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“Are we not safe?”
“I don’t know, so I don’t want to take any chances.”
I nod like he’s in front of me and can see me, while concern prickles my skin. I forget that I’m cross with him. I don’t feel like this is a moment in our life together that I want to be cross with him. “Okay. We’re on our way now.”
“Text me once you’re there so I know you’re safe.”
“I will.”
Silence consumes our call and I wonder what he’s thinking. But that’s not anything new. I’m always wondering what my husband is thinking.
In my urgent desire to fill the silence I push him. “King. What?” My mind races with what it could be that he’s not saying.
“I love you, Lily. Happy anniversary.” His voice is all kinds of rough gravel and what he says is all kinds of wrong. King isn’t the kind of man to end a call with declarations of love and he’s certainly not the kind of man to wish me a happy anniversary over the phone while taking care of club stuff.
“King—” I start but immediately stop because the call has ended. “Shit,” I mutter as my eyes meet Madison’s. “King just told me he loved me and wished me a happy anniversary.”
Understanding washes over her face slowly. “He doesn’t usually tell you those things?”
“Not over the phone.”
My heart jumps into my throat and I begin making all sorts of bargains with the Universe about never being cross with King again if she’ll just bring him home safely.
CHAPTER THREE
KING
Friday, 3 p.m.
“We can’t kill him, King,” Priest says as I stare at the man who’s fucked with my week and my wedding anniversary.
Roark Blackstone. Son to Desmond Blackstone, one of the biggest drug traffickers in the country. A man who I have a tenuous relationship with thanks to the fact we work the same streets and have to find ways to maintain peace.
Roark stares at me with hatred. He and I have never had a good relationship. It’s only thanks to his father that he’s still alive because I’ve wanted to take his last breath more than once. And I’m not the only one. He has more enemies than friends thanks to the bullshit he’s been pulling for the last few months.
I eye Priest. “He decapitated two men in broad daylight on a suburban street on Monday. He then shot up the Storm clubhouse on Tuesday and a Storm restaurant last night. There’s no fucking way I can’t not kill him.”
Priest doesn’t shift his gaze from mine while he argues with me. “I get that. I really fucking do. But you kill Roark and some bullets in your clubhouse and restaurants will be the least of your worries.”
“He put a fucking bullet in Nash. He came after Havoc. And this killing spree he’s on is drawing too much attention from the cops. Attention that none of us need.”
“Let his father handle him.” He exhales a breath. “And if he doesn’t deal with the problem, then I will.”
When Priest was one of my club members, he was the most loyal man I knew. I didn’t want to let him go but I knew that if I were in his shoes, I would have had to get out too after what happened to his wife. The fact that he’s always had my back since, and the club’s too, has not gone unnoticed. Priest and me, we’ll always be tied. And I will always hear him out, whatever he has to say.
Desmond Blackstone’s wife was gunned down three months ago, and the family has been on the warpath ever since trying to find who was responsible. I’ve respected the way Desmond has gone about it, but his son is another matter. He’s turned into a wild card and appears to be spiralling further out of control with every passing day.
A text sounds from my phone as I contemplate what Priest has said, and as I glance at Roark who we’ve got bound and gagged, I know I need a minute alone to think.
I reach for my phone and tell Priest I’m stepping out for a moment.
Once I’m alone, I check the text.
Robbie:
I’m going out tomorrow night, but I don’t have any cash. Can I please borrow some? I get paid on Monday.
I call him and when he answers, I say, “Did you ask your mother for money?”
