Page 56 of Patching Over

Slaying… sleighing.

Hmm, maybe my head was hit harder than I thought because right now, everything that comes across my mind is hysterically funny. I suspect, however, these four aren’t seeing the humor in anything I’ve said out loud because they’re freaking out.

“Shut up, bitch, let me think!” Hog screams, pulling at his nasty, greasy hair. “Fuck, what should we do?” he whines to the other three, who look like they wish the ground would open up and swallow them whole.

“Write out a Last Will and Testament,” I helpfully suggest. “Make peace with your Maker? Although, I suspect you’ll be going straight to Hell with no pit stops nor a chance at redemption whatsoever, but what do I know about facing one's Judgement Day? I mean, I didn’t create any universe or anything. Just going by what I’ve heard on the television over the years.”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up,” Beaver warns, coming close and waving a disgusting bandana around. “Otherwise, I’ll shove this in your mouth.”

Yeah, no. Nope. Nuh-uh.

There’s no fucking way that stiff piece of fabric is coming anywhere near me or my mouth; I’d be forced to drink bleach or something to get rid of all the germs that’ve made that material its home. Instead of replying out loud, I glare at him while rolling my lips inward and clamping them between my teeth.

I’ll bite his finger off before he gets the opportunity to gag me with that cesspool. The fact I’m willing to poison myself by putting my mouth near any part of his disgusting body says a lot about the condition of his bandana, that’s for sure. Not sure even Clorox could get it disinfected at this point.

“Clock, you go check around their clubhouse and see if they even know she’s gone yet. Maybe we can drop her off or something before anyone’s the wiser.”

I can’t see that working, but hey, if it gets me home, I definitely won’t complain about their idiocy. I figure by now, since I have no clue how long I was knocked out, there are bound to be more people milling around and that means the likelihood of them getting me there, dropping me off, and then leaving undetected is practically zilch to none.

“Got it, Hog. I’ll be back shortly,” Clock confidently states.

I roll my eyes at his bravado; it amazes and amuses me how those in the throes of a drug high think they’re invincible.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Brick

Despite our best efforts, we come up empty-handed which has me equal parts angry and pissed-off.

“We’ll find them, brother,” Ban assures me, patting my shoulder as we head back to the parked trucks.

So far, we’ve checked out five different and distinct areas where hunting cabins are known to be located, coming up empty each and every damn time. Well, kind of; we did find two where they’ve been cooking their product and storing it for distribution, so Hawg has anonymously sent pictures along with the coordinates to the ATF. That shit has to be destroyed carefully and while we’re not huge on law enforcement whatsoever, in this instance, I’m perfectly happy with them getting involved, bagging evidence, and destroying the product. Just as long as we get the motherfuckers and can deal with them in our own way, that is.

“Bet the clubhouse is smelling mighty good about now,” Brew muses, patting his belly. “I know she’s planning to make cookies, do you think she’ll let us taste test some?”

Despite the seriousness of our current task, I can’t help the chuckle that his excited words emit. “Brother, you know damn good and well if Rayleigh is cooking or baking, she’s gonna make sure there’s enough for all of us to try.”

“Then let’s head in that direction so we can refuel and warm the fuck up,” Phantom suggests, rubbing his cold hands together in an attempt to warm them up. “Hell, even Kracken looks cold, and that motherfucker never seems to be bothered by the drop in temperatures.”

I glance at Kracken and smirk. In deference to the fact we’re out in thirty-degree weather with snow on the ground and more being forecasted, he has a hoodie on over his cut.

“You’re reaching, brother,” I tease Phantom. “But yeah, we’re heading back to the clubhouse. It’s getting too dark to see more than a foot in front of us and we all know how easy it is to miss shit back in this expansive area without that deterrent.”

Arriving at the clubhouse, I see absolute chaos going on.

There are several trucks with Iowa tags, as well as a few with Nevada tags.

“What the fuck is going on? Did you get any calls?” I ask Banshee as we both bail out of my truck and race inside, shoving people out of our way.

“No, brother, not at all,” he huffs as we continue to jog.

We come to a halting stop when we see Grim, Rael, Shadow, Voodoo, Venom, and Angel situated around the room in battle ready stances.

Angel looks pale as fuck and is unsteady on his feet as he walks toward me, Voodoo trailing right behind him.

I take a deep, cleansing breath because the one person I’m searching for and wanna see is noticeably absent. Then I take another one when I realize my father’s wheelchair is at his normal table but he’s not in it.

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