Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes and reach out to touch the next doorknob. This one doesn’t budge. No deadbolt, though. Just a simple, almost antique-looking lock. I brought a lockpick kit but this will be simple. Instead of my tools, I pull out an old gift card, bending one corner just a bit before sliding it between the door and frame, careful not to snap the thin plastic in half. I push and jiggle the card until it catches the latch, then apply pressure while turning the knob.
The door opens with a rusty sigh. I shove the card back into my pocket and cross the threshold with Vapor right behind me. He quietly pushes the door closed.
“Christ, it’s bright in here.” He squints at the light fixtures about twelve feet above our heads.
“Not planning to stand out here for long.”
Canned noise from a television at peak volume drifts down the stairs. At least we shouldn’t have to worry about the neighbors overhearing our visit.
I hit my fist against the door, then slap my palm over the peephole and turn my body slightly to the side. Vapor leans against the wall, out of sight from the apartment door.
“You stupid bitch!” someone shouts from inside. “Forget your keys again?”
I’m going to enjoy this one.
Vapor shakes his head and smacks his fist into his open palm.
“What the fuck? Who is it?” the man grumbles from the other side of the door.
Open and find out, motherfucker.
Curiosity outweighs his sense of safety and a few seconds later metal scratches against metal as he unlocks what sounds like several different latches and slowly swings the door open.
The man stands in the doorway wearing gym shorts, a crusty T-shirt, and holey socks. “Who the fuck are you?” He scowls at me.
“Stan?” I ask. “Stan Elliot?”
“Who wants to know?” His gaze drops to my Lost Kings MC patches. Recognition flares in his eyes. His body jerks forward in an attempt to slam the door in my face. It bounces off my boot and I push my way inside. Vapor slides in behind me and shuts the door.
“Kyla live here?” I ask.
“Why?” He snorts and steps away. His gaze darts around the room and his jerky movements keep me on alert. “You fuckin’ her too?”
“No.” I slam my fist into his jaw. “And you’ve put your hands on her for the last time.”
“Fuck you.” He cradles his jaw with his hands. “It’s none of your business.”
“The fuck it’s not.” I hit him in the stomach. He wheezes and staggers backward, clutching his gut.
I must be losing my edge. He recovers fast, lunging for a side table and scooping up a knife. He flicks it open and waves it at me.
Slightly bigger than a simple pocketknife, it’ll hurt if it slices through my skin. Possibly kill me if he gets lucky and aims right.
“Put that oversized butter knife away, jackass,” I warn.
“Jesus,” Vapor mutters, coming up next to me.
Like his name implies, Vapor moves with deadly silence. Stan’s eyes widen when he realizes I’m not alone. Not one, but two living nightmares have come to deliver his punishment.
He waves the knife at Vapor. “Stay back. You broke in. I can stab you.”
“You stab me, you better pray you kill me,” I sneer and take a step closer, drawing his attention to me instead of Vapor.
Stan backs away. Fuck knows what other weapons he has in the apartment. I don’t want him retreating to another room or worse, escaping through the back door.
By unspoken agreement, Vapor starts to circle Stan on the right and I move to the left. He can’t stab both of us at the same time.
Stan hesitates and that’s when I strike. I bring my hand down on his wrist like a hammer, knocking the knife out of his grasp.
“Shit!” he cries. “Help! Help!” he yells toward the ceiling.
“Yeah?” I grab him around the throat. “Kyla yell for help too? Your neighbors come running to check on her?”
His eyes bug and he shakes his head.
“No one helps? Or she’s a stronger person than you and doesn’t call for help?” I ask, punctuating the question with another punch to his face.
“I got money,” he gasps as he slides to the floor.
“And you’re living here?” Vapor asks with a snarky headshake.
“I don’t give a fuck about your money.” Punch. Punch. “I want you to understand how it feels when someone bigger and stronger kicks the shit out of you.” I slam my boot into his ribs, then pick him up and punch him a few more times.
Stan’s face is a broken mess of blood, spit, tears, and snot. Barely out of breath, I drop him to the floor and step back. “You gonna go near that girl again?” I ask.
“Nuh-nooo,” he moans.
I squat next to him and pat the top of his head. “Good boy. You learn quick.”