Page 18 of Unhinged

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ARROW

The shitty apartment gave us nothing. No sign of her, no leads. I’m starting to feel like I’m chasing ghosts. There’s no solid trace, just fragments. She’s playing a game with us. Like she’s always ten steps ahead, pulling strings while we’re stumbling through the mess she’s left behind.

I shake my head, frustration boiling up inside me. Every lead so far’s been a fucking dead end.

The only thing worth noting was a homeless guy in the alley.

His words were incoherent, but I could catch fragments—“Mine,” and “Don’t touch it.

” His eyes were wild, darting around like he could see something no one else could.

The way he gripped his jacket, like he was clutching something dear to him, it made my skin crawl.

He was no help. Hell, the dude barely knew what day it was.

But there was something off about his ranting.

“MINE,” over and over, like he was trying to stake a claim on something that didn’t belong to him.

I push off my bike, walking toward the clubhouse.

Brydgett’s GTO is parked out front, right where my sister left it after she dumped our omega off somewhere.

Dillon’s been tight-lipped about where they went, and I know my sister well enough to know she’s not going to spill.

She did, however, have no problem telling us that Brydgett gave her the GTO before she left, and Dillon brought it back here.

At least that means we’ve got a chance to go through it, see if there’s anything useful inside.

I start with the glovebox — nothing but an old gas receipt, a crumpled napkin, and a half-used pack of gum.

The center console’s no better — a few hair ties, a dead pen, and a faded grocery list scribbled on the back of a business card.

I check the floorboards, under the seats, even pop the trunk.

Still nothing — except a tube of half-melted lip gloss, a goldfish cracker wrapper, and one tiny, scuffed-up tennis shoe that I know damn well belongs to Judge.

My frustration builds, clawing at my ribs. Feels like I’m chasing smoke — like Brydgett’s always just out of reach.

Grimacing, I shove my hand down between the seams of the backseat, more out of stubbornness than hope — and that’s when I feel it. Something crinkled, wedged deep in the crease. I fish it out, and sure enough, it’s a crumpled receipt.

A storage unit.

My pulse kicks up a notch. Now we’re getting somewhere.

I take the receipt and head straight for the storage facility. It’s a small, rundown place on the edge of town, nothing that screams security or top-notch service. I march up to the manager’s office, where a greasy guy in a stained shirt is sitting.

“Hey, I need to see one of your units. The one listed on this receipt,” I say, tossing the paper onto the counter.

The manager barely looks up, running his finger along the edge of his coffee cup like I’m some kind of inconvenience.

Alpha, technically, but the kind that makes you wonder if the designation was a clerical error.

Pathetic posture, weak scent, not an ounce of presence. No wonder he works a desk

He glances at the receipt, then shakes his head. “Can’t help you, pal. You’re not authorized.”

I let out a slow, controlled breath, my jaw tightening as I lean in closer. "I’m not asking, I’m telling you. I need to see it. Now."

The manager smirks, his lips curling into a lazy grin. "Yeah, well, I don’t care what you tell me. The answer’s still no.”

I don’t have time for this shit. I take a step back, eyes narrowing as I ball my fist. Stepping around the counter to close the distance between us, I throw a punch, landing it square in his gut.

He doubles over with a gasp, but I don’t give him a chance to recover.

Grabbing him by the collar, I slam him back against the counter, growling through clenched teeth.

“Now, do you want me to make this worse? Or are you going to give me the unit number?”

His eyes widen in panic, and he coughs, trying to suck air back into his lungs. "Fuck you," he manages, but I’m already pulling my fist back for round two.

I land the second punch, and he grunts, a little more winded this time. His eyes dart around, clearly trying to figure out how to get out of this. Finally, he slumps back against the counter, his face pale.

“Alright, alright!” he yells. “Unit 12B. That’s all I’m telling you.”

I lean in, my face inches from his. “I need the key. Now.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I raise my fist, and he freezes. He knows exactly what’ll happen if he doesn’t move fast. With a shaky breath, he hurries to a drawer, rummaging around before pulling out the key, handing it over with a trembling hand.

