Asher.
The former messenger boy for the King’s Men, one of the few who had left and was somehow still breathing, walked up cautiously, as damn well he should have. We were both risking our lives to be out here. Not only that, Asher had a wife to go home to now, one he’d take a bullet for.
He made that very obvious when I had shot him before.
“I need to make this quick,” I said. “I want to kill King. You want to kill King. I’ll help you do it if you do as I ask.”
Asher folded his arms. He was skeptical, which was fair. The rumors had been going around for years about killing King, and not from me. Hound, lap dog, bitch—remember?
“What?” he asked.
“I want you to shoot me.”
So Asher took out his gun and shot me.
I’d seen too many fucking movies and tortured too many fucking people. I wasn’t used to someone doing something so damn quickly. And goddamn, the bullet hurt more than I expected. I knew the bullet had a little bite of revenge on it for trying to shoot his wife—and hitting him instead.
“Fuck, that hurt.”
Asher didn’t say anything, simply stared at me with a mixture of disgust and shock that I’d let myself get here. For me, I couldn’t believe he’d let himself get in his spot. I depended on one person, and one person alone: myself. The thought of letting in anybody, much less a woman, to the dark pits of my life seemed like insanity.
“Need anything else?” he finally said.
I gritted my teeth. I had to stop being a bitch. I had to be Crush.
“Be ready.”
Asher nodded and disappeared.
I heard the vague roar of a motorcycle as he booked it out. There was a fucking apocalypse coming on multiple fronts, and I could only hope that what I’d just done would work out in the long run.Or that I’ll be fucking alive in the long run.
I climbed up on my own bike and hightailed it to the warehouse in Chinatown. As much as a gunshot wound could be serious, Asher had pulled it off; he hadn’t hit an artery. Just enough of an injury to put me out of commission for a bit—buying time to get this murder plot on board.Maybe I’ll even luck out with a private audience with King himself.
Or he’ll kill me outright.
I pulled up to the Chinatown warehouse and cut the engine. I swung off onto my bad leg, hobbling inside the large doors. Eyes locked on me as I walked in, the little game of poker being put on pause—these pawns and low-level roadies didn’t much care to fuck around with me. Whatever I wanted from these asswipes, I got.
Everything except freedom.
“What the fuck are you waiting for, sirens? Get me a fucking medic!”
The club scrambled around to fulfill my demand. The Chinatown warehouse was huge, bigger than the one on the east side. There were some minor hiccups, let’s say, in recent weeks with the Black Reapers, so we were trying to keep things on the low, at least for a little bit. But King was in the pockets of so many people in Vegas, I was sure that we’d be back up and fully operational in no time.
I watched the guys run around the warehouse, making calls and grabbing supplies. If I played my cards right, I could end King without killing too many of them. Or they could be reinforcements and allies, which would be a lot easier and a lot less bloody. Not to mention it would tip the scales in my favor.
Still, though.I work best alone.
I made my way to a private room, one reserved for club officers, the full-sized bed welcoming me with open arms. Gingerly, I sat down on the mattress, lifting my injured leg onto the bed before following with the other leg.
And then I started to think.
There were a lot of uncertainties at this stage. But I was certain of this: I was fucking done living under King’s boot. I was ready to be my own man, live my life on my terms, and do whatever I wanted, be whoever I wanted, and not worry about any prying eyes on any fucking matter.
Ash was right—King was definitely taking more than his fair share.And a dog can only take so much before it bites.And I planned to bite.
Hard.
Fatally.
