Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Danny didn’t speak. He simply lowered his head, cowering like a wounded animal. That’s when I noticed his blood-soaked shirt. It didn’t look like the blood had come from him, which left me wondering who the blood belonged to. I was just about to ask him when Shotgun appeared in the doorway, and like Danny, he was covered in blood. “Need help getting Rafe out of the truck.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Viper roared.
“That dumb motherfucker shot him!” Shotgun snarled.
Without another word, he turned and raced back towards his truck. Viper turned to Lynch and ordered, “You stay here with him. Menace, you go get Doc.”
Menace nodded, then ran out of the bar while Viper and I went out to help Shotgun with Rafe. We found Rafe in the front seat, and a surge of adrenaline rushed through me as I noticed he had a bullet wound to the chest and another in his lower abdomen. His head was leaned back, and his white t-shirt was now completely drenched in blood. Unbuckling Rafe’s seatbelt, Shotgun whispered, “All right, brother. It’s time to get you inside.”
Rafe was pale and clearly weak as he raised up and looked at Shotgun. “You can stop with all that worrying shit, brother. I’m gonna be fine.”
“I know you are,” Shotgun argued.
“And another thing”—Rafe winced as Viper helped Shotgun carefully lift him out of the truck—“it ain’t your fault that dickhead shot me. No way you could’ve—”
“Enough of that,” Shotgun interrupted. “You need to save your strength.”
“I told you to stop that shit. I’m not dying. Damn.” Rafe grunted as they started towards the door. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
I rushed over and opened the door for them. Once they were inside, I started to follow them but stopped when Shotgun looked over to me and said, “Gonna need you to go get the girl.”
“The girl? What girl?”
“Says she’s Danny’s sister. She’s still in the back, and be careful,” Shotgun warned. “That one’s a live wire.”
With all the commotion, I hadn’t seen anyone else in the back seat, but I took his word for it and went over to the truck. I opened the back door to find an extremely pissed off red-headed beauty sitting there with her arms bound behind her back and duct tape covering her mouth. She was wearing a pair of blue scrubs, and her hair was pulled back, revealing the clearest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They were beautiful, not just because of the color, but because of the fire hidden behind them—the kind of fire that could burn straight to one’s very soul. Damn.
Delilah
We all have those memories that are stronger and more vivid than others. They often rise to the surface when we least expect it—maybe in a dream or if we’re having a bad day. For me, that memory had always been the day my mother finally got the courage to leave my father. I was only eight at the time, but even then, I knew the significance that day held. My father had never been one of those loving, doting husbands, nor was he a caring, understanding father. He was rarely even home, too busy gambling our money away instead of giving much thought to his family—and when he was, he’d be nothing but controlling and abusive, especially where my mother was concerned. She’d tried to make the best of it, doing everything she possibly could to make him happy and shielding us from the wrath of his uncontrollable temper. Unfortunately, as the years passed, it’d gotten harder and harder to please him, and even though she’d done everything she could to prevent it, his anger eventually became directed at my brother, Danny. It seemed like it was fine for my dad to beat the hell out of her, but the second she discovered that he’d put his hands on my brother, she was done. She had us pack our bags, and we headed to my grandmother’s house.
My grandmother had been in a nursing home for a month, so Mom decided that we could stay there until she was able to get back on her feet. The house wasn’t anything fancy, just an older three-bedroom home with room after room of antique furniture and tiny holes in the walls from where she’d hung our pictures all over the house, but I’d never felt so much at home as I did there. I could almost feel my grandmother’s presence watching over us as we settled in and slowly turned the place into our own. Without even knowing it, she’d given us a chance at a fresh start—one without fear or regret. There was no more tiptoeing around my father, watching our every word or being quiet as church mice. We were finally free to breathe, and it was wonderful. I couldn’t remember ever being happier than I was in that little house.