Page 55 of Property of Quake

I crouch in front of him and stab my gun into his crotch. “Sure about that?”

He grins, and it’s the grin of pure evil. “Do your worst.”

I pull the trigger, taking out his dick. Next, I shoot him in the stomach, then the same shoulder as before. When he’s slumped over in a pool of his own blood, I point the gun between his eyes and put a hole in his head.

Rising to my full height, I take a deep breath, inhaling the coppery scent. I’m covered in blood spatter and in desperate need of a shower, but first, I need to fill in my brothers.

“So you got jack shit,” Lyric barks five minutes later after sending Scrubs to do clean up of the chambers and I fill him in.

“He confirmed that it was Tom who hurt Melissa,” I remind him.

“But we don’t know who’s running the show,” Zombie snaps. “We needed that info.”

“He wasn’t going to talk.”

“How the fuck can you be so sure?” Pres demands.

“Because I shot enough holes in him that if he was gonna break, he would’ve.”

Lyric glares at me, and I worry that he’s going to sanction a punishment for going off book, and while he doesn’t outright issue a punishment, what he orders is far worse.

“Fine. But now you need to push Melissa harder,” he says. “I know she’s scared, and it’s going to be hard on her, but we need to know who the fuck we’re dealing with.”

16

WHITNEY

“Where’s Quake?”

I smile reassuringly at Melissa. He’s been gone for hours, and she’s been worrying almost the entire time. So have I.

“He’ll be back soon.” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “Why don’t you go pick the movie you want to watch so it’s ready when he gets here?”

She rushes to the couch, Stella on her heels, and grabs the remote. She’s flipping through the streaming options when the door finally opens and Quake steps inside.

“Quake!” she yells happily. “I’m picking out the movie we’re gonna watch.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. “Gimme a minute to talk to Whitney, and then we can get to that movie, okay?”

She nods, and he leads me into the bathroom. My eyes roam over him, and I note that he’s not wearing the same thing he left in.

“Who’s clothes are those?” I ask.

“Pilot’s,” he replies, glancing down at the black t-shirt and sweats. “He’s the only one who had anything that would fit.”

“Why’d you need them?”

His face falls. “I was covered in blood. Didn’t want to scare you or the kid.”

Gasping, my hands automatically go to his arms, his chest, and then I turn him around to run them over his back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, laughter in his tone.

“Checking you for injuries.”

He spins around to face me, grinning. “Is that the same thing as checking me for ticks? Because I can get on board with that.”

“What?”