Page 79 of Wicked Spite
“Then why didn’t you fucking tell her that?” His blue eyes flicker with genuine curiosity, but there’s an edge to his tone that grates on my nerves.
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably because I’ve been avoiding it myself,” I snap. The word hangs in the air, heavy and loaded. “She’s not just some bitch I married to keep quiet anymore. She’s…she’s Reagan Blackwood. Or at least she wasn’t, but now she’s running off and no one fucking runs from me.”
“Real poetic, cousin.” Ramsey smirks, but it fades quickly. “Do you seriously think she just took off on her own? I mean every time I saw you too together you were damn near fucking in front of us.”
“Yeah, I do,” I growl. The thought of anyone else touching her makes my blood boil. “No one could’ve gotten to her in the house. They never got to Iris or Oakley, that was all outside of the house. She left on her own.”
“Then why would she leave all her shit behind? Seems pretty stupid, if you ask me.”
“Her ass probably thought I had a tracker on something,” I retort. “She was probably thinking she could outsmart me. But she’s got another think coming.”
“Maybe someone did take her,” Ramsey suggests, his voice quieter now. “You found her phone on the hallway floor, remember? Why would she leave it on the damn floor?”
“You’re grasping at straws, Rams.” I shoot him a glare. “Why the fuck would she be at her sister’s school, then? Makes no sense. She’s grabbing her sister, and they are bolting. That’s it.”
“People do crazy shit when they’re desperate,” he mutters, more to himself than me.
“Desperate or not, no one’s taking her from me.” My voice is low, dangerous. The truck roars down the highway, the engine growling at me to match my own mood. “Reagan’s mine. And I’m gonna make damn sure she remembers that.”
I grip the wheel tighter because I need to hurt something or someone. The frustration gnaws at me like a rabid dog at a bone. Ramsey’s still fiddling with my phone, more useless than a screen door on a submarine.
“What’s this?” Ramsey asks, squinting at my screen likehe’s discovered some hidden fucking nerd code. “A folder labeled ‘my wife’?”
“Don’t you fucking touch that,” I snap, my voice a low growl. “You open it, I’ll skewer your eyeballs out and use them in a martini.”
Ramsey just laughs, the sound grating against my nerves. “Relax, psycho. Just trying to ease the mood before you either shit your pants or have a heart attack. Judging by the twitching in your eye, either is liable to happen.” He flicks through the apps, ignoring my threat like it’s nothing but background noise.
“Help by keeping your nose out of my business,” I bite back, eyes locked on the road ahead. Every mile feels like an eternity. Why the fuck does Wellington feel so goddamn far away?
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, finally pulling up the house cameras. His fingers dance expertly over the screen, bringing up the footage. “Let’s see what your wife actually took with her.”
“Better find something useful or I’m kicking your ass out. You can play hitchhiker with your freakishly long thumbs,” I warn, impatience making my blood boil.
“Here we go...” His voice trails off as he watches the screen, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Well? Spit it out,” I demand, glancing over.
“Not even ten minutes before you get home. She’s running out of the house,” Ramsey says slowly, almost disbelievingly. “Shaking like a leaf, man. Is she fucking crying? She’s got no bags or anything with her. Something’s wrong. Seriously fucking wrong, Penn.”
“Let me see,” I bark, snatching the phone from him for a quick glance before tossing it back. Reagan’s face is pale, eyeswide with fear. The only reason there should be tears running down her face is because I put them there. My gut twists, anger and desperation intertwining like barbed wire.
“Looks bad, cousin,” Ramsey says, his earlier humor replaced by genuine concern. “We need to get to her. Fast.”
“Don’t tell me what I already know,” I retort, but there’s no venom in my voice. Only raw, unfiltered determination.
“Alright, alright,” Ramsey says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just don’t blow a gasket before we get there.”
“Keep your eyes on the screen,” I order, the highway stretching endlessly before us. “And tell me if her tracker moves even a fucking inch.”
“Got it, boss,” Ramsey replies, his expression grim.
“Good.” I focus on the road.
The truck surges forward, the needle on the speedometer climbing higher, matching the frantic pace of my heart. I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, but I can’t let up. Not now.
“Jesus, slow down before you kill us both,” Ramsey says, clinging to the seat for dear life.
“Shut up and keep looking at that tracker,” I snap back. “She’s out there, and I’m not about to fucking lose her. She’s my goddamn wife.”
