back onto my body, hugging every curve.

I walk into my bathroom and look in the mirror. In an attempt to try to fix my hair, I search for a hairband in the drawer underneath my sink. After moving my brushes and combs out of the way, I find one. I glance back at the mirror and see a man staring back at me.

I spin around to face him. He's tall and almost too broad to fit in the doorway. His hair is pitch black, cropped short, and dripping wet. His gray irises cut through me like a blade. As lightning strikes and fills the house with light, his muscular build becomes more apparent and menacing.

"Tobey," I scowl. "How did you get in here?"

He grins, leaning against the door frame. "Your front door. How could you work with criminals and not know the distracting noise trick to break into houses?"

"I suppose the same way I dated you and didn't know you were full of s.h.i.t," I say. He raises an eyebrow, my vulgar language foreign to him. "I haven't seen you in almost a decade. How do you know what I've been doing?"

"I've kept tabs," he says. "You've defended a few of my friends, too."

"I'm sure I have," I say. "I suppose that means you're still hanging around with your biker gang? You still f.u.c.k people over for your own benefit?"

"d.a.m.n, Grace," he says. "You've acquired a mouth in the last few years. Do you kiss your b.i.t.c.h of a mother with those lips?"

"No," I say. "I kissed you. Obviously, your lips were tainted with something offensive."

A flicker of regret pa.s.ses over his face, but he blinks and his c.o.c.ky expression returns. "I've heard you're quite good at your job," he says.

"I do my best," I say.

"Have you ever had to defend a person accused of murder?" he asks.

"A few. Why?"

"What were their verdicts?" he asks and I swallow hard.

"One received a lesser sentence of manslaughter," I say. "The other two were found guilty. It's a hard charge to fight. The jury doesn't want to risk letting a murderer walk free. Why? Are you a.s.sociating with murderers now?"

He shakes his head. "Did you hear about the murder and robbery at Alston's Gun Shop? Tim Alston was shot six times in the chest and several guns were stolen," he says.

I only nod in response. The news had covered it for the last couple of days because the robbery meant that there could be violent men with unregistered guns.

Tobey continues, "Well, I knew Tim. He may have sold me some guns under the table. The night he was murdered, I went to see him about getting an M9. He was paranoid because a cop had come in earlier that day asking questions about his sales. He refused to sell me the M9 or and told me he wouldn't sell me anything else ever again. I may have gotten loud, grabbed and shoved him-"

"Tobey," I interrupt him. "Did you kill the gun shop owner?"

He grits his teeth. "No. I can't believe you would ask me that. You know me."

I bite my lip, but I know what he says is true. Tobey is selfish and self-absorbed, but not a sociopath. "I'm sorry," I finally say. "I do know you. You used to tell me that there were three things you would never do..."

"Murder, rape, or hurt children," he finishes. "I may have threatened to kill Tim a few times, but it was all simply to remind him that there are more frightening things than the police. I wouldn't murder my gun dealer."

"And the police suspect you?" I ask.

"Yes. There's a BOLO out on me right now. Apparently, whoever did kill Tim wore the exact same hoodie that I wore when I attacked him. The murderer is about the same height as me, too. Someone is trying to frame me, Grace. I just know it."

There is a tilt of truth in his voice, but I've known Tobey since he was sixteen. He's a thief, he a.s.saults people, and he has a tendency to lie to get himself out of trouble. How trustful can I be without being naive?

"Or at least that's what I'm telling you," he says, reading the suspicion in my face. "Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it," I say, thinking that doubt is so much heavier than trust and faith is lighter than air.

I pour some merlot into a wine gla.s.s and hand it to Tobey. He drapes his leather jacket over the back of a chair and sits down at my dining room table. It's so strange to see him in a domestic setting. I had thought of him often since we broke up during graduation, but I always imagined him either on his Harley-Davidson or roaming around the streets at night. I never pictured him contained in a house or hunted by the police.

"So, do you know who would want to kill Alston?" I ask.

"No," Tobey says. "He sold to anybody and everybody, so maybe he p.i.s.sed another gang member off."

"Do you know who would want to frame you?" I ask, sitting next to him.

"You do remember the kind of person I am, right?" he asks. "If I haven't p.i.s.sed off three people before I wake up, then I am doing a p.i.s.s poor job at my life."

"What about angry ex-girlfriends?" I ask. "I remember you had a lot of crazy women following you around."

He smirks and asks, "Would that make you jealous?"

I took a sip of merlot, pretending to consider his question, before I respond, "Which part? The part where the police are trying to track you down or the part where you had to beg your ex-girlfriend to save your a.s.s?"

His smile disappears, as he says, "You were always more to me than an ex-girlfriend, Grace." Then, he takes my hand, but I pull it away.

"Was there anything valuable in the gun shop? Other than the guns? Something worth killing for?" I ask.

"I don't think so. Tim was a secretive guy though. I'm sure he had a few things hidden in there." He takes a gulp of his wine and then attempts to change the subject, asking, "So...what about you? Have you been dating anyone? Some rich, holier-than-thou lawyer?"

"No. Not that it's any of your business. I've been concentrating on my clients for the past few years and I don't want any distractions in my life."

"You can't say our relationship was a distraction," he says and I shake my head.

"No, I can't," I say. "But talking about the past never helped anybody, especially when somebody is accused of murder. Plus, we have no leads as to who killed Alston."

"Well, let's go find some leads," he says, standing up.

"What?" I ask, getting on my feet. "Where?"

"The gun shop," he says, causing me to gape at him.

"The police are still investigating the gun shop. n.o.body is allowed in there."

"Don't you remember how many places I broke into in high school? And...I've only gotten better with time."

"No, Tobey," I say. "We are not breaking into an active crime scene."

I fold my arms across my chest, as he takes a step toward me. He kisses me and I taste a little bit of merlot as his tongue touches mine. I push him away, but it's a second too late and he grins.

"You've only gotten better with time, too," he says, as he saunters toward the door. I scowl and grab my raincoat, thinking that I shouldn't have cared if my trash can rolled into the road. My own life is about to become a collision course.