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“Good. Head over there. Get it cleaned up. Report back with any other damage. I’m sure Rogers hasn’t had a chance to go over everything.”
“Will do.” Spencer looks to me. “You’re driving.”
I splutter. “I’m not.”
“Gotta start somewhere.” He gives me a half smirk. I glance back at Ilya and he gives me a nod of approval.
“What do you mean, start? I’m not starting anything.” Spencer ignores my protest. With a frown, I say, “Okay. Let’s go.”
Chaos dida number on the den’s garage. They clearly intended to steal more than the McLaren because they used plasma cutters on the front doors. We make our way through their carnage, into the garage where the floor glistens beneath the fluorescent lights. Gold bullet casings litter the floor. With the amount of them, I’m surprised they didn’t damage any of the cars, just the walls and three Chaos assholes. Blood pools beneath them are a stark contrast to the light color of the garage’s pristine floor.
It takes a moment, but when I get a good look at them, my stomach bottoms out.
Fuck!
I won’t be questioning the assholes I put in the hospital because they’re all dead.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
BENNY
There isa healthy helping of untamed anger raging in me. This has happened before, during my days in the Devils, when things often wouldn’t go our way and the shit leaders we followed couldn’t care less about the members of their organization. One of the many reasons I got out was because the way I always handled that anger was to fight it out, fuck it out—sometimes kill it out.
My methods were disgusting and frowned upon by most societies. Would have Lennox running from me. My girl hasn’t asked much about that part of my past, knowing that I like to keep it locked up so I can move on to a future where I do good with my resources instead of…Well…instead of the things I used to do. The need I often succumbed to in those moments I haven’t felt in a very long time. Until now. It’s flowing through my veins with a headiness that I’m not sure I know how to handle anymore. It’s sort of frightening knowing that this darkness can still live inside me. That it can remain completely unkempt, aching for destruction.
The sound of a key in the door doesn’t fully register until I hear the rumble of bass that is Trace’s voice calling for me. He has some fucking balls, doesn’t he?
I stand when he finally gets the door unlocked and swings it open. He’s stumbling through the threshold, seriously drunk. Has he been on a two-week bender? Probably. Trace has never handled his stress without alcohol. “I haven’t seen you in two fucking weeks and you show up to my house drunk?”
Fucking around with the Hellions. Who does he think he is?
“I’m here to get my shit and get the fuck out. Don’t let me bother you.” He’s got a hell of a lot of attitude as well. What is that all about? A part of me just misses my best friend and wants him back, but another part feels so let down for so many things.
“What? You’re not bothering me, Trace.” That’s not entirely the truth. It’s been two weeks since I last saw my girl. Each day has been the worst agony I’ve felt in my entire life, not knowing what happened to her, how to find her. Not knowing if I’ll ever see her again, and for whatever reason, my best friend has been out of the picture when I’ve needed him the most. However, I know he’s been going through a lot and maybe isn’t able to help me through this. If that’s the case, it’s fine, but why is he ignoring me? Especially ignoring me for the assholes he brought to the club. “You’re not staying here anymore? What the hell?”
“Just need to get out of here,” he mumbles and still hasn’t made eye contact with me. Irritation is boring a hole in my heart, through the ounce of control I have over my anger that’s been simmering for weeks. Anger toward the situation. Anger toward life. Towardhim.Anger that is teeming over and needs a target.
“It’s your fault she’s gone.” The comment is out before I even have a chance to stop it, but I can’t help it. I’m pissed and someone needs to know it.
“My fault?” he rages, his slur suddenly gone as a soberness clashes with his glassy eyes. “How the fuck is this my fault?” He whips around, ending his trek through the hallway towards our rooms.
“You brought those assholes to a club on this side of town. A club they don’t belong in.” He shakes his head in disbelief and annoyance.
“Why? Because they’re trash and belong in a dump like me? They have no right to mingle with the rich pricks?” Like him? He is one of those rich pricks. Well, he was.
“Because where the fucking Hellions go, C.C.C. isn’t ever far behind. If you had your head out of your ass and actually gave a damn about life around you, the shit I tell you, instead of sitting up on your daddy’s fucking high horse and using his blood money, you’d know that.” It’s a low blow. I know it is. Trace has lived a hard life despite having a silver spoon shoved down his throat. But why doesn’t anyone take this shit seriously? There are entire organizations with their own governing bodies ruining the world, and no one gives a shit other than me. I guess ignorance really is bliss.
But if that’s the case, then why did they go after my girl? It isn’t because the public doesn’t like her, but something more. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough pull any longer to figure it the fuck out. It’s driving me absolutely mad because Lennox is innocent. So fucking innocent.
Is it my past catching up with me? Have my connections to the Devils somehow put her in danger? I think back to every memorable moment I can connect in my grief-stricken mind. Even if I’m thinking of the right scenario…Who would hire Chaos to hurt my girlfriend? We never left loose ends, so it makes little sense. Plus, with the little info I have, there is no connection with C.C.C.. The Devils don’t deal with them. No beef, nothing. Still, I can’t rule it out, can I?
Trace’s stare is vacant, yet somehow overflowing with the hurt my statement has caused. I know blaming him is wrong. I know saying that it is because he is hanging with Hellions is such a stretch, hell not even in this stratosphere, but I’m hurt and he’s been M.I.A. for weeks when I’ve needed him.
“Wow. I don’t even know what to say right now other than you are the world’s biggest hypocrite, B. Gibbs. Your brother—”
“Leave Dank out of it.”
“Okay, then you. You have connections to this bullshit and now what… all of a sudden you’re the golden boy because you’ve decided to leave the life? To just disregard everything you’ve ever done?” His words hit too close to the thoughts I’ve been having and rage unfurls in my gut, that unkempt shit that itches to get out. He glances down at my pulsing fists and a sinister grin pulls at his lips. It’s a dark and twitchy sort of thing. Trace may be able to hold his own in most cases, but he isn’t me. He doesn’t match my size or experience in the slightest. I may look like a reformed thug, but I’m far from that persona with this fury coursing through me.
