Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
“Unless the warrant–”
“It’s a search and seizure and includes the persons of any Cavanaugh East club members who are on the premises,” the cop who seems to be leading the pack announces clear enough for all of us to hear. Kat quietly slips the gun into her purse and stills, with the top flap of it open as the officers approach us.
“I assume that includes everyone here?” he questions, taking a moment to look each one of us in the eye.
“You’re his son, aren’t you?” the officer asks me, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling as he narrows his eyes at me.
“Who do you mean?” His son. Anger boils inside of me, this prick bringing up my father when he’s long gone.
“The founder of the club, Ronan Cavanaugh.”
“Yeah, I’m his son.”
“I figured, you look just like him.” His gaze moves to Kat and every muscle in my body tightens. “And you?”
“She’s my girlfriend. I don’t imagine the warrant includes who we’re fucking, does it?” I ask as I lay a hand on her shoulders, moving closer, and closing the flap at the same time as I step forward to muffle the noise.
“I’ll start with you then?” the officer says. He’s got a hard jaw and a clean shave, unlike his partner, whose beard is neatly trimmed and who calls over Reed. Reed stands with his arms out and we both allow the officers to do their job. All the while I watch Reed, who keeps looking at my uncle, who’s waiting his turn for the pat down as the other officers search this floor of the club.
With my own hands held out, the officer pats me down, then grabs my wallet and calls in my ID. I know he can’t arrest me; I don’t have shit on me, but I don’t know what the hell is in the club. There shouldn’t be a damn thing here.
As if reading my mind, Reed glances up at me and shakes his head, letting me know we’re safe as the officer calls in our names, asking if there are any warrants for arrest. Fucking prick.
“There’s nothing here,” Finn states as he takes the paper from the pres and then flicks it. “Fucking harassment from the DA. Search whatever the fuck you’d like, then get the hell out.”
Although the three of us are silent, Finn doesn’t let it go. “The hell is this about, anyway?”
“We received an anonymous tip,” the lone woman officer answers, standing in the doorway. Her makeup is minimal, her hair pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her hair.
I don’t recognize any of these faces. Not from growing up, when I had plenty of run-ins with the law. And not from that fucking night four years ago.
It doesn’t take long for the officer to hand back my wallet and ID.
“You okay?” Kat whispers, breaking up my thoughts. Her arm wraps around my waist as she presses herself into me, her grip tight like she refuses to let me go.
“There’s nothing here, Daniels,” an officer speaks across the room to the head officer in charge, his voice is low and I can’t help but note that it was damn fast that they searched. It’s almost like they were told where to look. And whatever it was, wasn’t there.
“Keep looking.” The officer lets out a long exhale, giving out more commands. It’s quiet as we stand in silence, watching the men of the law make chaos of the rec hall, searching through every cabinet, ripping up every cushion. They don’t leave any inch unturned.
“Church is canceled until further notice,” the pres, my uncle, says beneath his breath, his eyes focused on the officer leading the charge, Daniels.
“Yeah,” Finn confirms as the rev of motorcycle engines can be heard pulling up to the garage.
Reed’s busy texting away, most likely warning whoever it is who showed up at the same time an officer takes the stairs down two by two.
Kat
The kettle whistles angrily and even as I hear it, I don’t.
The heavy feel of that gun in my hand consumes my thoughts until I snap out of it. It’s been hours, but the tension lingers.
It always seems like a good idea to go back to the kitchen. You can count on things there. Even when life seems unstable, most kitchens have the basics. A sink, a countertop, and a humming fridge. That’s where I go when we get back to the house. It helps that there’s usually alcohol in the kitchen too.
It’s been silent between us since we left. Apart from him kissing my hair and the occasional touches, he hasn’t done anything but think. I can practically see the thoughts that wind in his head.
There’s a rat. Someone tipped them off and I don’t know what exactly the tip was, but I know I could have lost Cill again. All over a fucking gun. All over the fucking club.