“Don’t make me come back here,” I warn him, my tone colder than before.

I shove him one last time before turning on my heel and leaving, my mind already racing. Unit 12B. It’s a start. A shitty start, but a start.

The unit’s empty—just like I expected. Nothing here but a few old boxes and a reminder that this woman is playing a game we’re barely keeping up with.

I grit my teeth, pissed off and more determined than ever. This is bullshit.

I pull out my phone and dial Acid, hoping he’s got some good news. When he answers, there’s an edge to his voice.

“Got something?” he asks, and I can practically feel the tension rolling through the line.

“Maybe,” I grunt. “Found a storage unit. Empty. The car had a bunch of useless shit in it. Dillon say anything about where she took them? What the hell was she thinking?”

Acid lets out a frustrated sigh. “Great. Another dead end. What now?”

“I think we need to bring Stone and Levi in,” I reply, steady and controlled. “See if the informant that helped them with their omega has anything on Ike Hale. We’re willing to pay whatever it costs. No more wasting time. No more dead ends.”

There’s a long pause, and I can practically hear Acid weighing his options.

“Their beta’s not someone you want to fuck with. Do we really want to risk her wrath and pissing off Levi?” he finally says.

“I don’t care,” I growl. “She’s our Kismet. And we’re not stopping until we find her. I don’t give a shit about anyone else. She’s the future queen of this MC, and we’re gonna get her back.”

I hear Acid’s sharp breath on the other end. “Alright. I’ll make the call.”

“Good,” I mutter, hanging up and slipping my phone back into my pocket.

I turn, walking back to my bike, the rumble of the engine a comforting sound. The yellow Harley gleams in the dim light as I straddle it, feeling the weight of what we’re doing pressing down on me.

Brydgett Hale.

The woman we’re hunting down, the one we laid hands on—our Kismet. The one who’s going to tear everything apart or put it back together, depending on how you look at it. I should be angry. I should be furious that my brother, Gears, had us break the rules and lay hands on her. But I’m not.

I can’t be.

There’s something about her that’s different, that pulls me in. It’s like I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for this, even if I didn’t know it.

The irony hits me harder than I expected. We’ve kidnapped her. We’ve hit her. And now we’re chasing her down, hoping she’ll come back to us.

Dillon and my mom haven’t let us live it down. They’re pissed, mad we went that far, even if it was for the right reasons.

I pull the bike to a stop and take a deep breath, the weight of it all sinking in. Acid might never forgive himself for what he did to her, but I’m not sure I can forgive myself either for letting it go that far.

But what’s done is done. We’ve already crossed that line. We’re in this.

And I’m not stopping until I find her.

I won’t stop until she’s ours.

ACID

I pace the length of my room, phone in hand, fingers flexing around it like I might crush the damn thing. Levi's number is already pulled up. I hit call, and lift it to my ear.

"Yeah?"

"I need a favor from Stone," I say, cutting to the chase.

“Hold on a minute.”

There’s nothing but silence until another male voice answers. “What can I do for you?”

“Stone, this is Acid. Levi is our brother from the club. We need a favor.”

He sighs, long and slow. "This about that omega?"

"Yeah. I need you to reach out to your informant, see if they can dig up anything on an Ike Hale."

"I don’t know, man." There's a hesitation in his voice that puts me on edge. "That contact's solid, but I can't risk burning that bridge. They came through when we got our omega back. If I push too hard..."

"Please," I say. "We'll pay you and him—or her—whatever it takes. Just make the call."

Stone goes quiet for a beat too long. I hold my breath, waiting. Finally, he exhales. "Fine. I'll be in touch."

I hang up and immediately head to Bettie and Dillon's apartment at the clubhouse. The place smells like home when I walk in—garlic, butter, and something cooking on the stove.

"Take a seat, Titus," Bettie says without turning around.

I freeze in the doorway. "How did you know it was me?"

