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No.
That’s the complete opposite of a Reapers’ cut.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Two more gunshots fire off as men shout at the top of their lungs. What they’re saying doesn’t quite reach my ears, but it’s not my problem. This is so far from being my problem, it’s the opposite end of the fucking globe.
This is my chance.
A distraction like this would have every man away from their posts, so I can grab my Harley and get the fuck out of dodge.
Quickening my pace, I fling my bedroom door open, my knuckles white from holding my towel in place as I throw a few drawers open and blindly grab an outfit.
Without looking, I know I will find a band tee, a pair of yoga pants, and my plain black bra and panties. It’s all I have; the only variation is the band of choice for the day.
My towel falls to my feet, adrenaline pulsing through my body with every breath I take, and I rush to grab the emergency bag I’ve had stashed under my bed for the past two and a half years.
It’s been collecting dust since the day I turned eighteen, waiting for the right time.
This is it.
I don’t need to check the contents, I have it memorized, so I quickly slide it toward the door.
Get dressed, Scar. Get dressed and get the fuck gone already.
As I’m reaching for my bra, I flinch when a fist pounds against my window.
“That’s it, baby, show me your tits.”
I don’t recognize the guy on the other side of the glass. His demeanor is relaxed, there’s a cheeky grin on his face, and a flash of want in his eyes. The branding on his cut confirms he’s a member of the Ruthless Brothers, but there’s no additional tag space for his name. Sneaky.
Not today, buddy.
“The club whores are further down that way. Keep trying,” I offer with an exaggerated sweet smile, without rushing to hide any part of my body from him.
That fact doesn’t seem to get lost on him as his eyes continue to rake up and down the length of my body. “I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, sweet cheeks.” I don’t have time for him and his hot-as-fuck blue eyes, so I continue to get dressed. “Don’t cover up that pussy, girly, I’m claiming it for myself,” he adds, but I flip him off as I race to find my boots.
Just as I put my foot in the right one, someone pushes against my bedroom door, making it bounce off the wall. “Hands up where I can see them, whore.”
Not a Reaper.I gulp back the panic that threatens to take over me. There’s a hot, blond viking of a man in my room with a gun aimed in my direction. It would be one hell of a way to go, but this sure as shit isn’t my time.
I can defend myself perfectly fine, but my fucking weapons are in the small set of drawers which are closer to him than they are to me.
Fuck.
I slowly continue to lace up my boots as I eye him.
“Did you not hear me? I said, hands where I can see them,” he repeats slowly, and I scoff.
“You also said whore, so I assumed you weren’t talking to me.” I proceed to put on my other boot without breaking eye contact.
There’s anger in his eyes, a burning vengeance vibrating around him with each breath he takes.
“A club whore is a whore, and since I don’t know your name, whore will do,” he explains, tilting his head to the side as he squints at me. “So tell me, whore, why are you in here, scampering to get dressed instead of diving for cover to save your life like the rest of them?”
My brain short-circuits for a second. “Does it matter?”
