Page 59 of Wild Side
Once I’m dressed, I go in search of my rental Jeep keys, frowning as I look around the bedroom, even checking the nightstand drawer, because I come up completely empty-handed. They aren’t in my purse, either.
I walk out of the room and make my way to the bar, then step outside, thinking that maybe they’re actually in said Jeep. I stop outside, and my breath hitches when I realize that said Jeep is no longer parked where it last was.
Reaching for the phone that I’ve tucked into my back pocket, I start to look for Chase’s number, but I realize I still don’t have it. That’s something I need to make sure I get next time I see him, especially since I’m going to be staying here with him.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I stare at the almost empty parking lot and let out a heavy sigh. There are a few bikes, a few pickup trucks, and an SUV, none of which is the Jeep. I’m not quite sure what to do. I could go inside and look for Goose, ask him for his brother’s number, maybe ask him for a ride, but that seems weird.
So instead, I make my way back into the bar, slip into the kitchen, and scrounge around for some carbs and a water before I go back to Chase’s room and flip on the television and wait.
Chase will be back soon. There is food and water here. But I guess we need to continue the conversation we had earlier, like when I’m going to get my stuff from the motel and where my rental is located.
MAVERICK
“So we’ll package all this shit up over here,” I say, pointing to a section of the store. “This goes out to one of our old buyers. They’ll be here in about an hour to pick it up.”
Lightning jerks his chin as he goes about showing the prospects what to pack.
“This is going a lot smoother than I expected,” Bullet murmurs next to me.
It is, which causes my senses to tingle. Because nothing ever goes quite this smoothly. Especially when it’s a transitional overhaul. We’re not just changing office buildings or suppliers.
We’re ceasing to run an entire business. One that had clients—under the table—living in the depths of the underworld. And they don’t usually accept changes very easily, nor do they adapt easily.
“I’m leery,” I admit.
Bullet snorts. “Yeah, same.”
Once the shit is all packed up, I glance at my phone to check if the buyer has messaged me, but there’s nothing. Glancing over to Viking, I jerk my chin toward him, then ask if he’s received anything, but he doesn’t have dick.
There’re five of us here, and it’s not like I’m worried about anything safety-wise, but at the same time, it feels like something is definitely up, and I have no fucking reason to feel that way other than I just do.
An hour passes, then another, and my uneasy feeling grows. Lightning, Viking, and Bullet are busy moving around the shop and getting shit handled, ordering prospects to get shit packed, separated, and ready for all the different places it’s going. Some boxes are heading to other buyers, other boxes are headed to the dump, and a few are going to be sold online.
When I check my phone again, there is a knock on the back door. I narrow my eyes, watching it for a moment, as if the door itself is going to perform some kind of act of magic or some such shit.
Everyone else is busy, so I make my way toward the offending door and wrench it open. There, standing in front ofme, is the buyer I’ve been waiting for. I don’t ask him inside, at least not yet.
Flicking my gaze past him, I notice there is a box truck parked behind him. Everything seems to be on the up and up. I tell myself that it’s only because I’m the one imagining the worst. After dealing with Halo, I can’t trust a fucking person, not even another Reaper, let alone this guy.
This is on me, not him, so I jerk my chin and say hello.
“You’re late.” I take a step backward so he can pass by me.
He grunts but otherwise doesn’t respond to my jab. Weird, but not necessarily guilty of anything. I try to calm down, try to relax, but it doesn’t work. The vibes are really fucking off.
“Traffic,” he states.
Thunder Rock has no fucking traffic. Alarm bells begin to ring, but before I can warn anyone, before I can say anything or prepare myself, he spins around with a gun in his hand, pointing it directly at me.
“Get the fuck down, or I’ll blow your head off,” he grinds out.
I don’t make a motion to move. I’m not some bitch who’s going to just drop to my knees because he tells me to.
Fuck that.
Lifting my chin slightly, I look down my nose at him. I don’t take my eyes off him, trying to find a moment when I can reach for my gun, but before that happens, I hear the door open behind me, and the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of my head.
“On your knees, bitch,” the man growls.
