Page 33 of Deceit

BISHOP: That shit’s not funny.

KYSON: What isn’t?

I forward him the picture and immediately get a response back.

KYSON: LOL, dude, I’m telling you she knows that I know where you are.

BISHOP: Keep her away from here.

KYSON: You tell her to stay away.

BISHOP: Are you a bitch or something? Why is everyone scared of this chick? If anyone makes you shit your pants, it should be Blue.

KYSON: Blue is like one of the dudes. Emmy is emotional.

BISHOP: Keep her away from me, or you’re going to have to deal with tears, chick flicks, and gallons of ice cream when I send her ass back to you.

KYSON: Yeah…about that.

KYSON: She’s on her way there.

My alarm notification buzzes on my phone, and the sound of a car rolling up and crushing into the gravel has me instinctively out of my conversation with Kyson about Emmy altogether.

Sitting up, I don’t bother moving the horizontal blinds to see if someone stopped in front of my trailer and didn’t just get too close.

I know they did.

I look down the hallway to see that Hardy hasn’t moved an inch, still sleeping like a baby on the only new thing I’ve bought for this place.

Although, he won’t be if someone starts to fuck with the door again.

So, I invite the asshole in.

Unlocking the front door as if Hardy and Scarlett forgot to do so, I step into the shadows near the small closet to block me from view.

It doesn’t take long for the jiggling of the handle to move, then the door to slowly creak open. My heart begins to match my adrenaline, sprinting like a familiar freight train as I patiently wait for our new visitor to step inside.

Movement from my bedroom catches my eye, and fucking Hardy isn’t lying in bed anymore. The lump of blankets that covered his body are no longer in my view.

Trait number three that he got from me—moving smoothly and silently without being seen or heard. I’ll have to thank his commander in the army for training him so well to hide from threats and stand by for the perfect opportunity to make a move.

With my index finger on the trigger of my trusted Glock, the front door opens wider, creating a black wall to block my view of my room. Either Scarlett’s ex-boyfriend or one of Bubba’s buddies came to play.

The intruder’s footsteps make the tiled floor whine as I slowly close the door with the pad of my index finger to get him back in my sights. Inching closer to the far side of the trailer where Hardy is, I don’t hesitate a second longer—no point—and send a bullet somewhere into the back of his leg.

I’m not picky.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not giving an obvious shit that if his cover wasn’t blown before, it is now.

Stepping out of the dark, my fist slams into the back of his skull, sending the man forward as my brother comes out with a baseball bat clutched in his hand. He doesn’t linger to move closer, then surprises me when he swings back and connects with the bastard’s head, knocking him out cold with a heavy thud against the worn tiles.

The lights turn on, and Hardy is heaving short breaths through flared nostrils as he glares down at the heap of skin and bones on the floor.

“Nice hit,” I comment, shoving my gun into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Thanks.”

“You wanna go check on Scarlett?”

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