bay
You never listen.
Yep.
If there wasn’t anything more accurately said tonight, it’s that I don’t heed the warning signs, and I never read the whole lay-up on Ramsey Wildes.
Psycho.
Unhinged.
Demented.
And disturbed.
I’m also going to have to add rapist to the list if I don’t make this fucked up game Ramsey wants to play go quick.
With reluctance gushing through my veins, I ignore that too and pluck the gun from Ramsey’s palm, feeling another sense of dread coil tightly in my insides.
I might not make it out of here and save them.
“Sit in my brother’s lap,” Ramsey orders, not giving me a chance to move, so with whatever happens, Torin is front row, breathing in the fear and experiencing the blood splatter if I blow my own brains out.
“I’m a better shot standing up,” I retort, not immediately following his command when the ruckus of a bunch of stools captures my focus.
Ozzy is struggling against three guys, but there’s a fourth trying to work the zipper of his jeans and get them off.
This is?—
“Don’t you want to be in my brother’s arms if you die?” Ramsey replies, as if he’s trying to be thoughtful in my last moment. “He’d catch you if you fall.”
Fuck you.
“How many bullets are in here?” I ask quickly, glancing at the silver revolver in my grasp.
“One.”
“I wanna see.”
Ramsey gestures patiently before glancing down at his watch. A body slides up next to mine.
It’s Passenger Prick and his plethora of tattoos I wish would poison him to death.
He takes the gun, pops the chamber, and spins it, then shows me the singular bullet residing inside. “Happy?”
“No,” I deadpan, feeling my pulse quicken as I count five chambers.
Four chances not to get shot.
“Sucks to be you, then,” he claims, spinning the chamber one more time before clicking it shut and handing it back over to me.
Taking the opportunity I have, I go to steal a glance at Ozzy, but then I see another body lying on the ground.
A small one next to the stools by the bar.
A furry one.
A fucking dog.
