Page 32 of Sinful
"They don't know much about his condition," Elfe says, her voice carefully controlled. "Just that he's been hurt. Badly. His hand—" She stops, remembers. "You didn't want to know the details."
No. I didn't. Don't.
Because if I let myself picture what Los Coyotes did to him—what I caused them to do to him—I'll shatter into pieces right hereon this barstool.
"Is he conscious?" I ask instead.
"We don’t know. Los Coyotes haven’t been forthcoming with their threats…" Elfe's hands shake slightly around her glass. "It’s been a day since we’ve gotten an update and everyone is starting to get worried. We’re thinking that they might have…"
She doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
My father could be dying because I killed Andrés Medina and Los Coyotes felt like it looked like club retaliation.
The guilt sits in my stomach like lead.
"The meeting tomorrow," I say, desperate to talk about anything else. "Who's coming?"
"Reapers Rejects from Vegas. Their Prez, Damon, is the one who called for this. He thinks if we unite—multiple clubs working together—we can push back against Los Coyotes hard enough to make them fuck off." Elfe takes a long drink. "And the Shotgun Saints from Texas."
My spine straightens automatically. Texas.
"Their Prez couldn't make it," Elfe continues. "Something about bad blood with Runes from years ago. So they sent a Nomad instead. Guy named Bravos."
The name means nothing to me.
Except—
I glance down the bar, and he's still there.
The man from earlier.
The one with the dead eyes who looked at me like he could see straight through every lie I've built.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
It's like touching a live wire.
Something hot and electric shoots through me, settling low in my belly.
His gaze is steady, unflinching, those dead eyes somehow sparking to life just for a second.
A flash of something—interest, recognition, hunger—before going flat again.
I look away first this time.
Have to.
Because staring at a stranger in a bar while my father could be dying is exactly the kind of selfish shit I've been running from for three years.
"Helle?" Elfe's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just tired from the ride." I drain my beer, flag down Njal for another. "So tomorrow they sit down and what? Make war plans?"
"Basically. Runes wants to coordinate attacks, share intelligence, and cut off Los Coyotes' supply lines." Elfe's face hardens. "Make them hurt the way they've hurt us, and hopefully get Dad in the process."
My new beer arrives and I drink too fast, trying to drown the voice in my head that's screaming confess, just fucking confess already.
But if I confess, Los Coyotes will come for me instead of Dad.
