Page 10 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

He takes his coffee and a plate with eggs and toast on it to the living room and sits down on the floor, the same place he sat last night.

I can tell he does this often because the carpet is packed down where his butt is.

With the placement of the furniture and the architecture of the room, he’s tucked back where no one would notice.

That corner doesn’t get sunlight, and the old incandescent overhead lighting sucks, so it’s dark enough to conceal him.

This has to be intentional, which makes me wonder what’s happened in his life to make him want to hide.

No, Parker. The man kidnapped you. That means you shouldn’t care about him.

My intention of going to get my own coffee is halted when I see the way he shares his meal with the two rodents.

They wait patiently for him to hand them bits and pieces, and I have to admit, seeing their tiny little hands wrap around a piece of bread is kind of cute.

Then the white one with red eyes looks at me, and all endearing thoughts die away. What creepy pets to have.

The peeling linoleum floor bites into the bottom of my bare feet in the kitchen.

Note to self: wear your flip-flops in the house.

I don’t have to question where the mugs live in this house because the door on the cabinet is hanging by a single hinge.

Matter of fact, most of the cupboards are broken.

The mug I chose has a picture of a skull with what I think are ram horns coming out of it.

For some reason, it also has fangs. Underneath that, it reads, “Sons of Erebus.”

I look from the mug to the man on the floor. I’ve heard of that motorcycle club. Oh, god. He’s a member, isn’t he? It would be my luck to get abducted by a biker gang.

Since I’m actively trying to fool myself into thinking I don’t want to know any personal details about Riot, I don’t ask for confirmation.

After pouring the coffee, I notice a plate that matches the one he made for himself.

Fluffy scrambled eggs sit next to buttered toast. Is this for me?

Can I trust him not to drug me? I think the odds are low since he hasn’t done it yet.

My growling stomach decides we don’t care enough to starve.

With no dining table or even stools to sit at the bar on the half-wall, I’m forced to go back into the living room and sit on the couch.

I tuck into the meal, separating bites with healthy gulps of coffee.

The eggs are perfect, and the toast is made just how I like it, drowning in butter.

I won’t tell him any of that, though. He doesn’t deserve my praise.

I’m finishing up when I glance over at the corner and meet the dead eyes of my captor.

His arms are resting on his spread knees, his plate is next to him, and his pets have gone back to playing.

What’s he thinking when he looks at me like this?

His expression is unreadable, and his body language gives nothing away.

His mouth opens to say something, but when nothing comes out, he clamps it shut.

Last night, he said he’d fill me in on some big secret my father was supposedly harboring.

I’m ready to hear whatever lies he’ll tell so I can rebuke them, but if I’m honest with myself, there’s a small part of me that always felt like I was missing something with Grandpa and Dad, like they had a private club I wasn’t part of.

That’s stupid, though, right? If it were true, I would’ve known. A feeling isn’t a fact.

“We should talk,” he says.

“You’re releasing me?”

His lip curls. “Fuck no.”

“Then there’s nothing to talk about.”

“The hell there isn’t. My friends who stopped by last night said your face is all over the news. Search parties and multiple agencies are looking for you.”

A bubble of hope expands inside my belly. “Really?”

“That’s not something to be happy about.”

“Definitely not for you since you committed like a thousand felonies yesterday and will probably be in prison for the rest of your life.” His rats tire of wrestling, and he watches as they run into their enclosure.

“That’s not why it’s bad people know you’re missing. I don’t leave evidence behind. They can’t pin me with anything.”

“Then why?”

“Because if everyone knows you were abducted during that attack, Bart Banks knows you saw everything.”

“Mr. Banks? He’s a family friend. Why would that be bad?”

His head tilts as he studies me. “You really don’t know shit, do you?”

“All this cryptic back and forth is messing with my head. If you have something to say, just say it.”

“Bart Banks traffics humans.”

I laugh because I’ve known the man for as long as I can remember, and he’s nothing but thoughtful and kind.

Sometimes, he’d join us for family dinners, and I know he was part of this old guy’s club Dad and Grandpa were in.

Once a month or so, they got together for poker and whiskey, maybe a cigar or two.

It was the only time Dad left me alone at night.

“That’s ridiculous.”

His brow quirks. “Is it?”

I don’t want to give it more thought, but the question flitters through my mind anyway.

I think back to our interactions, trying to remember anything off.

I guess if we’re going to nitpick, when I was thirteen, I noticed he started to look at me differently.

It creeped me out so badly, I told Dad, but he said I was growing into a woman and could expect to gain the notice of men.

I thought it was a gross response, but technically, he was right.

My boobs came in that year, and I got way too much attention from men of all ages.

But that’s not enough to convict him; being a pervy old man doesn’t make him a trafficker. My mind digs deeper and gets stuck on another memory, one I’ve tried to make sense of more than a few times.

“Each time I saw Bart, he told the same joke, but I never understood it. Dad and Grandpa would laugh, but I could tell it was forced. Actually, it was more than that. It clearly made them uncomfortable. It was around the same time Dad stopped making me attend any family dinner Bart came to,” I say, more to myself than him.

“What was the joke?”

I glance over at him and find his jaw set in a firm line, his brows pinched together. He looks angry as he rocks from side to side, waiting for my answer. I debate telling him because he’s practically vibrating with rage. Will he take it out on me?

Something tells me no.

“He’d say, ‘Maybe Parker should join us for one of our poker nights. She’d make a great addition.’ It made no sense. Whenever I asked about it, Dad just blew me off, saying it’s funny to think about his little girl with a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other.”

I never thought too much about it because it seemed plausible. But what does that have to do with trafficking?