Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(86)

We asked enough to know what kind of man we were dealing with. Then we judged based on character, not past mistakes.

This garage was its own sort of brotherhood—though brother wasn’t the right word, considering Presley was as much a part of this family as Emmett or Leo or Isaiah.

“So, are you, uh . . . you doing all right?” Isaiah asked.

I cleared my throat, ready to brush it off, but the truth came out instead. “Bryce is pregnant.”

His eyes widened. “How do you feel about that?”

I let out a dry laugh. “I have no goddamn clue.”

“And Bryce?”

“I didn’t stick around long enough to ask,” I admitted. I’d fucked up as boyfriend last night. And as expected, I was already fucking up the fatherhood gig too. Tossing my rag to the floor, I leaned against the car. “I don’t know what to do. How to deal with a kid or a pregnant woman.”

“I’ve only known one pregnant woman.” Isaiah paused. “She was . . . special.”

Was. Maybe it was someone he’d known once. But I had a feeling it was someone he’d lost.

“It terrified her,” he said. “The idea of being responsible for another life. She was excited too, but scared. And brave enough to admit it.”

“Terrified seems about the right word.”

“I bet Bryce is too.”

“Yeah.” I hung my head. I’m sure Bryce was scared too. Especially home and alone, dealing with this thing by herself.

What was I doing here? There was one person who held the power to ease my fears. And I wouldn’t find her in the garage.

“I gotta go.” I pushed off the tool bench, waving to Isaiah as I walked out the door. When my phone vibrated in my pocket, I fished it out. An unknown number had sent a text, so I slowed my steps, opening it up to see the picture attached.

That’s when my heart stopped.

Bryce was on her knees. Needles and leaves were scattered on the dirt beneath her jeans, thick tree trunks crowded behind her. The photo was dark but there was enough light to see the terror on her face. Her mouth was gagged with a filthy rag tied around her head. Her eyes were red and her cheeks tearstained.

There was a gun pressed against her temple.

“Oh, Christ.” I stumbled, losing my balance and collapsing on the cement. No.

I took a long breath, trying to focus. Then I turned again to the photo, my eyes narrowing at the person holding the gun. It was a woman. She was in profile, her arm held tight.

Who was she? Why did she have Bryce?

I went back to the text, looking for any kind of message, but there was nothing. Only the picture.

“Dash?” Dad was running my way. I hadn’t heard him drive up. “What’s wrong?”

I blinked, snapping myself out of the haze as he helped me to my feet. Then I shoved the phone into his face. “Who the fuck is that woman?”

“What woman?”

“Her.” I pointed to the picture. “With the gun to Bryce’s head.”

Fear turned to rage. My hands fisted and my heart rate slowed. The murderous feeling I hadn’t had in years came roaring home with a vengeance, settling into my bones. Fury boiled my blood.

That woman was dead, whoever she was. And the person holding the camera. Dead.

“That’s . . .” Dad slid the sunglasses off his face, squinting at the phone. Then his jaw dropped. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“It can’t be.” He shook his head.

“What?” I roared, directly into his ear, making him flinch. “Who the fuck is that woman?”

“Genevieve.” He gulped. “I think—Amina showed me pictures—I think it’s Genevieve.”

“Your daughter?” I seethed. “Your fucking daughter took my woman and held a gun to her head?”

“No, it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.” Dad ran a hand over his face.

Sense or not, she was dead.

“What’s going on?” Isaiah rushed to my side.

“This.” I showed him the picture. He hadn’t been part of the club, but this was not the time for secrets. Not when I needed to get to Bryce. Isaiah let out a string of curses as I pulled back the phone, calling Emmett. He answered on the second ring. “Get here.”

“Ten minutes.”

I hung up, making the same call to Leo, then turned to Dad. “Why would she take Bryce?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“She must know about you. She thinks you killed her mother. Could she have taken Bryce for revenge?”

“No,” he insisted. “She doesn’t know I’m her father. Amina swore she never told her.”

“She lied. This woman fucked her best friend’s husband and stayed quiet about his kid for twenty-something years. I’m not taking her word for gold.”

“Unless Bryce told her already.”

“Doubtful,” I told him. “They weren’t supposed to meet until midmorning. And it’s dark in this picture.”

I risked another glance at the photo, ignoring my rolling stomach. I clung to the fact that Bryce was alive. Or she had been. Was the next text going to be Bryce’s lifeless body?

No. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the mental image away until all that was left was black. Bryce had to live. We had things to work out. Things to talk about. A pregnancy to survive.