Chapter 5: The Hostage Lie

“That total piece of trash,” I say, my hand shaking as I stare at my phone screen. “That is Tyler. My ex-boyfriend.”

Jaxson stands right behind me. His dark eyes fixate on the screen, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek ripple. “Why the fuck is your ex holding up a picture of my bike on national news?”

“Because he is an unemployed clout-chaser who does anything for attention and money,” I tell him, tapping the screen to turn off the volume. “We broke up four months ago because he kept stealing money from my studio drawer to gamble. He saw my shop on the news tonight, saw your bike in the alley, and decided to turn it into his fifteen minutes of fame.”

On the screen, Tyler wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. He looks directly into the camera, pointing a dramatic finger toward the lens.

“Jaxson Vance is a dangerous man,” Tyler lies into the cluster of news microphones. “He drives fast bikes, he runs in underground circles, and he took Sienna against her will. I know my girl. She would never run away with a guy like him. If anything happens to her, Jaxson Vance is responsible!”

“Your girl?” Jaxson rumbles out, his voice turning dangerously low. He reaches over my shoulder, takes the phone from my hand, and tosses it onto the workbench like a piece of garbage. “I’m going to break that idiot’s neck.”

“You can’t break his neck,” I say, turning around to face him. “If you go out there and punch him, you prove his point to the entire country. Right now, millions of people think I am locked in your garage with a gun to my head.”

“You’re not locked in shit,” Jaxson snaps, pacing across the concrete floor of his shop. “The door is right there. You want to leave? Walk out. Go tell the news reporters your pathetic ex is a liar.”

“And get shot by Julian’s syndicate crew the second I step onto the sidewalk?” I yell back, throwing my hands up in the air. “Are you stupid? The syndicate wants me dead because I inked Julian’s back. The federal agents want me for questioning because of my watermark. And now the media thinks you kidnapped me. Where exactly am I supposed to go?”

Jaxson stops pacing. He turns around, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute intensity. He takes three long strides toward me, closing the distance between us until he stands inches away.

“You stay right here,” Jaxson says, pointing a long finger down at the floor. “You stay in my loft, you keep your mouth shut, and you let me handle this.”

Before I can respond, a sudden flash of bright light reflects off the frosted glass of the garage door.

Then another. And another.

The low hum of multiple engines fills the alley outside, accompanied by the muffled sounds of shouting voices, slamming car doors, and footsteps running across the pavement.

Jaxson walks over to a wall-mounted security monitor near the garage controls. He taps the screen, pulling up the live camera feeds from outside his building.

My breath hitches in my throat.

The entire alley is packed with news vans, satellite trucks, and civilian cars. At least twenty reporters and cameramen stand crowded on the pavement, holding massive cameras and directional microphones pointed directly at Jaxson’s building. Flashes from news cameras flicker like lightning against the dark bricks.

“They found the shop,” I whisper, stepping up beside him. “Tyler gave them your address.”

“Of course he did,” Jaxson mutters, glaring at the monitor. “The idiot probably charged them for the tip.”

Suddenly, three dark police cruisers turn the corner into the alley, their red and blue emergency lights flashing bright against the walls. They pull up right behind the news vans, blocking off both ends of the street.

Two armed officers step out of the front vehicle, pulling their weapons from their holsters and taking cover behind their open car doors. One of them reaches back inside his cruiser and pulls out a heavy black megaphone.

I look at Jaxson. His expression is completely stone-cold. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t jump. He just stares at the security screen, his fists balled tightly at his sides.

A heavy, booming fist knocks three times against the reinforced steel of Jaxson’s front garage door, rattling the frame.

The sound echoes through the massive workshop like a gunshot.

A second later, a loud, distorted voice blasts through the megaphone outside, echoing off the surrounding warehouse walls and vibrating straight through the glass.

“Jaxson Vance! This is the City Police Department! We have the building surrounded! Step outside with your hands above your head immediately!”