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)
She pauses then sighs, shaking her blonde locks. “That’s why you three were acting fucking weird. How are you still here? Did Callan not throw you out?”
“No.” I sit up and shrug. “He showed me your dad’s cut.” I hedge, immediately regretting it when her face falls and shoulders stiffen.
She stands, looking down at me. “Why the fuck would he do that?”
“Because that’s where the patch came from.” She already knows. I saw it on her face earlier.
“If you’re suggesting what I think you are, you can get the fuck outta here right now. My dad is many things—but the murderer of young women isn’t one of them.”
Isn’t or wasn’t? Both her and Callan speak of him as if he’s still here.
“What if he was provoked? Harley had a temper.” Harley was hostile and feisty. She had zero fear and would have happily given a King a mouthful if she happened to cross paths with one.
“No,” Kitty says with finality.
“You won’t even listen—”
“No.”
“I know he was killed too. The same night. That can’t be a coincidence.” Surely, she must recognize that.
“Are you saying the Devils are the ones who shot my dad?” The rage simmering from her pores has me gentling my tone.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“We need to have this out with Callan.” She doesn’t seem drunk at all now, just mad. We have that in common too. She’s out the door before I can blink, moving like the hounds of hell are after her. I chase her down the hallway to Callan’s room.
She barges through the door so violently, it bounces off the wall with a heavy clunk.
We both enter and pause. “Fuck off,” Kitty hisses.
Callan’s head whips around, his back to us by the bed. Bare legs flash through the gap in his slightly parted legs. Georgina leans around his thighs and wipes a hand across her lips.
Callan turns, his fly undone.
I flinch back worse than taking a punch to the face. My chest constricts. My vision blurs. Sickness stirs.
Game over.
I’m done.