Page 50 of Shame

“That a tree? You going the right way?” Rhino asks.

“Of course I’m going the right fucking way! Where else you want me to go?”

There’s only one goddamn road out here and it’s hardly a road at all. Can’t be noticeable by people, this way they don’t start using it.

“Why wouldn’t Grizz mention this?” Rhino shakes his head. “This don’t make sense. Something’s wrong.”

No shit.

There’s a thump, then a hissing sound catches my attention. I lower the radio that’s in and out of some Bon Jovi song, feeling the truck shift. Another thump, another hiss. The other side of the truck shifts, lowering to the ground.

“Oh, fuck no,” I say, grabbing the gun from the center console. “I knew this was a fucking setup,” I growl as I kick open the door and hop out.

“Iron pricks!” Rhino shouts from the other side of the truck, then a gun goes off. Hopefully his.

I duck, and move around the back of the truck, finding a guy with an Iron Runner patch on his cut on the ground, bleeding from his throat. Another one pops out from the trees, shooting at me but missing. I take aim, firing back and get him in the skull. The round echoes around us, causing birds to scatter.

“Rhino?” I call out.

“I’m good!” he answers.

Glancing down, I see the tires are flat as shit, a huge hole making it impossible for repair. We’ve got one spare on this thing, and two flat tires.

“You think there’s more?” he asks when he reaches my side, gun ready to shoot and eyes darting every which way to look for more targets.

“No fucking idea,” I growl, yanking the radio from my pocket. “We’ve got a fucking problem,” I say into it, then look at Rhino. “Hope those stitches are going to hold, because it looks like we’re taking another trip to the Iron prick’s bar tonight.”

Chapter Sixteen

Cora

It’s been two days since I’ve spoken to or heard from Kaison. Worried doesn’t begin to cover how I feel. I go back and forth from angry to scared to worried to furious. After the last time this happened—just a few days ago—he promised he wouldn’t do it again. That he would let me know what’s going on and where he’d be. I understand he has things going on with the club, but if I’m important to him at all, shouldn’t he let me know? Even if it’s something he can’t share the details of, at least let me know you’re going to be off grid. Because that’s exactly what he is. I’ve texted and called many times. Texts won’t go through and when I call, the voicemail picks up right away. I’ve wondered if he skipped town and changed his number. I’ve considered going to their clubhouse to ask if he’s okay. But then I was worried about what I’d see… or what I’d learn.

What if he’s with one of those girls who hangs around the club? I know what those guys do. They have a reputation. Whatif he’s like Mark Wahlberg as David McCall inFearand he has two different lives? I’d be devastated, and that’s a scary thought. This is still new, and I shouldn’t care so much.

Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Maybe the night we spent together wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. It hurts more than it should, considering I hardly know him. Still, if that’s what he wants, I’ll respect it. The least he could do is tell me, though.

I have too many things to worry about in my life to deal with someone who doesn’t want to be in it. And even though he said he did, he’s acting the opposite… and I’m wondering if I’m going to have to call this quits. This is too much stress. It was supposed to be fun. Good for me. And it is when he’s present, but when he’s gone? It’s hell. Here I am in a near panic, wondering if he’s dead in a ditch or bleeding out in the woods somewhere. It’s exhausting and unnecessary. It could all be fixed with a simple text.

“Cora!” I whirl at my name being shouted across the restaurant, nearly dropping the pot of coffee in my hand.

Norman is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at me as if I better hurry or else—

I meet Fia’s concerned look across the room and raise a brow. She gives a small shrug and goes back to her table. I sigh, topping off the coffees of the table I’m at, replace the carafe at the machine, then go to the back where I find Norman in his office.

Knocking on the open door, I say, “You wanted to see me?”

“Next week? You requested to work Sunday and take off Monday and Wednesday.”

“Yes,” I say, stepping into the office.

“I can’t approve it,” he says, leaning back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head.

He can’t… but why not?

“But my father is having surgery. A procedure for his heart. I have to be home. I found my own coverage.”

He’s shaking his head while I’m talking. “Fia can’t work that many hours.”

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