Page 31 of Live Love Steal
“Once we confirm my laptop and my car are safe, I’ll be one hundred percent happy to forget you even exist.”
“Good. Ground rule three, you talk about anything related to this day, the Destroyers, or our business, and someone in your family will pay the price.” That wasn’t a threat. That was an inevitability.
“Are you threatening my family?”
That didn’t deserve an answer. Obviously, she didn’t see the whole picture. “One, I didn’t physically steal your plates. I think a prospect did. Two, no one in the club tried to steal your car. I know that for a fact. Three, you love your family, that’s easy to tell. Which means they’re vulnerable. They’re also your vulnerability. Wolf would have picked up on that. And, I’ll add, he pointed it out to Griz, who is really good at making people shut up. So do with that information what you will.”
My phone rang. I picked it up and swiped the screen to answer. Now wasn’t the time to ignore anything. I set it on speaker out of habit.
“David?”
Great. My ex, Sharon. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Noah’s not feeling well.”
Shit. I curbed the urge to turn around and pick up my kid. “Is it serious?”
“I don’t know.” Her cavalier sarcasm told me it wasn’t, and this was going to be one of those calls where she was just frustrated and taking her shit out on me.
“I’m busy right now. What do you need from me?”
“I need you not to be an ass for once.”
That ship sailed when I caught her in bed with one of the wannabes we allowed in the gates one night for a party. “Talk.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Talk to me about Noah.” God, she was a piece of work. I had the shittiest taste in women. A quick glance to my right confirmed it. Isobel sat staring straight ahead, arms crossed and a little furrow between her brows. She was fuming alright.
“He says his tummy hurts.”
“Put him on.”
There was a quiet shuffle on the other end, and then his tentative voice warbled through the speakers. “Dad?”
“Hey, your mom says your tummy hurts. Did you eat something wonky?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, it just hurts.”
That could be a lot of things. “High or low?”
“High.”
Shit. Low would pass, literally. “Did your mom give you anything?”
“I threw it up. It tasted bad.”
“Bad how? Bitter or just yucky?”
“Yucky. It was pink.”
That would have been my first choice, too. “The pink medicine isn’t so bad. I take it once in a while when my stomach hurts. But if you threw it up, that’s not good. Are you running a fever?”
There was a muffled conversation, and my ex came back on the line. “He’s at ninety-nine point five.”
Low fever. “If it hits a hundred-one, take him to the emergency room.”
“I don’t have the copay.”
