“Pen.” Sighing her name, I fight the urge to reach over and touch her. “We’ve had a few bumps in the road over the last few years, but nothing this big. There’s a lot at stake here. I’m just… a little stressed, is all.”
On my list of things to lose, she sits on her very own throne at the top. If something happened to her…
“You’re going to give yourself more gray hairs.” Hitting me where it hurts, she squints at me before her expression melts away, leaving behind something soft and sweet, just for me. “Everyone’s worried about you. I hear things, Judge. They want to squash this problem. Heck, people are already missing Ghost. They’re worried that you’re… scared.”
My chest aches, and I almost double over because of it. No one wants to admit they’re terrified, least of all me.
That day, all those years ago, I died. Took what was supposed to be my last breath. Then, I was brought back to this life for a second chance that I’ve clung to since. I’ve been careful, never taking risks this big.
I can’t possibly put all the weight of my problems on a twenty-five-year-old woman.
“I just don’t want to start something that can be avoided, that’s all.” Sighing against the rim of the bottle, I drown another mouthful.
If I remember anything about Blaze, it’s that he’s a narcissistic, arrogant, pompous asshole. He saw the value behind a woman and got pissy because he didn’t get to sell her off. Money will keep flowing; he’ll have to move on. It’s not worth the cost of fighting. A man’s pride is only so big.
Everyone thinks we need to go to war. And for what? Just a few women freed—ones ours let go? Hell, I know what kind of contracts he runs over there. That kind of money can be recovered over a couple of weeks.
“Judge…” Her concern remains, hitting me deeper than any of the men I ride with. “What if something happens to you?”
While I love having her worried about me, she really has nothing to worry about.
A sudden ring makes us both jerk in surprise. Tucked deep in the bar, a phone rests. The only device that ties us to the town is a number known by only a few. Meaning, it’s never a good thing to hear it ring.
She abandons my side, racing to pick up the call in time. Holding the receiver to her ear, she greets the other person, her green eyes drifting over to me.
Gripping my bottle, the liquid warms beneath. I can’t even enjoy the second half, not when I notice her chest still with a trapped breath.
Penelope looks like she’s seen a ghost. Reaching for her, I stop myself an inch shy. “Pen, what is it?”
She cradles the phone in a grip that’s left her knuckles white. Parting her lips, she offers the device to me before turning away. If it weren’t for the sheriff’s voice ringing on the other side, I’d reach out for her to figure out why she’s wearing such a haunted expression.
Then I register what Atlas is actually saying. I need to bail Diesel from jail. He’s been arrested for obstructing an officer, one of his deputies. He’s been injured, as had Ruby.
The only reason I’m getting this call is because Atlas isn’t a cold bastard. He pities us and is willing to drop the charge. All because of the destruction that happened only a couple of hours ago.
Crossroads Ink has been taken out. The cause? Arson.
2
Penelope
This is all of my fault.
Sure, I wasn’t the one who threw molotovs through the windows of Diesel’s tattoo shop, but I might as well be the person who lit the cloth.
Reaching my shared room with my sister, I’m flipping on the light switch so I can see.
“Dude.” Raven grimaces at my panic, not understanding the guilt that’s clawing at me. She groans because of her lack of sleep, demanding that I shut the light off. She curses when I don’t.
Raven likes sleeping in until the afternoon rolls around. If she’s up early, she’s not very fun to be around.
Right now, I can’t think of that. I need to find that list. I know I kept it somewhere.
Spotting our basket full of dirty clothes, I move in a blur. Clawing for last night’s clothing, I know what I’m looking for will be inside.
Digging through the back pocket of the jeans, stained with alcohol and grease, I pull out the folded paper. Unfolding it, I stare at looped cursive.
Eliza Parsons.
