While Rex headed to the infirmary, Sherry changed into her racing leathers and made for the Burman Raceway.
Her bike shot down the track like a bullet. As usual, Sherry led the pack, leaning hard into a knee-down corner that left the other riders eating her dust.
The wind screamed past her taut suit, the roar of the engine and the scrape of tires filling her ears. In this high-octane rush, Sherry's thoughts crystallized with razor clarity.
Rex is right. Lauren's death wasn't an accident.
Sherry's bike tore through another bend, a streak of color leaving only phantom taillights behind.
As for who killed Lauren… a shadowy figure was taking shape in Sherry's mind.
Her Harley dominated the track, but a sudden, thunderous engine roar closing in fast snapped her focus back.
Someone's catching up.
The realization hit just as a Yamaha screamed past her, its rider leaning impossibly low. The man glanced back from under his helmet as he took the corner.
Familiar.
That effortless, predatory grace.
Sherry's eyes narrowed. She dropped lower over the handlebars. The Harley surged forward, tires shrieking against the asphalt in a terrifying wail.
The rider's broad silhouette grew larger in her sights. Sherry exhaled slowly, her focus narrowing.
The breath wasn't even fully out when the Yamaha accelerated again. It became a blur, pulling away with terrifying speed, leaving Sherry behind.
The stands, moments before a roaring frenzy, fell deathly silent. Every spectator held their breath, mesmerized by the two machines locked in a suicidal duel.
A race stripped of all sanity.
The other riders were forgotten specks. Only these two devoured the track, their velocity bordering on madness.
Another bend whipped past. The finish line shimmered in the distance. Sherry watched the arrogant silhouette pulling further ahead, her brow furrowing.
She tightened her grip, ready to wrench the throttle open for the final sprint—but the handlebars vibrated violently in her hands.
No faster.
The thought flashed as the two bikes crossed the finish line, one after the other.
SCREECH!
The Yamaha slid into a perfect drift stop. The Harley followed a heartbeat later, mirroring the move beside it.
The crowd erupted. Cheers mingled with furious curses. No one bet against Sherry winning. Countless fortunes had just vaporized.
"…" Sherry pulled off her helmet. Silver curls tumbled around her face. She swept them back and lifted her eyes to the tall rider removing his own helmet.
Golden eyes met hers.
Andrew.
Sherry's eyes narrowed fractionally. She hooked her helmet on the handlebar, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Didn't peg you for a track enthusiast, Mr. Andrew."
Andrew shrugged. "Don't flatter yourself," he said, bending slightly at the waist, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm just interested in you."
Sherry threw her head back and laughed, the sound adding a layer of wild charm to her striking features.
When the laughter subsided, she leaned closer, eyes crinkling. "Every man here is interested in me."
Andrew raised an eyebrow in agreement. "True."
Sherry's smile widened, edged with mockery. "And Mr. Andrew… doesn't seem any different…"
Andrew's tongue pressed against a back tooth. He studied her, clearly weighing his response.
Sherry caught the flicker of displeasure in his eyes a fraction too late. Her vision blurred. A powerful arm locked around her waist. Suddenly, her view was filled with the hard lines of Andrew's lower back.
"!!!"
He'd hauled her bodily over his shoulder.
Sherry's body reacted instantly. Her knee jammed against his chest; her elbow cocked back for a strike.
Andrew just shifted her weight easily on his shoulder. One hand braced against the small of her back; the other clamped firmly around her poised knee.
"Still no different?"
His voice, laced with dark amusement, rumbled from above. The vibrations traveled up her spine.
"…"
Hmph. Annoyingly primal tastes.
But Sherry was game.
The position flushed her face crimson. Her silver hair cascaded down. Her hands braced against the solid muscle of his back.
She caught her breath. A low, husky chuckle escaped her. "…Rude."
Andrew just laughed, a deep, easy sound. Without another word, he carried her off the track, whistling casually as he headed for the parking lot.
Sherry, tall and curvaceous, was no lightweight. Yet Andrew bore her effortlessly with one arm. Sherry didn't struggle. She even took a moment to smooth her wind-tossed hair.
Only one vehicle sat in the lot: Andrew's hulking Jeep Wrangler.
He whistled as he yanked open the passenger door, braced an arm on the frame, and deposited Sherry inside.
He leaned in after her, his frame filling the cramped space.
"…"
Sherry's hair was slightly mussed. Andrew's Aryan-gold eyes were inches away.
The confined air hung thick with the addictive scent of tobacco.
Andrew grinned. He reached over, flipping the seatback lever. Sherry was forced to recline, the angle accentuating her voluptuous figure.
Andrew planted his hands on either side of her head, leaning closer.
From outside, the view was pure provocation.
