Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
He came back with a gun.
Silver.
Shiny.
Fucking big.
"Fac asta in numele Letha."
His finger shifted.
The trigger pulled.
The bang seemed to deafen me for a second.
Then the bullet exploded red everywhere.
"Oh my god. Oh my god."
That was me.
But why was that me?
And why did I sound so hysterical?
This was always the plan.
This was always the end for him.
Why then did it feel like I was going to be sick?
"No," Edison said, clamping a hand over my mouth like he could tell my stomach was rolling, sloshing around the meager dinner of bar peanuts and an energy drink I had forced into me, my body not adjusting as well to my normal shift as it should have. "You need to hold it together," he told me, voice calm.
Too calm.
Way too calm.
He had just shot a man.
A man he didn't even know.
A man who hadn't threatened him or his organization.
And he shot him like it was nothing.
How?
How was that possible?
How could the Edison who stroked my back and whispered to me in Romanian do that?
"Breathe in and out through your mouth," he demanded, voice a little detached as he tucked the gun away and looked around. "This is why you didn't report it," he said, making me turn to find him holding up the silver NBPD badge. "Lenny, look at me," he demanded as I kept trying to focus on the mouth-breathing he demanded. "Did any part of you touch any part of this room?"
"No. But his fists and nails touched my face," I told him, gesturing toward my face.
Reflected in the harsh light above the vanity mirror, it wasn't that bad. A little dried blood. A little purple under the skin. Even if it darkened, I could get away with some bullshit excuse like I was half-asleep making coffee, and whipped myself in the face with the cabinet. Plausible, even if I wasn't known for being clumsy. Shit happened when you were tired. Especially if I played up being hungover after drinking away my sorrows in some cheap gin.
Which, well, I might need after what I had just seen.
"Fuck," Edison growled, leaning down, looking at his hands.
"What?"
"Can't do this."
"Can't do what?"
Oh, God.
Was he going to leave me here to deal with this? To scrape fingernails and wash hands and... whatever else needed to happen.
I could do a lot of awful jobs.
I had been forced to clean the men's room more than once at Meryl's.
For which I had demanded hazard pay.
But I had done it.
This?
I didn't think I could do this.
"Yo. Remember what needed to happen with Bethany's little problems?" He was talking into his cell.
I knew the name Bethany.
That was the woman to one of his brothers.
Laz.
The sober one.
Bethany was clean too.
What were Bethany's little problems?
"Yeah. Exactly. 22 Lone Maple. Yeah. Okay."
"What is going on?" I asked, hearing a certain desperation in my voice.
"Me and the guys, we need to handle this," he told me, looking under the cabinets, fishing out cleaning products.
He called his biker brothers in to help him clean up a crime scene?
That seemed to be going a bit above and beyond the line of duty considering this had nothing to do with the club.
His phone rang again, and he picked up while stopping the sink, then half filling it with scalding water, adding just as much bleach. "In through the back. Hug the wall. Up the stairs. Center. Bathroom. Everywhere. Yeah. See you then."
"What was that?" I heard myself ask, feeling useless on top of everything else. This was my mess. Even if I didn't pull the trigger. No one else should be cleaning it up.
But before he could answer - if he was planning to at all - I heard the boots. Just a few seconds later, I saw the men they belonged to.
Pagan.
And Lazarus.
Neither of them even blinked at the dead man on the floor.
The dead cop on the floor.
"Bring it?" Edison asked, turning to look at his brothers.
Pagan nodded, holding up two bags I had missed since I was watching their faces so closely to see their reactions to my mess.
"Laz, Lenny. Pagan, me."
Those were Edison's orders.
And not a second later, they were obeyed.
"Come on," Laz encouraged, taking me by the bicep, grip a little firm, but then again, I was unable to make myself move without assistance.
"No. Wait. Edis..."
"Later, Lenny," Edison called, slipping on the gloves that had come in a box in one of the bags.
The other bag was given to Laz as he led me out of the bathroom where I could finally breathe through my nose without smelling the metallic odor of blood that filled the bathroom.
"Where are we going?"
"We're getting out of here and into the woods," he explained, meaning the small patch of trees toward the back of the property that maybe, possibly could be called 'woods' if the person was raised in the city or something.