Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” I announce.
Rory arches his eyebrow at me in challenge. He wants me to come right out and say it, like I’ve caught feelings for this bird or something. He best not be holding his breath.
I walk outside and stare at my phone, but the whole excuse was bollocks. There is no call. I just don’t have it in me to be hanging around with a girl who’ll probably be dead before the week’s end. And I’m not in the sort of mood to stay and watch Rory win her over either. I don’t even really know what I’m doing when I get into my car and drive away, but for now the further I can get from her the better.
I drive around the city and fuck off until the early hours of morning, doing nothing in particular. By the time I get back to Rory’s, all the lights are off, and Ivy’s passed out on the sofa.
For a minute, I just stand there and look at her. It would make my life a lot easier if I could find a reason to hate her, but right now, I can’t. She’s so young. Too young to be heading for the grave. And she’s too fucking pretty to be hanging out with the lot of us. Shaking her ass up on stage and disrespecting herself to feed her addiction.
A girl like her should be somebody’s wife. She should be safe at home in the suburbs, making a life for herself. Or going to school. Or, fuck, I don’t know. But she shouldn’t be here right now. She shouldn’t be mixed up with the likes of us, or the Locos, or anyone else this side of Boston.
Regardless of what I said about her earlier, I can’t deny how goddamned beautiful she is. I see it every time I look at her face, and then I hate her for it. She knows it too. She knows I want her to disappear. But I can’t seem to stop fucking staring at her. Craving something I shouldn’t be craving. I’m not like Rory. I don’t thrive on the attention women give me. I’ve done just fine without a woman in my life or my bed for the last few years, and I’ve no intentions of changing that now.
But I could make her laugh. I could make her smile at me, if I really wanted to. It’s just that I don’t. I can’t think of her that way. I can’t humanize her when fate has other plans. It’s better if she hates me. It’s better if she thinks I’m an arsehole because in the end, I’ll have no choice.
The back of my eyelids feel like glue, and when I peel them open, it comes as no shock that I find myself in a dark, cold basement. I might have been shitefaced last night, but I remember it clearly. I accepted my fate when I set out to kill the man who killed my kid brother, and the light of day won’t change that.
A newly familiar face comes into focus as he kneels down in front of me and pokes me in the cheek. It’s the man with the glasses and the suit.
“Morning,” he says. “I’ve been waiting all night for ye lad.”
“Ye missed out on half the fun already,” the other man says.
I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, so I just nod, which I figure is what most guys probably do when they speak.
“I’m Crow,” the man in the leather jacket introduces himself. “And this is my mate, Fitzy. But you can call him Reaper.”
“I’m Conor,” I mumble around the dryness in my mouth.
Crow tosses me a bottle of water, and I crack it open and sit up slowly, the room still spinning from my hangover.
“So, what now?” I ask.
The men look to each other and then back to me.
“Ye had a fair bit to drink last night.” Crow cocks his head to the side and examines me. “So why don’t ye tell me again what that fella in the blue shirt did to get ye so worked up.”
I grind my jaw together and stare down at my shoes, noticing the tiny splatters of crimson that weren’t there before. The urge to retch is strong. It isn’t the sight of blood, but the smell that makes me sick. And even if it is dry, I swear that phantom scent is there in my nose. I kick off my shoes and push them beneath the chair where I don’t have to see them.
“He killed my brother.”
“Ah, so he did.” The way Crow says it still sounds like a question, but when Fitzy bobs his head, that question is settled.
Crow scrubs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Well, lad… the way I see it is you have two choices. I’m sure if ye think on it, ye’re quite aware of the predicament we’re in now, having ye alive and all.”