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I’m alone again. I don’t like the feeling of being alone, but what can I do? Raven doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to be with me. I can’t force her. I shake my head, riding the thoughts of her. I need to refocus and move on, but how? She has my heart in her hands and doesn’t even know it.
“You good?” Griz asks as we unload the crates in Augusta. I nod and turn away from him, grabbing another and setting it inside the warehouse. I don’t need his shit too. I know I’m off. I can feel it, but what the hell can I do? How can I make myself feel better when I know she’s out there somewhere alone doing something only God knows about? I can’t. I can’t shut that shit off no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I’ve tried.
“How many more?” I ask as I wipe sweat from my forehead and grab another crate.
“Six more. Then we can ride back outta here,” Griz replies. I nod and unload another crate from the truck, ready to return home. I was thinking of taking a little time off and heading to the beach house for a few days to clear my head, but I know that’ll be a constant reminder of her and everything we did there. I can’t seem to find a place that doesn’t include her.
We hear the gunshot as I pull the last crates from the truck. Then another. I jump out of the back of the truck, pulling my gun as I go. Griz and I share a glance before moving toward the sounds outside. We move through the warehouse quickly and stand at the small door that leads out front. Another glance, and he shoves the door open, and we file out. On the ground is one of our prospects, and standing over him is someone I’ve never seen before, along with about seven others in cuts around them.
“What the fuck is this?” Griz hisses as he looks over at Demon and the others. They all stand with their guns drawn and ready.
“Seems we have a situation,” the man says, keeping his eyes on the prospect.
“Which is?” Demon asks as he shifts from one foot to the other. I can see he’s ready to fire at a moment's notice.
“Liam owes us a little something he has yet to fulfill.”
“That has shit to do with us,” Demon tells him, keeping his gun aimed at the man’s head.
“Well, that’s the thing. You’re delivering something of value, and I think that something should come to us for what Liam owes.”
“I think you should take that up with Liam,” Demon replies through gritted teeth.
“Liam isn’t here. You are,” the asshole says as he looks at Demon. He lets his gaze slide over all of us before directing it back to Demon. Drake just chuckles under his breath, the sick fucker ready for some blood on his hands.
“And I don’t think you’ll be fuckin’ our shipment over,” Rage chimes in. The man’s eyes move to his before he smirks and glances at his men. They're outnumbered, which is not the smartest move on their part.
“Seems we have a situation then,” he tells us.
“I don’t see it. The situation. We have more guns than you. How are you figurin’ this is gonna end in your favor?” Drake asks, keeping his eyes narrowed on the man. I’m not close enough to see what the name on the cut says, but they are an unknown club to us.
“I just want what I’m owed,” he says once more.
“And that’s somethin’ you need to deal with Liam about,” Demon repeats.
“I want the shipment!” The man roars as Demon smirks. Drake straight-up laughs, not giving a shit about anything.
“That shipment is stayin’ right where it is. Now, if you were smart, which I think you might be, you’d walk away from this shit. You already shot my prospect, and the thought of you tryin’ to shoot any other member of my club is startin’ to piss me off.” Demon looks him dead in the eye. He isn’t backing down, and he never will. That’s the kind of president he is.
“We’ll be back,” the man says, slowly backing away from the prospect. I step toward him, keeping the gun aimed at the motherfuckers before I reach the prospect. I drop to one knee and grab his shoulder, pulling him toward the door a little. He winces but helps me move him toward the warehouse.
“Talk to Liam. That’s your last warnin’,” Demon orders as Drake chuckles and mocks the man.
“Rage, help me get him up,” I tell him. Rage walks over before leaning down and carefully grabbing one of the prospect’s arms. I grab the other and lift him as the sounds of motorcycles blast through the silence.
We drag the prospect, Rafe, through the door and sit him in a chair.
“You good?”
“No. I was fuckin’ shot!” He growls in pain.
“No shit,” I tell him.
“Then don’t ask me if I’m good,” he hisses as blood coats his shirt. I pull it up and see the hole in his side before shifting him to see if there’s an exit wound. There is. It went straight through, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hit something important on the way out.
“We should call for an ambulance,” Rage says.
