The hard rain and wind slammed into his helmet visor with a splattering sound that might have bothered a man on less of a mission than the one he found himself on. He’d taken a foolish risk riding on a damp night. If he couldn’t fuck, he rode, which meant he’d been riding his bike a lot more than driving his car lately. Oil coated the road. Since the desert got so little rain, when the moisture did fall, the pavement was particularly sleek. He couldn’t let his current aggression get himself or anyone else killed. Even knowing all of that, he barreled into Gunther’s Bar like the devil himself chased him on two wheels. After quickly unhooking his helmet, he yanked it from his head, shaking the sweat off his hair. Someone inside that bar knew what happened to Stark, and they’d better tell him where his baby brother had gone or they’d live to regret not speaking. He shot up the steps leading to the bar and slammed the wooden door open, welcoming anyone to object to his actions.
