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You’d assume it would have had something to do with the fact the fucker was trying to kill us, but if I were being completely honest, I was pretty certain it was the “ass” comment that had me wanting to grab the bastard by the balls and twist.
“Yeah, that ain’t happening,” I called over my shoulder before shoving Dani into the passenger seat and climbing behind the wheel. Then I rolled down my window just enough so that I was sure the slimy fuck could hear me. “Talk to her like that again and you’ll be drinking out of a straw for the rest of your life.” I threw the car into reverse, barely missing mowing down the little shit with my Buick, before taking off as quickly as the ‘86 engine would let me.
It was an idle threat. He and I both knew it. And not because I wouldn’t try but because the son of a bitch would never faceme like a man. He always had his goons hanging around. Worse than Benny ever did. But it still felt good to say.
Though it felt a little less good when those same goons lit up my back windshield. I didn’t have much to my name. My old man’s car was about it, and now she was taking on more lead than I could count. Lucky for us, this girl was built like a tank.
The sound of metal on metal, followed by more shattering glass, made it hard to focus on anything besides not getting dead. There were a couple of shards embedded in the back of my right arm, but other than some dampness, the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me from feeling much else.
Something told me it would hurt like a son of a bitch in the morning though.
I had no clue as to where we were headed, just that I had to put Mollies as far back in my rearview as was humanly possible. I knew what my split-second decision meant. What the consequences would be.
I didn’t have a job to go back to, a place to live, or much left of a car. Zeke and I shared a little spot down the street from the club—returning meant putting him in more danger than I already had. Plus, Junior would be waiting for me before I made it through the front door.
The fucked-up thing about it was how much I didn’t care right now. My life was turned inside out and pissed on, and that was fucking rainbows and butterflies. Because my girl was safe.
My eyes alternated between watching the road and peeking in her direction. Besides a few scrapes, and that dazed look in her eyes, Dani appeared no worse for the wear.
Now I just had to figure out what the fuck was going on in that head of hers…
17
PRESENT
“Where are we by the way?” My eyes flicked around the room, bouncing over the various tools and car parts piled up on every available surface, before landing on Connor again.
It was great that he’d lost our tail and all but staying holed up in a tiny garage wasn’t much better. We were sitting ducks without a breadcrumb in sight.
Connor scratched the back of his neck, a nervous tick that told me I wasn’t gonna like whatever it was he had to say. He closed both eyes, popping one open to peek at me when he replied, “My uncle’s garage.”
I barked out a laugh. Because, honestly, it was such a dumb move it was comical. “Your idea of hiding out is driving directly to your family’s place?”
“Look, it ain’t like I do this shit every day, dollface.” He shrugged.
“Clearly.” I pivoted on my boot heel and took a better look around, my fingertips grazing over several torque wrenches, afew ratchet extenders, and a worn sledgey before landing on a nice heavy-duty ball-peen. I twirled the weight in my hand a few times before settling on my weapon of choice. “I don’t suppose your uncle has any guns stashed 'round here, does he?”
When Connor’s only response was to lift a brow, I cocked an arm back and sent the hammer flying. It completed a few rotations in the air before embedding itself in a piece of drywall with a thud.
“It’ll have to do, I guess.”
Not that a ball-peen would do much against a barrage of bullets, but shit worked for close-quarters combat when a knife wasn’t at your immediate disposal. I’d bashed a skull in once with nothing but a beat-up hammer. The six-foot-five, three-hundred pound biker fell like a sack of cocaine-laced potatoes. He’d complained about a headache before going dead quiet—though I was honestly surprised he’d felt anything with the amount of blow they’d found in his system.
It wasn’t like me to leave the house without at least a blade or several tucked into my boot and secured to my thighs, which told me this whole blackout thing was worse than I cared to admit. I was reserved to the idea that I was doing things on autopilot and just not remembering them, but now I was leaving myself vulnerable too. And that just wasn’t okay.
It was fucked.
Connor didn’t say much, but I could feel him watching me as I strapped myself up like I was looking to go to war with the villain from that kiddie movie with the talking cars—or was it a toaster?
I honestly couldn’t remember. Disney’s obsession with bringing inanimate objects to life freaked me the fuck out as a kid. Never could look at the refrigerator the same again.
“So what’s the plan, Rambo?” Connor’s question broke me from my thoughts about murderous kitchen appliances and returned my focus to the potential casualty in front of me.
“The plan is I go out there, and you stay in here.”
He folded his arms over his broad chest, and I wasn’t too proud to admit I liked the way his shirt pulled tight across his sculpted pecs. There was a reason I called him pretty boy. The cocky son of a bitch was easy on the eyes and he knew it too.
“Yeah, and exactly how long do you expect me to sit around with my thumb up my ass?”
