Chapter Thirty
Waylon
The moment we pull into the Murphy’s gravel driveway, I know something’s off. Jake’s not here, but his brother is. Kenny’s truck is parked by the shed behind their house instead of in front of the garage like normal.
“Go back there,” I direct Wilder to park behind Kenny’s truck.
“Why would Kenny take her?” he asks.
“We’re about to fuckin’ find out. Grab your shotgun,” I tell him when he parks.
As soon as Wilder and I open the tailgate, I get hit in the shoulder.
“The fuck?” I hiss at the stinging sensation.
I fall to my knees and put my hand over where it hurts, but there’s no blood.
“I think he hit me with a fuckin’ paintball gun,” I tell Wilder who’s kneeling beside me. “What the hell? Did you see where that came from?”
“Pretty sure it was Kenny behind those doors.”
“Motherfucker. He’s about to be sorry he brought a knife to a gun fight.” I pull myself up to my feet but stay crouched down.
“Waylon…lemme go first.” He pulls out his shotgun, loads it, and then removes the safety. “Stay behind me.”
I roll my shoulder, pissed that punk got me when I wasn’t looking. That’s gonna leave a nasty bruise.
A couple more pops sound off but he misses.
We move to the driver’s side of the truck and stay out of his view.
“Do you have a visual on him?” I ask when he props the gun up on the side of the bed. “Don’t shoot if you’re not sure. Harlow’s in there somewhere.”
Without a warning, he squeezes the trigger and a loud bang echoes through the air. Wilder stands to his full height and ejects the spent shell, the metallic casing clattering to the ground.
“He’s down.”
His calmness is eerie.
“Call the sheriff,” I tell him before I round the truck and rush over to the shed door. Kenny doesn’t move as I push through it, but it looks like Wilder got him in the upper thigh so he should be fine as long as an ambulance gets here before he bleeds out.
I follow the sound of wailing and then find Harlow crashing to the ground, a metal bat falling from her grip.
“Harlow!” I shout, but she’s knocked out before I can catch her.
I rush to her side and lift her in my arms.
Looking over, I see Emery rolled on his side, knocked out. Presumably from the beating she gave him with the bat.
“You did good, baby. Now I need you to wake up for me.” Standing with her against my chest, I rush out of the shed. Wilder quickly notices and opens the passenger door.
“We gotta get her to the ER.” I climb inside, holding Harlow in my arms. “I think he clubbed her with a bat a few times.”
And if I ever get my hands on him, it won’t be pretty.That bat would live so far up his ass, he’d beg me to put him out of his misery.
“Jesus Christ,” Wilder hisses. “The sheriff and ambulance are on their way.”
Wilder shuts my door and then hops into the driver’s seat, tires squealing as he guns us out of there.
