Page 25 of One Love

Shoo: We got him.

Shoo: Sitting cozy at the warehouse.

Shoo: Like a Christmas present.

Shoo: Doesn’t seem eager to talk.

Who the fuck is he talking about? There are at least three “hims” I’m looking for at this time.

My eyes skip to the end of the thread to land on a name I haven’t seen in a while.

Shoo: By the way, it’s Shane Brennan.

Me: I’ll be there in an hour, keep him nice and warm for me.

I grin as I press send on my response. And by “warm”, he knows I mean scalding hot.

By the time I shower and head out the door, I’m jacked up with excitement. This dude ran me off my bike last month and, for some reason Glitch can’t explain, he was like a ghost. We had a name and that’s it. Hell, I was ready to cross out his name and move on, thinking the trail was cold. Well, like I told Shoo, he’s in hot water now.

There is only one other vehicle at the warehouse when I roll in and park my bike just behind the blacked out F150. Shoo has an apparent problem with brand names so he asked Crank to workon his truck and make all mention of them go away. I mean, to each his own and I don’t ask questions.

Looking around the large, empty lot, I make sure we’re alone without stragglers roaming around looking for scraps or their next hit. Even if they tend to be unreliable witnesses for the cops, I don’t like having eyes on us, no matter who it is.

“Oh, shit, you’re in trouble now, Shay-Shay.” I send a glare in Shoo’s direction, effectively shutting him up. How many fucking coffees has he had this morning?

“Don’t fucking call me that, you freak.” At Shane’s loud, albeit somewhat shaky, words, I turn my full attention to him, making sure he can read the intent in my eyes. If stereotypes had a face, he’d be the avatar for the Irish American…ginger hair and all. I have to give it to the guys, apart from a few scrapes and scratches, they didn’t rough him up a whole lot. How considerate of them.

But sitting there in the middle of the empty warehouse, wrists turned palm side up and tied to the armrest along with his shins roped up tight to the legs of the chair, he just looks weak and scared. I mean, his instincts are on point because when you end up sitting above a drain, surrounded by the clean up crew for the Mancini mafia family, it means you’re about to lose some bodily fluids…one way or another. And that should scare the fuck out of you.

Here’s the thing, I want answers and I will stop at nothing to get them. Although I know he’s chum in the food chain, I have no doubt he’s got information I can use. This is the ultimate test for people like him. They’re either loyal and ready to die on their hill of assholes or…they like pretending they are until shit gets real and nails start flying off. Either way, this man dies tonight. Even if by a long shot or by distant association, Shane Brennan was somehow part of the conspiracy that got Murphy killed and I won’t let that go.

“Freak, huh? Sounds to me like you’re a judgmental little prick.” I speak, calm and unaffected, as I walk around, placing my helmet on the table that’s been pushed up against the far wall. Then, I slide out my blade, shrug off my leather jacket, and pull off my riding gloves, only to replace them with latex ones. My hair is in a low braid that hangs down the middle of my back to avoid getting it stained with blood; it’s too fucking hard washing it out.

Shane is watching me, not responding to my words or the clucking of my tongue as I approach him, slow and easy.

“The way I see it,” I continue, bringing the knife to eye level and inspecting the line. I know it’s perfect, that’s not the point. I just like looking at the sharp, clean edges before I get it all dirty. “Of us all, you’re the freak here, Shane.” When I speak his name, I look him straight in the eye. “You’re the asshole who likes to run bikers off the road then run like a little bitch in heat.”

Shane rears back like I’ve slapped him then, when he realizes he’s shown weakness by his shocked reaction, he spits a wad of phlegm in my direction. Fucking disgusting.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Sha-dow.” He splits my street name in two, saying it like a five-year-old who’s trying to hurt his classmate’s feelings. Except, we’re not five and this ain’t kindergarten. Also, I’m bored.

He tries to follow me with his gaze as I walk behind him but Binx has done a stellar job tying him up, so he doesn’t see me coming when I slam my hand in his thick red hair and curl my gloved fingers around the dirty strands. I don’t like touching men I don’t know, but more than that, I don’t need to leave my DNA on his body—even though I know damn well that this is one corpse no one will ever find.

Pushing his head to the side, far enough down to be painfully uncomfortable, I run my blade along the shell of his ear and whisper, “Where is Ronan?”

Again with the spitting, but in this position, he gets it all over himself. Fucking dumbass.

“I ain’t telling you shit.” Fuck, I really wished this one was a little smarter than the others.

My blade is so fucking sharp that it takes little effort to slice off his ear. “I don’t think you heard me right, so let me ask again.” Even though he’s screaming his fucking head off, I still only whisper as I kick his unattached ear into the drain so he can see it there at his feet.

“You fucking cunt, you cut off my ear! What the actual fuck?” There’s no helping my eye roll. Where the fuck did they get this guy? MadeMenWannabe dot com?

“Hmm, I wonder…do you know the origin of the word ‘cunt’?” I blow on his open wound and grin when he belts out another screech of pain.

“Fuck you talking about? I don’t fucking know!”

Looking to Shoo, I shrug like this guy’s too stupid to live.

---