Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Just the idea of her getting killed makes something go tight inside me, a feeling I'm not used to feeling. Fuck, I didn't become officer by letting my emotions lead me, but the idea of Paige getting hurt makes me wanna eliminate every threat. That Hellfire is triggering that feeling, if only for a fucking moment, shows how fucking bad I got it. “No, we’re not fucking saying that.”
“Good, because it’s game on again boys. Time to fortify the club and start prepping for a potential siege. If the Fabbris come, we're gonna be fucking ready. Savage, you find Ghost and get on that. I need my officers with me and focused, is that fucking clear?” He dares me to say anything else, with a tactically raised eyebrow.
I want to tell him to fuck off and that I'm taking Paige somewhere safe, but there's nowhere safer than here. This is our fucking home. So I nod. “Clear.”
Poe and Crank go out the door ahead of me. I'm almost out after them when Hellfire stops me, his face a grim mask of determination. “We'll find a way to make this work. Just get the boys ready.”
I nod. “I can’t fucking wait until someone gets under your skin. You’re going to fight it every inch of the way and it’s going to be fucking glorious to watch you squirm.”
“Oh, fuck off!”
26
PAIGE
There's nowhere I can actually hide in this compound where the guys won't find me eventually, but I slip into a gap between the old rectory and the outside wall where it's both shady and quiet. I'm not much of a drinker, and definitely not this early, but this felt like a good day to make an exception, so I took two bottles out of Savage's fridge before coming out to think. I sit down on the grass, my back against the wall and take a sip.
Uncle Walter is dead.
The guys won’t give me details, but I heard the whole thing, so I know it has to be bad. Like really bad. Stefano Fabbri had him killed, and it’s my fault. At least partly. Uncle Walter wasn’t exactly blameless, but now I might never know if it was his decision, or maybe the mafia that bullied him into helping them. I can't tell if I'm feeling guilty, sad or angry. Or just numb.
I take a long drag from my bottle, then grimace. Beer's okay, but it's not my favorite, but then I didn't come out here to enjoy myself. Just to try to… process.
God. My uncle wasn't anyone's definition of a hero, but what about Aunt Heather? Did they kill her, too? Not to speak ill of the maybe-dead, but she was kind of a bitch, always encouraging him to try whatever new scheme he’d come up with. Or maybe Mom just didn’t like her and I was too young to form my own opinion about her. He wasn’t a child. She didn’t hold his hand and make him do anything.
How did this become my life?
It led me to Crank, Poe and Savage, so even if everything else is horrible, I don’t regret that part. My heart skips a beat. If the only thing that can make me even react emotionally right now is three men who've done their own share of killing and law-breaking on this short journey we've been on, then maybe I’m just as much of a problem as anyone else.
I bonk the back of my head against the wall a couple of times. I feel so useless, sitting here moping while other people do the real work. The Outlaw Sons might end up at war with the mob because of this and is that my fault, too? If they hadn’t seen Uncle Walter’s bounty, they would never have tracked me down.
And if my mom had never met my dad… And if I’d gone for a four year degree instead of two… And, and, and…
I try to take another sip, but the bottle is empty. “Stupid, fucking world!” I throw the bottle at the tall wall that protects me from the outside. It smashes with a loud crash, throwing bits of glass everywhere.
“Man, that's going to be a pain to clean up,” a raspy woman's voice comments dryly, before softening. “Rough day? If Savage and the boys are giving you trouble, just say the word.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find a woman in her early fifties with steel gray hair and deep crow's feet. Her jeans are ripped at the knees and she's wearing a loose tank top, showing off her tattooed arms. She's holding a beer of her own as she comes over and sits down next to me. This must be Bonnie. Jessica mentioned her, but we haven’t met yet.
“I’m not very good company right now,” I snap, not really meaning to be a jerk, but it’s been a hell of a day. Every day. For the past few weeks.