I slap his face. “Nuh-uh you don’t.”
I release him, and he groans as his head drops forward. I leave the knife in situ, crouching down in front of him.
“I wanna know if you had any other plans,” I growl. “You hit my garage. You hit my strip club. You dealt your shit on my patch. Fuck, you even had the balls to take my woman.”
He shakes his head, a small gasp escaping his lips.
“I can’t hear you.” I lift his head to look at me.
His eyes stare at me, that flicker of light beginning to erode.
“What did you say?” I lean in closer. “Maybe I won’t kill you. There are things worth more than death in this life.” I arch a brow at the idea, standing.
“We were going to take the clubhouse,” he croaks.
“What?” I laugh, “You thought you could take this?”
“It’s not as safe as you think,” he murmurs. I pull the knife from his leg and he groans louder. “Just fucking end it.”
“Tell me what you mean first,” I demand.
“We were going to torch the fucking place. Boom!”
That familiar feeling of rage begins to creep in, but staying calm and in control has got me further in this short time than I’ve managed in weeks.
I walk behind his chair, pulling back his head and placing the blade against his neck. He closes his eyes, ready.
“How?” I ask, my heart beating rapidly in my chest.
“Check your foundations,” he whispers.
I stiffen before running the blade along the thin layer of skin. It slices right through, severing his artery. Blood spurts from his neck, spilling on the floor. I watch as he makes a long gurgling sound, then goes limp.
I take the knife, wiping it on the back of his shirt, then I pick up my phone and dial Clay’s number.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Check the foundations of the clubhouse,” I say firmly. “And, Clay, we need clean-up down here.”
“On it,” is all he says before disconnecting the call.
ROCHELLE
As I walk into the lounge, it’s empty. Usually, in early evening, it’s a hive of activity. The only time it’s this quiet is when there are issues.
“Hazel, where is everyone?” I ask.
“Church,” she says before going back to wiping down the tables.
I sit on the sofa, resting my feet on the table in front of me. It seems eerily quiet, and I wonder why church has been called so urgently.
I rest my head back on the sofa, and my stomach tightens, making me wince.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and as I take it out, I see there is no caller I.D.
“Hello?” I hear sobs down the line. “Hello, can I help you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t know who else to call.” The voice is a woman’s. It’s low, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her.
