Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Anxious, I sit forward and watch the men go inside, then take a sweep of my surroundings. This place is dark and cloudy, despite the sun lingering behind thick clouds. Everything is black and gray, including the dirt on the ground, and every building appears to be coated in a thin layer of ash.
Deep voices rise behind me, and I watch as three men in all black walk toward the tavern.
“Shit—Caz is here!” one of them shouts.
“Oi! Blackwater Monarch is in the tavern!” another whoops. “It’s fucking on, now!”
The men dash toward the tavern, bursting through the double doors. Bright gold light pours out as the doors swing apart, then darkness again when they’re closed.
I have to get out of here. I’m not about to sit like some damsel in distress, waiting on this Caz character to come back. I smell trouble all over this tavern, and I don’t want to be here when the crazy shit goes down.
I open the car door and step onto the dirt. There’s a magnetic pull to it; it clings to the silver tips of my shoes. Stepping forward, I close the door behind me and take another thorough look around.
I’m surrounded by buildings that look like they were built decades ago—some homes, some stores. A restaurant is nearby, black umbrellas pitched above the outdoor tables. People walk by themselves or with horses along the street. What time period is this? They have no cellphones but do have these fancy cars and guns. None of it makes any sense. I’d think I time traveled, but it’s like I jumped forward and backward and ended up here, somewhere in the middle.
Someone around here must have something I can call home with. If I can get in touch with Faye, or even Lou Ann, I can get out of here. I can’t be too far away from home. For all I know, I blacked out or sleep-walked to this place—this foreign place where the air is thicker, the atmosphere darker, and I can taste salt in the air.
I spot a woman walking in a dress. Her hair is pulled into a fishtail braid and she has a child with her. A mother will help. I start to make my way toward her, but a loud bang causes me to gasp, and I stop dead in my tracks.
I spin toward the tavern and the doors burst open as a large dark-skinned man comes barreling out, gripping the collar of a white man’s shirt. The dark-skinned man shoves the other one onto the ground, mounts him, jerks an elbow back, and slams a large fist into his face.
“Oh, shit!” I back away as he continues punching the man over and over again.
A crowd files out of the tavern to watch the fight, throwing their hands in the air, hollering and cheering for this man, and drowning out my screams. Even as the big Black guy conjures blood from the one on the ground, they cheer. He punches the man until his face is bloody and raw, then he hops to a stand with his crimson fists in the air and roars, “Who’s next?”
“Enough, Killian.” Caz makes his way through the crowd, unbothered, like this is the norm—as if he’s constantly watching bloody fights between men around here. Meanwhile, I’m still cupping my mouth, stunned by what just happened and too afraid to move. “Bring them here,” Caz demands.
Two men stumble through the crowd, and Rowan is right behind them, his big gun pointed at their backs. “You try anything, and I’ll blow your fucking heads off,” Rowan says with a sneer. “I wouldn’t test me either. This here’s a new gun and my finger’s been itching to pull the fucking trigger.”
“I’m going to ask you this one last time,” Caz says, standing in front of the men. “Who sent you?”
The men stare at Caz. One of them, a skinny man with a bald head, quivers, while the other, plump and hairy, wears a tight grimace on his face, chin tipped defiantly.
“Fuck you, Caz!” the defiant one spits. “You’ll be fucking dead soon!”
Caz doesn’t react. He only stares at the man. Then he says, “On your knees.”
The man grimaces harder but doesn’t move. Caz gives a simple nod of the head, and the Killian man charges forward with his bloody hands and grips one of the defiant man’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees, and then gripping the back of his neck. The man winces but remains insolent.
“Who’s telling you I’ll be dead soon?” Caz asks. “Go on. Say his name.”
“I’m not telling you shit,” the man hisses.
“You came to my tavern, knowing damn well you were in my territory, and you gleefully stirred shit up. You caused a scene like this to drag me here. So tell me, who wishes me dead?”