"How about now?" Andrew asked, that false, gentlemanly smile back, revealing sharp canines. "Making an impression?"
Sherry's pale green eyes held his. Her throat moved. A captivating smile curved her lips. "…Oh, distinctly memorable."
"…"
They held the charged pose. Finally, Andrew chuckled and withdrew, sliding back out of the Jeep.
Sherry blinked, slowly raising the seatback.
"Back to the bar?" Andrew started the Wrangler, one hand resting on the steering wheel, fingers tapping lightly.
"Of course, Mr. Andrew." Sherry adjusted her hair in the rearview mirror, tilting her head to admire the effect.
Andrew glanced sideways, a smirk forming. "You didn't need to fix it. Looked plenty sexy already."
"Naturally. But I prefer it this sexy."
…
The Wrangler rolled up to Burman Bar. Like before, Andrew dropped Sherry off and left.
A man spotted the distinctive Jeep and whistled, his gaze lingering over Sherry's curves in her leathers.
"Hey, Sherry," another called out, stroking his chin suggestively. "How was Andrew?"
Sherry strode inside, effortlessly pushing aside a large man who tried to crowd her. She arched an eyebrow at him. "Try him yourself, darling. He's just your type."
The bar exploded in laughter. Shouts of "bottom!" and "honey!" filled the air. Someone playfully smacked the man's backside.
"Hey, Sherry," a blond man named Ryan slung an arm around her shoulders, breath warm against her ear. "Andrew not cut it? How about me?"
"Ryan?" Sherry looked him up and down, arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow. "You're better suited for Ronald… or maybe Bruce?" She turned towards Bruce, watching from the second-floor railing. "Right, Bruce?"
Bruce, a large Black man, let out a sharp whistle and laughed. "Hey Ryan! Wanna try my corkscrew?"
"F*ck off!!" Ryan spat, disgusted. The bar echoed with raucous, grating laughter.
Sherry joined in, laughing freely.
"Honey~" a woman on stage whistled. "Ready to come back, darling?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sherry beamed, blowing the woman a kiss. "I'm back."
The bar erupted. Cheers, applause, screams. The crowd surged towards the dance floor, sweeping Sherry into its center.
A reckless grin on her face, Sherry moved to the guitarist's frenzied beat. Her silver hair flashed under the lights. She owned the space, showcasing her body without inhibition. The entire bar roared.
It was pure, unadulterated madness.
Since becoming manager, Sherry had stopped regular performances at Burman to avoid favoritism, only visiting occasionally. But the old Sherry wasn't just Burman's top enforcer; she was its most electrifying dancer.
Sherry was Burman Bar's soul. Everyone knew it.
The frenzy lasted hours. Only when patrons began slumping over their drinks did Sherry finally extricate herself.
Heading upstairs, she spotted Rex leaning against a doorway.
He toyed with an unlit cigarette, his ice-blue eyes narrowed. An island of chilling calm amidst the bar's chaotic revelry, he watched the madness below.
Sherry raised an eyebrow.
"Not even lit," she said, striding over in her boots. She plucked the cigarette from his fingers, rolling it thoughtfully between her own. She looked up, a smile touching her lips. "Well?"
"Basic tox screen," Rex straightened, rolling his stiff neck. His gaze met hers directly. "Not withdrawal. Overdose. Hallucinations."
Sherry nodded. She lit the cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke. "As expected."
"Only two people here could source that quantity," Rex's gaze burned.
Sherry's eyebrow lifted in surprise. "…Two?"
Rex held her gaze, eyes slitting. "Melissa. And you."
Seeing the teasing glint in Sherry's eyes, Rex's predatory intensity vanished. He snorted. "…Joking."
"Obviously," Sherry laughed, cigarette dangling from her lips as she shrugged. "If you doubted me, you wouldn't be here. Right?"
Rex nodded, a single eyebrow raised.
He paused, glancing at Sherry. "How to handle it?"
His voice was cold, brutal. Ready to execute on her word.
"Handle it? An enforcer versus a doctor," Sherry closed her eyes, savoring her drag. "What choice is there?"
Leave it be. Melissa was Burman's only medic.
"Speaking of which," Sherry took another drag, a spark of interest returning, "how's the little one?"
She'd been in the black room for a day.
"Let's see."
As they walked down the corridor, they saw the heavy door standing wide open. The room was empty.
"F*ck!"
Rex swore, his face darkening as he approached. Blood smeared the floor. The room was trashed. The key was still in the lock outside.
Inside was chaos: shredded fabric, dried blood, a bloodied iron pipe pried from a pile of junk in the corner.
A trail of dark droplets led out the door and down the corridor.
Rex and Sherry locked eyes. Sherry shrugged. Rex's expression turned stormy.