Blood is pooling beneath his leg, but I don’t give a fuck.
“Fuck you!” he spits, his round face beet red with pain and rage. “You got in the fucking way. That bitch was promised to me, and you fucked it all up.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re the one who’s been fucking with my woman?”
“She’s MINE!” he roars, spittle flying from his lips. “Valenciaga gave her to me.”
White-hot rage floods my system, drowning out everything else. “Yours?” I snarl, tightening my grip on the gun. “She belongs to me.”
His eyes widen with sudden fear, but it’s too late. I pull the trigger, ending his miserable existence with a bullet to the brain.
Breathing hard, I stare down at the body. Motherfucker had the nerve to think my girl was his. Fuck that. June Calloway belongs to me.
I hear rustling behind me and spin around, gun raised.
“Fuck.” I lower my weapon as Tacoma, Bane, Bash, and Gator approach from the cabin.
“You good?” Tacoma asks, his eyes going to the body.
“Fuck no.” Narrowing my eyes, I kick the fat fuck’s leg. “He’s the motherfucker who was fucking with my woman. Said Valenciaga ‘gave her to him.’”
Tacoma’s brows shoot up. “The fuck?”
Adrenaline and rage flood my veins. Fuck these motherfuckers. Spinning around, I kick the fat bastard in his gut.
Bane claps a hand on my shoulder. “Easy, brother. She’s safe now.”
I look back at the cabin, where smoke is starting to rise from the windows.
“Is she?” We don’t fucking know that. These motherfuckers are like cockroaches. You kill one, and ten more crawl out of the fucking woodwork.
Bane’s face sobers. “We’ll figure it out.”
I nod, holstering my weapon. Yeah. There’s no other option. I can’t lose her now.
“Come on,” Tacoma says, already turning away. “Let’s go home.”
“Yeah.” I look up at the stars, thinking of the woman back at the clubhouse waiting for me. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twelve
June
The sun came up an hour ago.
I know this because I’ve been staring at the window since the first streak of light crept across the sky, watching it turn from gray to pink to gold.
I glance over at the door for the hundredth time since Journey left, and wish for it to open. I’d give anything right now for him to come strolling in with the too-smug swagger I’m addicted to.
It doesn’t open, of course.
“How long have they been gone?” I ask again.
“A few hours,” Frankie says without breaking eye contact with her computer screen.
“And where did they go?”
My question is met with complete silence.
