Page 77 of Deceiver

He’s right.

They would have.

“He give you any hint about who he’s workin’ for?” Fury asks me.

I shake my head. “No. He never lets that slip. He just spent the entire time bragging about how clever he has been this whole time. He’s confident, he’s certain he has the upper hand. He is planning on bringing the club down, and I think you all need to get there before he can.”

“That’s what I’m plannin’ on doin’,” Western growls. “Fury, Mex, you two check the ammo, load up, make sure we’re covered if some fucker drops another attack on the club.”

The two of them nod.

“Why do you think the club was attacked to begin with?” I ask Western. “Bill didn’t know then what you were doing.”

“No, but he wanted to rattle us. He was makin’ it known that he has the world on his side, and he would find out the truth.”

Right.

Which means he could do it again.

“Are we safe here?”

Western looks to me. “With me, you’re always safe.”

That warms my heart in a way he’ll never understand.

If only he knew just how much a sentence could alter my soul.

Sounds coming from outside the club have Western whipping his head towards the front door, his eyes narrowing as he glances out, not a single inch of flesh on his body moving as he processes what he’s hearing. He’s like a wild animal, his instincts so in tune with what’s happening around him.

“What is that fuckin’ sound?” Western barks.

Colt’s eyes narrow and he mutters a curse. “Myla.”

I listen now, curious.

The faint sound of music blaring can be heard in the distance. The distinct smell of smoke fills the clubhouse, what smells like a fire burning rather close by. Colt leaves the group, his hands bunched into fists by his side as he charges out the door. Western follows, and my curiosity gets the better of me and I rush out, too.

As soon as our feet hit the dusty ground, we can see smoke rising up into the horizon, coming from the direction of the old house Myla inherited. Over the top of the blaring music I can hear Myla’s voice, singing along to a song at the top of her lungs. I can’t help the smile that automatically appears on my face. She’s so carefree. She knows the club is right here and she knows Colt will be wild with her, but it doesn’t stop her.

I’m suspecting not much does stop Myla.

Colt charges past the front gates, past Western’s shed, and to an old gate that sits at the top right of the clubhouse compound. I didn’t know it was there, probably because I’ve never been past Western’s shed. It’s an old gate, rickety and rusted, but Colt pushes it as though it’s sleek and modern, slamming it open and sending it flying off its hinges. Western glances at me over his shoulder as he follows his dad, and I pick up the pace to keep up with them.

I’m not missing this.

Absolutely not.

We rush down an old, worn path, that was probably once kept in a well contained state. It looks like it might even have pavers on the ground that have been eaten up by grass and earth. An image forms in my head, one I can’t help but create. Colt and Myla’s aunt, meeting each other on this path, walking side by side, a love story that is now covered by earth and rust. I could be wrong, of course, but there is something about the way Colt is holding himself, that tells me this one might have done more damage than he’s willing to admit.

We come out on the other side of the path and an old house comes into view. It certainly is run down, there is no missing that, but I can see that once, it was incredible. A beautiful old home, with a wraparound porch. Overgrown gardens surround the front, but I’m certain once they blossomed. The front steps leading up to the one story home are rotten and broken, and the porch has holes and rot all through it. Time has destroyed the outside of the home, but the bones still stand, just waiting for someone to love them.

“Myla!” Colt roars, his voice making me flinch.

God, he’s scary.

I thought Western could be stone cold and terrifying, but Colt has had many more years to master his rage and let me tell you, he has chipped it down to a fine art.

A huge fire blares off to the left of the house, full of what appears to be old furniture and bits of timber. It’s roaring, the heat radiating out. Beside that large fire, is Myla. She’s standing in a pair of tiny shorts, a bikini top, her hair bound up at the top of her head, a beer in her hand, and music pounding out of a speaker that is on a chair beside the fire. She’s wiggling around, her arms flying into the air as she bellows with pure joy.

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