And it wasn’t just a call from a friend who didn’t know better. It wasn’t a call from some old fling, drunk and going through his phonebook.
By the ringtone, it was a call fromthem.
Groaning, I practically dragged myself over to my purse and dug around for my phone. I accepted the call, putting my phone to my ear.
“Warehouse,” a gruff male voice answered. “Chinatown. Gunshot wound.”
And the line went dead.
I sighed, glad I at least didn’t have to bend down to put my shoes on again. I wasn’t going to bother with my scrub top—the tank I was wearing would suffice. Not that anyone cared in the first place.
As I trooped down the stairs back to my car, I tried to find some small optimism on my birthday. By doing this surgery, I would put a little dent in my debt. Granted, it would probably take thousands of “little dents” to pay off the debt, but anything that moved me closer to true freedom was something worth celebrating.
It wasn’t the birthday gift I wanted, per se, but it sure seemed like the gift I needed.
Unfortunately, even after I paid off the debt, there was probably no amount of money that could get me out from under the guy that had put me there in the first place. I could run away and try to hide. Buthehad eyes, ears, and guns everywhere.
King.
Making matters more complicated was that I had a lot of insider knowledge on the general location, as well as the height, weight, appearance, and identifying markers of at least three prominent members—death would be the lightest punishment afforded to me.
But as I got back to my car, as I got back in touch with that feeling that came from thinking I had a free night, I knew I was hitting my limit on tolerating this life. At some point, reward would outweigh risk in perception, no matter what reality was. And it was there, seated behind my car, eighteen hours of work behind me, who knew how many ahead of me, that I put a firm deadline on it.
Six months.
I would find a way out within six months. If I didn’t, well, death seemed like a decent enough consequence. But I wasn’t going to waste my life stuck in some cage.
And I definitely was done working on some ego-maniac bikers with a God complex.
I’d get my freedom in the next six months or die trying.
It wasn’t like I was living much right now anyway.
Crush
Ilaid in bed, my right leg on the pillow. Pain didn’t begin to describe a bullet wound to the thigh. At least I could sit up—I wasn’t going to lie down and be a fucking pussy about it.
Wasn’t the first bullet I ever took, and probably wouldn’t be the last either. Actually, let’s be real; there was no “probably” in that.
A club member knocked on the door jam. I turned to him with a glare that told him he had better fucking make it quick. Unfortunately, I quickly realized he wasnota club member, as his leather cut read “Prospect” and was still shiny black. But even without either of those clues, I could have recognized that he was a new initiate. He didn’t carry himself like a biker, more like a baby deer.
I suppose he had some balls knocking on my fucking door.
“Doctor’s been contacted,” he said, followed by a gulp. “She’s on her way.”
“Tell her to hurry the fuck up!” I yelled.
I wanted to grimace and groan like fuck, but the last fucking thing I was going to do was let down my image before I considered making any move.
“Bring me some fucking vodka while you’re at it.”
The little rat scurried off. There was one thing I had to admit King and I shared in common—we both liked having the power to boss people around.
The pipsqueak came back with a bottle of Grey Goose. His hand shook as he handed it to me, and I spun the top off in a quick motion. I took a swig as the prospect ran off.
It was just as well. If I was being nice, I’d say he needed to stay the fuck away from me. If I was being an ass, he was a prospect who hadn’t earned respect yet.
The typical sounds of a converted warehouse clanged outside my door. There was some shouting over a poker hand, some muted discussions about when the Black Reapers would come again, some talk about ass…all typical.And yet, we all know things are changing.
