I take the receipt from her. There’s a phone number on it.
“My number. If you ain’t seeing Oaks, you ain’t really safe. His President, Legend may be in the business of protecting Paradise Falls lately and its inhabitants, but he still answers my call.”
I smirk at her mention of Sophie Montgomery. Even I’ve heard about how our town’s ruling family’s prized thoroughbreds are turning up dead and her old flame who happens to be the Kings of Anarchy MC president is on the case.
Everyone knows Becki’s jealous. Those whispers are louder than the ones about me. But suddenly, I stop smirking.
I reach out and touch Becki’s hand. “You care about the President, don’t you?”
She takes her hand away quick to wipe an unshed tear.
“It’s complicated. Just like you care about the VP.”
That lands harder than anything from the diner. Becki leaves. The rest of the day drags, every bell jingle making me flinch, every truck engine making my heart spike. By the time the sun starts bleeding out over Main Street, I’m exhausted from pretending I don’t care. And like I’m not scared.
I lock up at sunset, keys clenched between my fingers the way Daddy taught me. The parking lot’s empty except for my car.
Something’s wrong the second I see it.
The driver’s side door is cracked. Not wide. Just enough. My breath goes shallow.
I don’t touch it. I circle wide, scanning shadows, checking under the car like I’ve seen in movies. Nothing moves. No footsteps. No engines. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that feels arranged.
I edge closer.
Inside, on the seat, there’s a folded piece of paper.
I know better.
I pick it up anyway.
It sticks slightly to my fingers. Two words. Written in dark, sticky red.
Watch Out
My vision tunnels. The metallic smell hits a beat later, and my stomach drops like I missed a step. Not ink. Blood, again. Like they weren’t sure I saw the first one and made it bigger. Put it on my seat instead of the window.
I drop the note like it burned me and stagger back from the car, bile climbing my throat. My hands shake so bad I have to sit on the curb just to breathe.
This ain’t gossip. This ain’t Bethany’s pride. This is something else.
Something deadly.
I don’t call the cops. I call Lottie.
She’s there in ten minutes flat, Holler’s truck fishtailing into the lot behind her. She hops out before it fully stops, hair pulled tight, fury carved sharp across her face.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes when she sees the note.
I tell them about the first one on a napkin.
“Why didn’t you call right then,” they scold me. “Where is it?”
“In the landfill by now. I thought if I ignored it, I could believe it ain’t happening.”
Holler doesn’t touch the note. He squats down, studying it like it’s a weapon. “This ain’t a jealous wife’s scare,” he says finally, voice low. “This is a warning.”
“That makes it worse,” I croak. “Then who?”
