Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Put her down,” Scarface orders them and one by one each of my limbs falls to the floor.
I scramble to my feet quickly, stomping the bitch who tried to take my pants right below her knee. Her cry is so fucking loud it makes my ears ring, but I focus because they all crowd around me, hitting and kicking me. I fight back, but they’re landing more blows than I am, and the pain slows me down.
One of them starts recording. “Smile for the camera bitch.”
“Put your goddamn phone down,” Scarface orders angrily.
While they focus on the girl with the phone, I sucker punch a different one and run toward the door.
With no energy left, they easily grab hold of me and throw me to the ground. I feel something pressed against my side, and then a searing pain rushes through me like fire, making me feel like I’m being cooked alive. The agony is unbearable, but what’s worse is the violent convulsions as the electricity zaps through me.
“What the hell do you pinche pendejas think you’re doing?” The taser stops immediately, and I collapse as a man with a thick Spanish accent scolds them. “I asked a damn question. Contestame!”
“We don’t answer to you,” one of them says, and even I know her timing is horrible.
The next sound I hear is a hand connecting to flesh and then a cry of pain. “Where the fuck is Ghost?” he shouts, and that’s when I risk opening my eyes.
It’s him. The guy with the scar on his face. He was with Ghost when they kidnapped me from my truck.
“Probably sleeping,” Scarface girl answers with a huff. “He had a long day yesterday,” she says, her eyes darting to me.
The man with the scar looks down at me with a pissed-off look on his face and shakes his head. “Get up.”
It takes me about a minute, but eventually, I get to my feet and attempt to fix my clothes. They’re in pieces, but I cover myself as best as I can. I move slowly as fuck because I hurt all over and limp toward the door, when a big, masculine hand wraps around my bicep and yanks me back.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he grunts and tosses me back into the dark closet, slamming the door behind him.
I hear him roar at the women just outside the door, “This is fucking business. You pendejas fuck that up, and I will kill each and every one of you, no matter what Ghost says. Entiende?”
What the fuck is up with all these guys who enjoy killing and hurting other people? Is Diesel like this? Are his biker friends like this?
I shake off those thoughts because it doesn’t matter what Diesel is like. He’s not here, and chances are good I’ll never see him again. This is too bad because I like him—or liked him—more than I like most people. However, given my current situation, I wonder if I need to reconsider that.
I need a way out of here, and I can’t think of one through this fucking pain. I wish I could talk to my dad. He’d come to rescue me. And then another sad thought crosses my mind.
What if I never see my family again? What if the last time we talked was our last conversation ever?
That thought is depressing as fuck, so I lay on the floor in the closet and think back to my last night with Diesel. If I’m about to die, that’s what I want to think about. Not everybody I’m gonna miss when I’m gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Diesel
I suck on a cigarette as if it’s a goddamn lifeline, ignoring the singing birds and the blue skies, determined to be pissed at the whole fucking world. A familiar red car turns into the Morgan International parking lot, and a tiny smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I’m already pissed as hell and ready to fuck some shit up, so I take my time finishing my cigarette while keeping an eye on the assholes in the car.
They watch me carefully, probably confused about why I’m still puffing on a smoke and not calling for my brothers.
I smile a little bigger, take one final puff, and flick the cigarette off to the side before pushing off the building. I stroll toward the car, still smiling. “Can I help you amigos with something?”
“Nah, homie. We good.” The driver laughs, and his little buddies join in like he’s the funniest fucker to ever live.
I laugh, too, nodding and looking around like we’re all just having a good time together, not like we’re sworn enemies. Like they don’t have my woman. Okay, she’s not my woman. Hell, I barely know her, but still, I feel responsible for her.
Or something.
They laugh louder and harder, confident because there are four of them and just one of me, and they make a crucial mistake. They let me get close. Too close.