Chapter 4: The Vance Hideaway

The bike roars through the city streets at high speed. Cold night air cuts through my light jacket, making my teeth chatter against each other. My hands remain tightly wrapped around Jaxson’s waist, my fingers stiff and numb from holding onto his leather jacket.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the orange fire tearing through my shop. Everything I worked for over the last three years is gone in a matter of seconds.

Jaxson turns the motorcycle down a quiet industrial alley lined with converted warehouses. He slows the bike down, pulling up to a large rolling garage door made of frosted glass and steel. He reaches into his jacket pocket, presses a small remote button, and the heavy door glides upward into the ceiling.

He drives the bike inside, cuts the engine, and the heavy garage door rolls shut behind us, locking us into complete darkness.

“Stay still until I hit the light,” Jaxson says, his voice low and firm.

A moment later, overhead industrial lamps flicker on, filling the space with warm light.

I blink through the brightness, taking in my surroundings. The place is massive. The ground floor is a state-of-the-art custom motorcycle shop. Three high-end bikes sit on hydraulic lifts, surrounded by polished chrome tools, brand-new tires, and custom painting gear. A metal spiral staircase in the corner leads up to an open second-floor loft with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, expensive leather sofas, and a massive king-sized bed.

“Welcome to Vance Customs,” Jaxson says, swinging his leg off the motorcycle and kicking down the kickstand. He turns around to look at me, taking off his helmet. “You can get off now, Sienna.”

My legs feel like lead. When I try to step down from the bike, my knee buckles under my weight.

Jaxson moves fast. He catches me by my upper arms before my boots hit the concrete floor, holding me steady until my feet find their balance.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, his large hands warm through the fabric of my sleeves.

I yank my arms back out of his grip, stepping back. “Don’t touch me.”

Jaxson raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just saved your life, sweetheart. A simple thank you usually works better than an attitude.”

“Thank you?” I scream, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. “You dragged me out of my shop, your presence brought shooters to my door, and now my entire life is burned to the ground! I have no clothes, no equipment, no home, and no idea who the hell is trying to murder me!”

Jaxson takes a slow step forward, his dark eyes fixed on my face. “Your shop was burned to destroy evidence, Sienna. Julian’s crew did that to erase any paper trail connecting him to you. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, you would be lying on that floor with a bullet in your chest.”

“I don’t even know who you are!” I yell, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. “You drive around on an expensive bike, you smell like gas, and you act like you own the city. Why do you even care if I live or die?”

Jaxson steps right up into my space, looming over me. His presence is suffocating, broad, and hard.

“Because Julian Mercer stole three custom engine blueprints from my family’s firm last month,” Jaxson says, his voice dangerously quiet. “I’ve been tracking his movement for three weeks. The moment I saw your tattoo photo on the news, I knew he was using you as a cover. I don’t let innocent people get slaughtered because they happened to pick up a tattoo needle for the wrong guy.”

I stare up at him, my mouth opening and closing as I run out of arguments. The anger drains out of me, leaving behind a cold, heavy exhaustion.

Jaxson’s gaze moves down my legs, stopping at my right boot. His brow furrows. “You’re bleeding.”

I look down. A jagged tear runs along the bottom of my denim pants, and dark blood has soaked through my white sock around my ankle. I must have cut it on a piece of flying glass when the window blew out.

“I didn’t notice,” I whisper, my voice barely audible now.

Jaxson doesn’t say another word. He reaches down, grabs my arm gently, and leads me toward a leather couch near his work workbench. He sits me down on the cushion, then walks over to a black tool cabinet and pulls out a large medical kit.

He kneels on the concrete floor right between my knees. He sets the kit down, unlaces my boot, and slides it off my foot with extreme care.

“This is going to sting,” he says softly.

His large, rough hands are surprisingly gentle as he rolls down my sock. He pulls out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and a pad of clean gauze. He looks up at me, his dark eyes softer than I have seen them all night.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, gripping the edge of the leather cushion.

Jaxson presses the soaked gauze against the cut on my ankle. A sharp burn shoots up my leg, and I let out a soft gasp, my fingers digging hard into the leather sofa. Jaxson immediately pauses, blowing softly on my skin to cool the sting before wiping away the blood.

He cleans the wound thoroughly, applies an antibiotic cream, and wraps a clean white bandage around my ankle. His thumbs rest against the side of my foot for a second longer than necessary before he stands up and cleans his hands with a towel.

“There,” Jaxson says, looking down at me. “You’ll live.”

“Thanks,” I say, looking down at my wrapped ankle. “I mean it.”

Jaxson offers a small, sharp smirk. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Before I can throw a couch pillow at his head, a loud chime vibrates from the leather bag I left sitting on his workbench.

“My phone,” I say, standing up carefully and walking over to the bench.

I pull out my phone. The screen is cracked across the top, but the display still works. A red broadcast notification pops up across the center of the screen from a national tabloid channel.

I tap the alert. A live video feed opens up on the screen.

My ex-boyfriend, Tyler, stands in front of a group of news reporters holding microphones. He holds up his smartphone to the camera, displaying a high-resolution photo of Jaxson’s black motorcycle parked outside my burning studio earlier tonight.

“Sienna Cole is my ex-girlfriend, and she is in danger,” Tyler says into the microphones, his voice filled with fake dramatic emotion. “The man who owns this bike is Jaxson Vance. He forced her out of her shop at gunpoint tonight, and right now, he is holding her hostage in his garage!”

Jaxson steps up behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

“Who the fuck is that?” Jaxson growls, his voice turning cold as ice.