Guerilla mutters angrily to himself. His phone is pressed to his ear as he tries to call someone again, but they don’t answer, like all the other times.
My eyes slide to my only chance of escape: a shotgun propped up against the counter.
When Guerilla had dragged me out of the bedroom, he shoved me into the single kitchen chair, then proceeded to give me a tutorial on the gun. He was trying to intimidate me as he lovingly wiped the barrel with a cloth and loaded it with buckshot; called that because it was commonly used to shoot bucks.
I would’ve rolled my eyes at him if I wasn’t in the situation I currently am.
I know all about the shotgun; what it’s used for and how to operate it. My grandpa, Livewire, taught me how to handle and clean it and took me down into the MC underground shooting range to teach me how to shoot it. He even took me hunting once until I begged him never to do that again.
But I didn’t tell Guerilla any of this, because if he thinks I’m clueless, then I have a better chance of getting my hands on the weapon and getting the hell out of here.
I eye the shotgun again, wanting to lunge for it, but Guerilla is too close to it. Instead, I ask him, “Who are you trying to call?”
If I can get him talking, I might find out some information that could help, or it might distract him enough that I can scoot my chair closer to the gun.
He lowers his phone from his ear and stabs at the screen, disconnecting the call attempt. “I don’t like this bold, brazen version of you, little lamb.”
I bite my tongue, stopping myself from antagonizing him further. If he seemed unhinged or psychopathic before, his inability to get a hold of whoever he’s trying to call is making it worse.
His fist closes around the phone as he regards me. “But if you really must know, I’m trying to reach my contact in the death ring.”
Right. That fucked-up ring. Sorry, I asked.
I force myself to remain calm and not dissolve into hysterics.
He smiles, malevolent and vicious. “And I’m also trying to get a hold of Thunder.”
“Why?”
My heart hammers, suspecting the answer, though.
“Thunder and Razor have been my source of intel the past few years as I planned a way to get back at my brother.” Guerilla grins. “And Thunder, right now, is supposed to be calling about our last step in our plan against my little prick brother and the rest of the Council.”
If Hayes is still alive after the MC’s vote, he, along with the rest of them, could end up dead because of Thunder’s treachery.
Guerilla cocks his head and smiles. “You returning was the icing on the cake, little lamb. Proof Icanhave my cake and eat it too.”
Dread swirls in my gut. “Why do you hate Hayes so much? And why would you do this?”
He’s working with people involved in adeathring.
I study him, trying to see if he was always this man, and I had just been so young, naïve, and blind. And how he and Hayes could be so entirely different. “Don’t you care about destroying people’s lives?”
“And what about my life that you destroyed?” he shouts, reminding me how close to the edge he is.
But I still lift my chin, refusing to cower. “I didn’t do anything.”
He tuts like I’m a child. “You loved my brother, not me. You always have.”
We’ve been over this already, and I shake my head. “If you knew that, and you feel like your life was destroyed because I never loved you, then that’s on you, Guerilla.”
“You willingly became my old lady, little lamb.” He comes over and leans down. “You bounced on my dick before his, even though you loved him. So, what’s that make you, babe?”
I try to turn away from him, but he grips my chin, getting closer to my face. “You thought you could substitute, didn’t you? You didn’t know my brother loved you, so you thought the other Cartwright brother would do.”
He’s right, and shame fills me. “I was young and stupid, vulnerable.”
Losing my parents affected me deeply, and all I wanted was a family. Hayes wasn’t an option, or at least I had thought, and I had been so goddamn foolish to think Guerilla could fill the hole that losing my parents had made.
