But I escaped, and I’m never going back. Not unless I absolutely have to.
I just hope that Kelly and Sloane are right and the club ends this for me once and for all. Because the life I’ve built here, the friends I’ve made—it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and I don’t want to give it up.
I don’t want to give him up.
I slide the knife along his skin, making him cry out. The dumbass who broke into my girl’s house is naked and tied to a chair. As hard as he fights, he won’t get loose. Not with those fancy-ass knots that are holding him in place, courtesy of Tank.
“Come on, man, stop. Please stop!” Dirk cries as I slice him.
Ignoring him, I cut him again.
Over and over, I run the blade across his skin, some deeper than others.
“You get anything off his phone yet, Fox?” Smoke asks.
“Yeah, his buddy sent him a text asking him if he got out. I messaged him back, telling him I did, and that I took Mac out.” Fox looks over at me. “Sorry, brother.”
“Hey, take me out. I don’t give a fuck what you say as long as we get the answers we need,” I tell him as I draw the blade across Dirk’s thigh.
“I asked him where he wanted to meet. I’m just waiting for him to respond. I’m still digging too, but it’s a burner,” Fox tells us.
My anger gets the best of me, and I run the blade over his Achilles tendon.
There we go. If he were to get out of the ropes, he won’t be able to get far.
“Son of a bitch!” Dirk cries out.
“You ready to talk yet?” Tank asks him.
Usually, Tank is the one to dole out punishments, but this time it’s personal, and I wanted to handle it myself.
“F-fine, I’ll tell you what you want to know. J-j-just stop,” he stutters.
Tank grabs onto my shoulder, and I reluctantly step away from my victim.
I’ve never had a taste for torture. Sure, I’ll get my hands dirty when I need to, but I much prefer to get it over with quickly. I don’t like to play with the person who did us wrong. This idiot, though, fucked with my family.
It’s personal, and he needs to pay.
Sure, he’s just some hired gun who didn’t know what he was walking into. This is why you always do your research.
“Who hired you?” Smoke demands as he comes to a stop next to me.
“Evan Anderson,” he says as he spits out blood.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Fox pulls out his phone and starts typing on the screen.
“Evan Anderson from Portland, Oregon. He’s thirty-eight and married a Jane Brooks nine years ago,” Fox says.
“Yeah, sure.” The dipshit shrugs.
“Why did he hire you?” I ask.
“The guy said his wife got mixed up with a bad crowd and that they took her and his kids and ran. He said he was worried about their safety. Said he tried to pay to get them back, but the kidnappers went silent. I felt bad for him,” Dirk tells us.
I scoff and begin to pace.
“A bad crowd? A hostage situation? You’ve got to be kidding me?” I rant.
