Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
I hit my mother’s number to call, and she picks up on the third ring with a heavy exhale, blowing smoke from her cigarette. “Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.” I brush lint from my pant leg, needing to distract myself. When I speak to her, I think too much of our shared losses. It fucking hurts.
“Princess, where are you?” She sounds tired. I look around at the gas station I’m parked in. A couple are arguing about which pump to use while their kid pulls faces at a truck driver.
“Have the police been back in contact?” I draw my gaze away and focus on dirt caught in the air vent.
“They have nothing. You know what they’re like. Unless more bodies show up, they’ll just think it’s because she’s a biker brat—trash.”
“Don’t say that.” I clench the phone, my eyes closing.
“Tyler’s been looking for you,” she says, changing the subject. I’m going to have to see him soon or he’ll really come looking for me.
“I know.” There’s a pause while she sucks on her cigarette. I take the moment to unscrew the cap on my drink and swig some down.
“When are you coming home?” A horn blasts in the distance, making me jump. Rubbing my hand over my eyes and shrugging to no one, I sigh.
“When I have answers.” A scruffy heavy-set man approaches my car. His cap has a candy logo printed across it. I search the lot for his truck, spying it on the end of a row of them.
“I love you, Princess,” Mom murmurs.
“I love you too.” My heart aches as I end the call.
Lowering my window just enough to hear him, the guy digs into his pocket, and I immediately go into defense mode, locking the door and opening the glove box to have easy access to the handgun I keep in there.
Retrieving a wedge of cash, he asks, “Want to keep me company for an hour, sweetheart?”
An hour, he’s being generous to himself. I’d rather be hit by his truck and then backed up over. Grabbing my gun, I point it at the glass. “Only if you like pain, asshole.” I sneer, clocking his wedding ring. Holding his hands up, he chuckles and backs away. Pig.
I shove the gun back into the glove compartment before I turn the engine over and pull out of the gas station, checking in my rearview to make sure he’s not following. I read a newspaper article one time that said they found a legit torture room kitted out in the back of a big rig. The driver used to prowl for victims at gas stations and motels. A shiver races up my spine.
I trim an hour of the travel time by not stopping again. With my foot flat on the gas, the world whizzes past the window, the setting sun dusting the scenery in an orange blush.
Too many hours later, I get back to the motel. I’m physically and mentally exhausted, and my emotions are at war inside me. I didn’t want to get close to the kings, but the closer I got to the motel, the more at peace I felt. I feel the pull intensifying toward the Kings. I like being around them. Callan set my world on fire, and I don’t want to put it out.
Taking a few days’ break from seeing him has done nothing to stop the craving to feel him. I need to recalibrate. Drawing the curtains, I lie on the bed and stare up at a stain on the ceiling. Boredom claims me fast. Grabbing my phone, I flit through the messages from Kitty.
Kitty: You broke Georgina’s nose?
Kitty: Where are you? Come to the club.
Kitty: Why aren’t you here? Callan’s told Georgina to spend some time away from the club!!! I think he might be sweet on you.
Kitty: You ignoring me? It’s been days.
Me: Not feeling great.
I hit send and throw my phone on the comforter. Leaning over the bed, I grab my bag. My fingers tremble and my insides churn as I take out the box.
I open the lid and run my fingers across the metal casings. Picking one up, I roll it in my palm, feeling its weight. Her initials are engraved into the shell and her ashes are mixed with the gun powder inside. Whoever is responsible for Harley’s murder will die by her hand from the grave.
My phone buzzes again.
Kitty: We’re at Ray’s. Callan said he’s coming to get you.
What? He can’t come here.
Me: Tell him to stay there. I’m coming.
Shoving the box under the bed, I grab a sweater and make my way to the bar. A slight breeze has me wrapping my arms around myself. The streets are empty, a couple of cars pass by but I’m able to jog across the road without having to use the crosswalk.
The place is empty when I arrive. Only Cutter, Kitty, and Callan occupy a table by the door. Kitty is saying something about Tim when I walk in.