Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Well, this has been charming,” I say, deciding it’s time to leave.
I’ve absorbed enough toxicity for one day. And I’d be lying if I said the information about Joey didn’t unnerve me. Someone has gotten something wrong somewhere.
“No, please stay,” my mother says with heavy sarcasm. “Stay for some tea, cake, and a tête-à-tête. You can tell me all about how you dance naked in front of fat old men for crumpled dollar notes.”
I ignore her and walk toward the door but pause to look at the woman over my shoulder. “You didn’t even care about Joey in the end. Why do you care now?”
Her eyes sparkle with malice and too much alcohol.
She shrugs. “Because I can.”
I stare at her in disbelief.
She isn’t just cold-blooded. She’s a cold-blooded sociopath. She doesn’t care about Joey being dead. This woman only cares that someone took something from her.
It’s always about her.
Without giving Mom another look, I walk away and close the door behind me.
I won’t come back here again.
I’m done.
I hope for a clean getaway, but I have to walk past the kitchen to get to the front door, and Connor is standing at the counter looking at something on his phone.
“A word of warning, Aurora.” His voice cuts into the silence. “I won’t tolerate your petulance like your mother does.”
He’s trying to intimidate me… again.
But he fails… again.
Instead of fleeing the house like I want to, I walk straight into the lion’s den to face the lion. Or in this case, an over-dressed sixty-year-old with whisky flush and a receding hairline.
I cross my arms to show him that his intimidation tactics won’t work on me. “And I won’t tolerate being threatened. Make your point.”
I don’t just dislike Connor, I loathe him.
And by the look on his face, the feeling is mutual.
“You know, I met your father once,” he says out of nowhere.
“Congratulations.” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“He was a right prick, and I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and my blood boils.
But I don’t react.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that his words have an effect on me.
“But he had balls, your father did. Big fucking balls. And he was a loyal sonofabitch, if ever there was one. How do you think he’d feel about his only daughter not giving a damn about his only son being murdered? He’d be rolling in his fucking grave with disappointment at you, girlie.”
I have to hand it to Connor, he certainly knows where to land a blow—right in the middle of my weak spot. My father.
To make things worse, he’s right. My father would be disappointed that Joey’s murder hasn’t been avenged, and the idea that I’m letting him down is too painful to bear.
But again, I won’t let Connor see that.
“With all due respect…” I murder him with cold eyes. “Go fuck yourself.”
The asshole smiles, clearly enjoying my pain.
“I’m only saying what you already know.” He lights another cigarette. “If you won’t do it for your mother, then think about your father.”
I think about him every damn day.
Pain twists in my chest.
And I know he would be disappointed in me if I don’t do this.
Feeling the pain of what I have to do, I look my stepfather right in the eye. I hate him with every ounce of my being, and I hate it more that it is him who has made me realize I have to do this.
I glare at him. “You should be careful, Connor. My mother’s men have a habit of dying.”
And turning my back on him, I show him how to walk out of a room.
ARES
I spend most of the day helping the prospects and Dakota Joe fix the storm damage on the grow barn. A month ago, Mother Nature battered Flintlock with a summer storm and left a trail of uprooted trees, broken buildings, and debris scattered across the county.
Our grow barn—where we grow our out-of-season cannabis crop—was hit hard. Not structural, but the cosmetic repairs were significant enough to take up most of the day.
Thankfully, none of the soon-to-be harvest plants were damaged in the storm.
By late afternoon, Dakota Joe, Shooter, and I grab a drink at the clubhouse bar while the prospects finish off the repairs.
We’re playing poker and drinking beer when the roar of motorcycles fills the clubhouse. Jack, Shooter, and I jump to our feet. The bikes riding into the parking lot don’t belong to our brothers, and we’re not expecting guests.
“Who’s on the fucking gate?” Jack growls.
Before anyone can answer, three bikers wearing Devil’s Steed cuts walk in, led by a tall man with long gray hair and an equally gray beard.
“Don’t fucking blame your prospect,” he declares. “We was coming in one way or another. But we’re coming in peace.”