Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 130512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
He eased back, holding up a hand because his guys were about to throw down with ours. He raised his voice, speaking low and calm, but assertively, “We’re going to let ’em pass.”
“What?” one of the bikers snapped. “Stripes—”
He clipped out, “We don’t need to be on the evening news when an NFL Hall of Famer ends up in the hospital, breathing through a tube.”
I saw red. I was reacting as if that were a threat made.
A hand caught my arm and jerked me backward. Nate body-checked me, shoving me to the side. “Dude, get yourself under control,” he hissed. “We’re here to get Maddy. That’s fucking it. Got it?”
I rubbed at my forehead, because fuck. He was right. I already knew he was right.
Stripes began laughing.
“They’re both grieving,” Nate snapped at him. “Neither one is thinking clearly right now, but if we threw down, you’d be surprised at the end result. Believe me. I don’t know what the dynamic is between you and Channing, but I don’t care. We’re just going to get the kids.”
Stripes’s eyes were glittering, an eerie image of a cobra rising before an attack flashed in my mind, but he only moved aside. He held up a hand. “Like I said, let ’em through.”
As we passed, he’d switched to watching Channing. His gaze never left him.
Jesus fucking Christ. All that work just to step into a warehouse.
A wave of clear thinking doused the fight that’d been boiling inside of me once we moved farther away from the bikers. Nate was right. Get Maddy. Get home. Take my frustrations out at the gym. Keep my head clear. That’d always been the number one rule of surviving Fallen Crest. I half laughed to myself as we prowled through the crowd. That hadn’t changed.
Heads turned our way. People stopped watching the fight as more recognition swept through the place. I heard my name spoken, along with Matteo’s.
Nate was right.
Get Maddy. Get out. Throwing down was not a good idea.
The bloodlust was calming down inside of me.
That was until we got to the other side of the warehouse and a scream ripped through the air.
It was Maddy.
9
SAMANTHA
“Ladies,” I said, taking the first bottle of wine and three glasses outside to the table on our patio. I filled the glasses to the absolute brim before Taylor brought out the second bottle, as well as a water for herself. She slid it over as she, Quincey, and Heather all sat.
I sat in my chair, but it felt like I more collapsed. All the kids were asleep. They’d been fed. They were content—for the next five minutes, at least. We needed to make the most of this. I held up my glass.
The others did the same. We shared a smile because damn, this week had sucked, and today was no exception.
“A toast to us motherfucking mothers,” I began. “Here’s to the men we fuck. To the kids we raise. To the work that goes unseen. We may love our families, but here’s to us. Because at the end of the day, we’re the queens. No one can fucking do what we do. Here’s to you, my sisters. Live. Laugh. Love. But most importantly, we all deserve an award for keeping our sanity.”
They all laughed and lifted their glasses a little higher before taking a drink.
“How are you holding up?” Heather asked.
I shrugged, leaning back in my seat. “It’s… It is what it is. I don’t really know what to say right now.”
“How’s Mason?” Quincey asked, glancing at Taylor. “And Logan?”
Taylor and I shared a look. We’d talked, but not in detail. There wasn’t time. My kids were older. They were less demanding, but their little Sammy was a handful. I’d been trying to help as much I could with the rest of the kids, as well as the animals. Nova’s tortoise had an attitude. If he didn’t get lettuce, he followed you from room to room, just watching. Staring. Judging you until you gave in and handed it over. He’d figured out that I knew the kitchen the best, and as soon as he was done eating whatever someone had given him, he’d come find me.
He didn’t make a sound, but his stare spoke volumes. Who knew tortoises could be so judgmental? Harold felt like a grumpy old man stuffed inside a giant turtle body.
“Logan’s… He’s hurting,” Taylor said after a moment.
“Same with Mason.”
“Grief is so hard.” Quincey frowned, staring into her drink.
I wondered if there was something more behind her words. Heather met my gaze with the same question. I could only shrug to her.
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” Heather noted. “The guys are all gone, probably getting into trouble trying to find Maddy and Max. We’ll handle it when they get back to us, if there’s anything to be worried about, but right now, I’m not.”