Page 22 of Desired By Diesel
CHAPTER 6
DIESEL
Something's wrong.
I've been feeling it all day — that itch at the back of my skull that kept me alive through four combat deployments. Gracie dropped Amelia at the neutral location Friday afternoon for Ryan's weekend visitation. Court-ordered. Nothing she could do about it, even though every instinct she had was screaming not to let her daughter get in that car.
Mine were screaming too.
She's been a mess all weekend. Came over to my place Saturday, but she couldn't settle. Kept checking her phone. Kept pacing. I held her that night, felt her tense every time a car drove past, and I knew she wasn't sleeping any better than I was.
Now it's Sunday evening. Five o'clock. Gracie left twenty minutes ago to pick Amelia up from the neutral location — the same McDonald's parking lot where she dropped her off Friday afternoon.
I'm in my kitchen, watching the clock. Watching my phone. The itch is getting worse.
At 5:45, my phone buzzes.
Gracie: He's not here yet.
I text back: Traffic maybe?
Gracie: He's never late. He's obsessive about time.
I set down my coffee. Stare at the screen.
Ten minutes pass. Another text.
Gracie: Still nothing. He's not answering his phone.
Gracie: I've called five times.
Gracie: Diesel, something's wrong.
I'm already grabbing my keys when the next one comes through.
Gracie: He just texted. Oh god.
Then a screenshot:
"She's staying with me. My lawyer will be in touch."
The rage hits me like a wall.
Nineteen years in the Army taught me how to control it. How to take that white-hot fury and pack it down into something cold, something useful. Anger makes you sloppy. Gets you killed. You feel it, you acknowledge it, and then you put it away until you need it.
Right now, I need it.
I'm on my bike and moving before I've finished processing the text. The neutral location is fifteen minutes away. I make it in eight, weaving through traffic, taking corners too fast, not giving a single fuck about speed limits.
Gracie's standing alone in the McDonald's parking lot. When she sees me pull up, she runs.
"He took her." She slams into me, fists my jacket, her whole body shaking. "He took my baby."
I wrap my arms around her and hold on. Let her shake. Let her cry. But my mind is already three steps ahead.
"We're going to my place," I tell her. "I'm making some calls. We're going to get her back."
"Diesel—"
