Twenty-Two
Tasa was gone. Gone. Christ, his heart was screeching, bellowing out like a wounded animal that had its leg chewed off. Whistle wanted to roar out in pain, pound his chest, and then—hunt her the f**k down. Hunt her down and drag her back to him by her hair. Yeah, he was a f*****g animal, and any scraps of civilization had vanished with her.
But instead of doing what his heart and body were goading him to do, Whistle balled his hands into fists and let out another shuddering breath. One of many since he’d watched helpless, idling on the sidewalk, as the bus pulled away from the station with his woman inside it. The control it took to turn his bike around instead of following that damn bus was superhuman.
It’d been a month since she was gone, and he was doing no better now than
