Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
For hours, I’d tracked paths through the Clubhouse, desperate for any news. We’d received nothing.
To start with, it’d just been Switchblade and me—rattling around in a space with my soul missing. Then, others trickled in. Melanie, Feifei, and more.
Cell phones had been called. No replies. Theories had been conjured. No answers.
We were back in the telephonic dark ages, waiting for our soldiers to return home. I had to hope the sickness inside me was wrong—that they’d appear any second and not some god-awful telegram with bad news.
The waiting was torturous. We suffocated on excruciating worry.
I could understand why women who lived through WWI and WWII signed themselves up for danger. Enlisted as nurses. Gave their services to sew buttons and build tanks. Anything would’ve been better than the endless waiting.
I can’t stand it.
I felt helpless on the battle lines.
A mourning girl dying to tend but completely useless.
“Any news?” I asked for the billionth time, glaring at Melanie and Molly. They sat huddled on the couch in the main room of Pure Corruption.
“No, nothing,” Melanie said sadly, never relinquishing her death grip on her phone. “No one has called and every time I dial, the connection fails.” Her eyes met mine. “What if—”
“Stop it. Don’t say it.”
Molly curled her legs beneath her, looking dejected and lost. Gone were the capable businesswomen from Church. These women loved their men deeply. They felt their absence as deep as any wound.
In a way, I was grateful. Thankful that I didn’t have to go through this alone. Thankful that I had others to hold up the curtain of grief so it didn’t smother me entirely.
More time ticked by.
Slowly, anger chased away my concern. I filled with rage.
How could Arthur do this to me?
How could he invite me back into his life and then walk so easily out of mine? How could he leave me torn apart with no one to sew me back together?
Damn you, Arthur Killian. You owe me. Stay alive.
With nothing else to do, I slowly wore down the floorboards, making them gleam from my relentless pacing.
How much time had passed?
The Clubhouse was a prison drowning me. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
Stumbling from the room, I made my way to the exit and wrenched open the door to the front yard. Barbed wire and high fences kept the world out but also penned me inside with my raging anxiety.
I’d gone through all stages of grief, cycling through them over and over again. I went from terrified to livid, from numb to sick. I’d passed the point of visualizing all the horrible things that could’ve gone wrong and forced myself to wait for answers. I even settled into acceptance—as if my heart couldn’t handle the not knowing and would rather accept the worst than hope for the best.
My eyes were raw and strained as I stared at the waning moon above. It was pale and washed out as a new day dawned. Or perhaps it was merely feeling my pain and sympathizing.
Closing my eyes, I begged.
Please, let him return safely.
Please, let him be okay.
My knees wobbled; I couldn’t take the worry anymore.
Moving around the front façade of the building, I slid down the wall and drew my knees up. Tucking my face in my hands, I tried to calm myself—to silent my concerns and stay strong.
Cicadas chirped. The honking noises of wild fowl in the everglades steadily grew more determined as daylight chased away the night.
Then … something hummed on the horizon.
My head snapped up, ears aching to listen.
It came again.
Louder than a cricket, more mechanical than any insect.
They’re here.
Throwing myself to my feet, I charged inside. “Melanie! Molly! They’re back!” I skidded into the common room. “Jane, grab the first aid kits. Feifei, you’re in charge of getting food and water. Bring it all in here—just in case.”
I went straight into triage mode. I didn’t care if they all walked in thumping each other on the back and commiserating a fight well triumphed. I wanted to be ready.
Please, let them be fine.
The growl of engines grew louder as the women dashed off to do what I asked. Switchblade appeared from one of the offices, and, with a worried look in my direction, bolted to the garage to open the huge roller door.
The thunder of motorbikes boomed. Out of the gloom drove three, six, ten, then a torrent of bikers. They poured into the gleaming lights of the garage, parking haphazardly among resting Harleys and muscle cars.
I lost count as the last bike roared inside and Switchblade pressed the remote to cut off the outside world, protecting his brothers.
Engines were killed, helmets were tugged off, and groans of agony became the new cacophony rather than engines.
Dashing forward, I searched for Arthur.
Where is he?
Man after man I discounted as I searched for my soul mate. Blood and dirt and gore covered the returned warriors.