Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Fuck,” I growl and tap her number every few minutes, hoping she’s gonna pick up the fucking phone, but she doesn’t. She never does.
I know Cassidy didn’t take the load, and I know she didn’t ghost me. She’s a straightforward chick who would at least tell me to fuck off.
Banger flashes a sympathetic smile “Happens to the best of us, man.” That’s supposed to make me feel better, I guess, but it only pisses me off.
“That’s not what’s happening here,” I growl. “She’s too smart to just stop communicating if she stole from us. She knows there’s no way we’d stop hunting her for what she owes us, so at the very least, she’d call and tell me to fuck off.”
She had plenty of time in the few days she was in Angel Harbor.
Banger shrugs. “If you say so.”
“For another thing…” I say and freeze as the words play in my head.
“For another what thing?” Banger asks.
“Why didn’t I think of this before? Her load has a tracker on it.” Before Banger can ask any more stupid questions, I leave Morgan International early because I have questions and only one brother can answer them.
Wild Man.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cassidy
I wake up groggy. My arms feel heavy and slightly sore. That’s because they’re bound behind me. So, I try to move my legs, but they’re folded under me in an uncomfortable position that I know I didn’t choose. It’s pitch black, and I have no clue where I am.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself as I sit up painfully and squint in the endless dark for some clues about this place.
I re-adjust my body and unfold my legs, biting back a groan as my muscles protest. Almost instantly, my disorientation fades. I’m fully alert, completely awake. I remember yesterday in full color. I remember the not-a-cop car that pulled me over by Castaic, firing my gun and fighting with that guy. Is he the one they called Ghost? Or the asshole with the scar on his face?
Where the fuck am I?
I hear a noise and freeze, straining my head toward the door as the sound of distinct male voices draws closer. “What the fuck are we gonna do with this bitch, Ghost?” The voice sounds young, under thirty, for sure.
Ghost. There’s that name again. Who are these people?
“The longer we keep her, the more likely some shit goes wrong,” he adds.
“Only if you don’t think you can handle it. You said you could handle it, Tiny. Were you lying to me?” The threat in his voice is crystal clear, even through the darkness.
“N-n-no, of course. I don’t fuckin’ lie, man. Me and Sho-gun can handle it. Promise.”
“Good.”
“So, what are we gonna do? Just put a bullet in her? Pass her around and send her to the cartel? Shit, I’ll bet the home boys would buy a white girl with an ass like that,” he says, laughing.
Asshole, I’m not a white girl. I’m a Latina.
“Nah,” the voice belonging to Ghost answers slowly. “We’re not gonna kill the bitch, not yet anyway. I’m thinking a ransom, except when those fuckers show up to pay to get their whore back, we use that opportunity to fuck them up.”
The other guy, Tiny, laughs maniacally. It’s an evil villain laugh, which I’m not sure is funny or terrifying. Honestly, I don’t want to know either fucking way. “Okay. So we’ll get the money and kill those assholes all at once? I like it.”
“Glad you approve,” Ghost says in a tone that in no way indicates he’s glad to have Tiny’s stamp of approval.
I’m listening to the conversation between these two scary strangers talking about money and murder, which is fucking terrifying. But I don’t know who those assholes or those fuckers they’re talking about are, and I don’t know anyone who could or would pay a ransom.
My dad’s retired, and Mom is a substitute teacher. That puts us all well below the pay-a-ransom rung on the socioeconomic ladder.
Because of my job, I have few real friends to speak of, aside from a few people in Riverbend I’ve known since I was a kid. Most of them work at one of the casinos in town or the hotels and restaurants that keep the town from going under.
It occurs to me that maybe this is just a case of mistaken identity. It’s clear they think I’m someone else, someone who means something to people with money. People who’d pay a steep price to get me back. I open my mouth to shout to the men on the other side of the door, to tell them they’ve made a huge mistake and need to let me go.
But then reality kicks in. Use your brain, Cassidy. What are the odds these guys mixed up two female truck drivers? Do they want me or the cargo?