"You've been my bonus son since you were eight. I know you as well as Raiden and Orion."

I huff at the use of our legal names. Bettie may have been an old lady and the late Pres' wife, but she always called us by our government names in private. Road names were only for the brothers.

I lean against the wall next to the kitchen table, running a hand down my face.

"What's the matter, Titus?" she asks, finally turning from the stove. She's stirring a pot of creamy chicken and dumplings, her wooden spoon swirling like it's keeping time with her heartbeat.

"I don't know, Bettie." The words come out rougher than I expect. "This omega's got my head a mess."

Bettie whirls around, slamming the spoon down on the counter so hard it splatters broth onto her hand.

She barely seems to notice. "She doesn't have you anything.

You did that. You and my idiot sons." Her eyes narrow.

"What the hell were you thinking? Kidnapping an omega?

Putting hands on her? And then you find out she's your Kismet? Ughhh!"

She visibly shudders like she's trying to shake off the disgust.

"I'm sorry, Bettie," I say, the words softer than they should be.

"Don't be sorry, Titus." She points her finger right at me, unwavering. "Fix it. You get that young lady and her son back here, and you grovel like you've never groveled before, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't want Acid the Enforcer trying to woo her." Her words soften slightly. "I expect Titus Beck, the gentleman I raised, to be catering to her. You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," I repeat, and this time I don’t waver.

"Good." Bettie grabs her spoon again and stirs like her life depends on it. "Now sit your sorry ass down and eat. You're not fixing anything on an empty stomach."

By the time I finish my second bowl of chicken and dumplings, my stomach is full and warm in a way that eases some of the tension riding me all damn day. Bettie might be furious with us, but the woman can cook like nobody's business.

I'm at the sink washing my bowl when my phone rings, vibrating on the counter like it's about to jump off. My pulse spikes. I grab it, setting the dish down in the drying rack with a clatter.

"Stone," I answer as I jog toward my room. "Tell me you got something."

"I do. Or well... my contact did." There's a pause, and I can hear Stone sucking in a breath like he's holding something back. "First of all, you should know that you're Levi's people, so I won't charge you anything."

"Appreciate that," I say, trying to keep calm. "What else?"

"My contact apparently knows your omega," Stone says with a dry chuckle. "They were real eager to help. And by 'help,' I mean the text message had a ton of laughing emojis and said 'good luck to your pals who wanna mess with her.' So... there's that."

My heart stutters. Brydgett's tough; I know that better than anyone. But someone knowing her well enough to think she’s untouchable? That makes my blood run cold. "Just tell me what you know," I snap.

"Ike Hale lives at 114 Mason Creek Drive, Ridgeville," Stone says. "That's all I got."

"Thanks," I mutter and hang up.

Ridgeville's just a little over an hour from here. I need to tell Gears and Arrow so we can get our asses moving.

I head straight to Gears' office. Sure enough, he's there, half-buried in papers and sipping whiskey like he's the goddamn king of patience. His head lifts when I enter, and before he can say a word, I blurt out, "Got Ike's address."

"Arrow!" Gears shouts, his glass hitting the desk hard enough to slosh whiskey over the rim.

The sound of boots pounding down the hall follows, and a second later, Arrow shoves through the door, breathing heavy. "You got something?"

"Acid has Ike's address," Gears says, his expression dark. "Now let's hope she's either there or this Ike can tell us where she is."

Arrow's gaze snaps to mine. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Gears says firmly.

"Tomorrow?" I repeat, incredulous. "We should head out now."

"No," Gears says, leveling me with a look that says he’s not budging. "We're going in prepared, not half-cocked. We'll leave tomorrow, when we're rested, clear-headed, and ready to handle whatever we find."

I blow out a breath, every instinct in me screaming to go now. But Gears is right. If Brydgett’s in trouble, we can’t afford to screw this up.

"Tomorrow," I repeat. "Fine. But we hit the road at noon sharp."

"Agreed," Gears says, tipping his glass back.

Arrow slams his fist into his palm. "Tomorrow, we bring her home."