The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(8)

I fucking run.

Away from Duncan.

Away from the big party that Damien and Thomas are throwing for their staff, at which my presence is absolutely expected.

“Daisy!” Duncan’s voice is behind me, but I don’t stop.

Out into the casino area, I run as fast as my feet will take me. And I’m not stopping until I run out of oxygen or break through the time-space continuum and land a couple of months in the past—whichever comes first.





Flynn

At a little after eight, I take a right into the Wynn’s entrance and head toward the main valet.

Of course, I have no plans to let some twentysomething dude hop onto one of my favorite possessions and park it for me. Just give me the valet ticket, and I’ll park my own bike, thank you very fucking much.

The valets are a little busy, and I ease the throttle to a stop as I step my right foot onto the pavement and wait patiently behind the line of cars.

Phone out of my back pocket, I check the screen to find a few missed text notifications from my brothers, finally awake from their afternoon drunk-naps, most likely asking me my ETA so we can start with the late-night portion of the slop-fest. Seeing as I’m here and I’ll be inside soon enough, I don’t bother with a response.

Once we finished with brunch and blackjack and headed back up to the penthouse suite we rented for the weekend, those bastards passed the fuck out in the middle of trying to make plans to go to the pool.

And, like the mom who gets out of the house the instant her husband gets home just to get some peace and quiet from the kids, I took that as my cue to get a little fresh air and open road on my bike for a couple hours.

Comparing my adult brothers to children might seem harsh, but anyone who witnessed Ty’s big lap-dance debut in the middle of a Las Vegas strip club for a half-naked stripper named Sapphire while Jude and Remy threw dollar bills at him would strongly agree with the sentiment. Though, it should be noted, Jude had blindfolded himself by that point in the night, and his dollar bills were landing on a table of college guys who gladly pocketed the cash.

The line of cars edges forward, and I ease my bike up after I slide my cell back into the pocket of my jeans.

“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!” A female voice grabs my attention, and I glance toward the entrance doors of the Wynn to find a blur of wild curls running like a banshee. She bumps into several people trying to get outside, and more apologies blurt from her lips as she almost takes out an older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.

The man is none too pleased, but his annoyance doesn’t stop her. Out onto the pavement of the driveway, she stumbles a bit on her sky-high heels as she continues her fast-track path to who knows where.

And it’s then I recognize who she is—the beautiful woman from the slot machine this morning. The one Ty saluted and gave a five-hundred-dollar chip to.

She comes to a halting stop in the center of the entrance driveway, in the middle of cars and only a few feet from my bike, and looks around maniacally with her big green eyes.

What is she doing?

Aesthetically, she’s still downright fucking beautiful and dressed in the kind of clothes that ooze sexuality and a good time.

But mentally? She now appears to be a quick step away from out of her fucking mind. Her breaths come out in harsh pants, and she chaotically brushes pieces of her wild mane of curls out of her face.

“You okay?” I find myself asking, and she snaps her eyes toward mine.

She stares at me like I just asked her to solve an advanced calculus problem, and I lift the visor up on my helmet to repeat my question. “You okay?”

She shakes her head and digs her teeth into the meat of her full, red-painted lips. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, a man in a well-fitted suit comes bursting out of the entrance doors, yelling, “Daisy!”

The beautiful but possibly insane woman shuts her eyes on a heavy sigh, and by the sag in her shoulders and frown on her lips, I have a feeling she’s the Daisy he’s calling for.

“Daisy! Honey! Wait up!”

“Fuck,” she mutters, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Crazy Daisy wants nothing to do with this guy.

Maybe he’s the reason for her abrupt departure and reckless sprint out of the casino?

This guy could be her boyfriend. Fiancé. Husband. I don’t fucking know what. But whoever he is, she wants distance. That much is apparent.

And even though I’m supposed to meet my brothers at one of the Wynn’s bars in about ten minutes, the urge to help her is too strong to ignore.

It’s a rare thing for a guy like me, to be honest. I don’t meddle in other people’s shit, but the panicked look on her face makes me want to give her the escape she needs.

But before I know it, before I can even offer the help, she takes it for herself.

One leg over the seat of my bike and her arms around my waist, she leans into my back harshly and declares her intentions without pause. “I need a ride.”





Daisy

I wait there, shaking and quivering as I cling to this stranger’s back like an uninvited monkey. He seems paused in time, a boot to the ground to hold the bike steady, and his stormy blue eyes fixate on me over his shoulder.

Gah. I need this more than I need the air in my lungs, and the thought that he might deny me makes a knife cut at the sensitive lining of my stomach. Frankly, I need a lot more than a ride to fix this monumental fuckup, but I can’t think in sweeping measures of time—I can only consider right now, this moment, and how glorious the feel of a cool wind blowing on my flushed face will feel. In fact, I’m truly surprised at how much I like the idea of hopping on the back of a complete stranger’s bike altogether.