Page 23 of Wild Angel

I mean—

The car slows,slows. It finally comes to a halt a few yards away.

Then nothing.

Christ, I guess they’re expecting me to walk up to them?

My legs feel like wooden struts, but I force myself to keep wearing my scowl, and I make myself walk back to the stationary limousine.

I keep telling myself no one’s going to lower the window and point a gun at me.

It doesn’t help.

I’m shivering inside by the time I stop next to the back passenger-side door.

I wait. When nothing happens, I lean over and rap on the window with my knuckles.

It rolls down. A handsome man—late fifties, I think—with a chiseled jawline and pitch-black hair regards me from the other side of the car.

“Ah, you must be Nyx,” he says in a thick Colombian accent. “Well, get in,chimbita.”

Chapter Fourteen

Savage

Iwalk into the Brennan Boxing Club like I own the place, and that immediately gets me noticed by almost every guy inside. Because it’s all guys in here—two in the ring, five practicing their swings on some punching bags, and one who’s so in the zone, he doesn’t look up from the small speed bag that’s a blur in front of him.

A man with a crooked nose and hints of red in his graying hair frowns at me and then steps away from the punching bag he was holding in place for a sweating jock. “Can I help you?” he asks.

Irish. Possibly the owner from the way he scans me as he approaches. Sizing me up, wary by the fact that I don’t look like one of his regular clients.

“I’m looking for Nyx Gray,” I tell him. There’s no point in bullshitting—if she’s here, I’ll find her. If she’s not, then I need to look elsewhere.

She wasn’t at the motel. The plastic surgery nightmare in reception told me they’d rented out her room already, and then instructed that I take away the three trash bags of Nyx’s stuff or she was tossing it in the dumpster.

Thankfully I left before I blew the check-in girl’s brains out. No one demands shit from me.

Now I’m wondering if she really will throw away Nyx’s stuff. Considering turning around and going to fetch it.

Feelings like this? This is how I know I’m in too deep.

Any other day I probablywouldhave ended that bimbo’s life—or at least given her a reason to seriously reconsider speaking to someone like that ever again.

Another way I know I’m in too deep is the sudden ache in the middle of my chest a second before Vito calls me on my mobile.

My mother used to get shit like this. Vibes, she called them. She always knew when my father was getting up to no good.

She knew the night a bunch of cartel men broke into our home. She told Bryan something bad was coming, that we had to get out of the house, but he didn’t take her seriously. Not until our door splintered in and the bullets started flying.

We barely made it out there alive.

Mother didn’t.

What’s the use of picking upvibesthen? If it can’t save your life, then what the fuck is the point?

The boxing club’s owner watches me as I take a step back, and then dismisses me when I head out the door to take Vito’s call.

“I’ll call you back,” I tell him.

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