Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Are we going in or making out in the rain?” Kitty calls from across the parking lot.
“She’s impatient,” he murmurs against my ear. I get it. If it were my dad, I would be too.
“We’re coming,” I call back, sliding away from Callan. The rain has eased, but the winds are still high, tossing my hair around my face as Callan intertwines our fingers and guides me to the entrance we took the last time we were here.
It feels like we’re walking to the gallows, our breathing heavy, the echo of Kitty’s booted heels chasing behind us. A sharp tang of bleach clings to the air, burning my nostrils. Callan swerves us around nurses as they rush in and out of rooms, exhaustion sitting heavy under their eyes. Hushed whispers creep in from waiting areas. I want to drown it all out and never step foot in a hospital again. Moving deeper into the hospital, the noise diminishes to nothing. The occasional sound of a door closing is the only sign there are people here.
“It’s like an apocalyptic movie down here. Imagine waking up from a coma and wandering into these deserted halls.” Kitty shudders, and I silently thank her for breaking the tension. It had become so thick that it was sticking to the back of my throat.
We come to a stop outside Jericho’s room, our gazes shifting between each other. “Whatever is said inside that room doesn’t change what we’ve been through outside of it.” Kitty squeezes my arm, nodding to her brother. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Callan and I agree as he opens the door.
A wall of stifling heat hits me in the face as I enter. Only the beeping of a monitor greets us. It’s so clinical and bare, I wonder if we should have brought flowers and almost laugh out loud.
Jericho is so still, so fragile—so easily snuffed out.
“Daddy.” Kitty sniffles, startling me, her voice carrying across the room as she moves toward Jericho. My feet are cemented at the door. My stomach dips when he moves, the sheets rustling as his legs twitch.
His eyes peel open, and my lungs constrict, holding all the air in them hostage. A half smile tilts one side of his face as his daughter stares down at him. Jealously, green and ugly, whirls. I’d give anything to see my dad alive.
“You look like shit.” Callan leans against the side of the bed, his tone wavering with a mix of relief and humor.
“I don’t think they’ve fed me,” his father grunts in return, his voice raw, raspy.
“I’ll have them rectify that for you.” Kitty brushes the sleeve of her jacket under her eye, swiping an errant tear from her cheek.
Jericho’s eyes trail over Callan’s cut, a smile creasing his lips. “They say I’m going to be okay, so don’t get too comfortable in my seat.”
Kitty lets out a small laugh. “We’ve missed you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
It’s almost intrusive that I remain in the shadows, watching from afar. Jericho’s too preoccupied with his kids to see the stranger in the room.
“What can you tell us about what happened to you?” Callan cuts to the chase, and all my senses come alive.
“I got shot.”
“No shit.” A growl rumbles up Callan’s throat. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”
“Do I have to?” Jericho scoffs. “Are you forgetting that I’m the pres—not the other way around.”
“It’s because you’re the pres that you shouldn’t be going places without at least letting a brother know. Look what happened.” Callan fumes, his eyes narrowing on his dad.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” he confesses.
“Who?” Kitty asks, a crease forming along her forehead.
“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t like fucking at the club, so I meet her at the motel opposite Ray’s bar.”
“Since when do you go chasing ass?” Callan raises a brow.
“Only when the ass is worth the twenty-minute trip.”
“What happened? You couldn’t satisfy her so she shot you?” Callan asks in a teasing tone. But there’s nothing humorous about the way his gaze drifts over his dad’s torso, knowing bullet holes scar his skin.
“Watch your mouth. I left her slumped in a fresh-fucked haze and went to take care of some business.”
“Alone?”
“I didn’t think I’d need back up. I was meeting one guy.”
“Who?”
I hold my breath, waiting, listening. The anticipation accelerates my pulse.
A snap of energy crackles through the air as Jericho grabs his son’s wrist, leaning toward him. “That little bastard from the Devil Riders’ club.”
The world around me spins.
“Who?” Callan demands with his posture rigid, matching my own.
“Their president, Tyler.”
CHAPTER 9
THE TRUTH HURTS
Tyler. Tyler. Tyler.
His name leaves Jericho’s mouth and crashes into me with the force of a semitruck.
That makes no sense. It’s suicide.
A myriad of emotions turn over within me.
“He shot you?” Callan’s voice is hauntingly low.
“No—” Jericho barks out a cough, his face contorting in pain. His hands fly to his stomach, flattening against it to hold the stitches in place. He winces, his skin paling.