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“We’ve been doing it for years,” Jared admits. “Infiltrating businesses and stealing as much money as we can.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Because we’re good at it. And because who doesn’t like money?”
“In other words, you’re both greedy mother fuckers?”
“I-I guess.” Jared straightens his shoulders. “I told Waylon Purgatory was a bad idea. I mean, c’mon, a biker bar? There was only one way that could end.”
“You did not!” Waylon shouts. “You picked the mark this time.”
I watch Jared’s expression at Waylon’s accusation, and I see the truth of it in his eyes.
“Man, you really shouldn’t lie to me,” I say as I lift my gun and point it at him. “Just remember, you made me do this.”
I squeeze the trigger, and Jared screams in agony when the bullet tears into his stomach.
“Y-you shot me,” he accuses unnecessarily.
“I did.” I smirk. “But you talked so I made sure to hit you where it’ll make you bleed. Stomach wounds are the worst.” I shake my head. “You’ll bleed out quickly.”
“A little too quickly if you ask me,” Skye mutters.
I face her and smile. “I gave them my word that I’d make it quick if they talked, and I’m a man of my word.”
“And that’s what I love about you,” she blurts, then slaps a hand over her mouth as her eyes go wide.
“What you love about me?” I ask, arching a brow.
She hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Got a problem with it?”
I grin. “Nope. No problem. What else do you love about me?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Waylon cries. “My friend is dying, and you two are declaring your love for each other like nothing has happened.”
As I press my lips to Skye’s, I raise my gun and aim it at Waylon’s knee. He screams in pain when the bullet hits its mark.
“Goddammit!”
Skye pulls away first, and I groan at the loss of contact.
“Finish this first,” she says, patting my chest. “Then we can have fun.”
“Promise?” She nods so I force my attention to Waylon. “Your turn to talk.”
“So you can just kill me?” He shakes his head. “No thanks.”
“Oh, c’mon. Jared’s still alive,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. Jared is slumped over, and his head lolls to the side. His eyes are wide open and lifeless. “Oops. Guess not.”
Skye follows my gaze and whistles. “Damn, that was fast.”
“Yep,” I agree and look at Waylon again. “Talk, and you’ll get the same treatment. Don’t and…” I shrug. “Well, you know.”
Waylon stares at me for several long moments as if giving himself time to think of a plan to escape. There’s no way he’s walking out of here, and he must realize that because he tilts his head.
“I have one question,” he says.
“My patience is running thin, so you better spit it out.”
