Page 18 of Cold Bastard
BrotherDocs:Two days. County line, Highway 175 and Farm Road 2495. 11 PM. Abandoned gas station. Come alone. Bring cash. Any deviation from these terms and the deal is off.
I stared at the message, my mind racing.
Highway 175 and Farm Road 2495. Just past the Athens County line. Far enough from town that nobody would see us, close enough that I could get there and back without raising too many questions.
An abandoned gas station meant no witnesses. No cameras. No paper trail. It also meant no backup. No escape routes. No safety net. Everything about this screamed trap. But what wasmy alternative? Stay here and wait for whoever owned that money to find me? Hope that Oscar’s protection and the Gods of Mayhem’s reputation would be enough to keep me safe?
I left home four years ago to get out from under Oscar’s thumb, to escape the suffocating weight of club life and the violence that came with it. I swore I would never come back, never let myself be trapped in this world again. And here I was, right back where I started, except now I had seventy-five million reasons for someone to want me dead.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I should have taken less. Should have been satisfied with enough to disappear, not enough to declare war. But I had been angry. Furious. At Michael, at every man who looked at me like I was nothing more than tits and ass, at every hand that had grabbed without permission, every leering smile that made my skin crawl. I wanted to hurt him. Wanted to take everything he had built and burn it to the ground.
And I had.
Now I was paying the price.
MedusaX:Agreed. Two days. 11 PM. I’ll be there.
I closed the laptop and sat in the darkness, my heart still racing.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours to figure out if this was legitimate or if I was walking into an ambush.
Forty-eight hours to avoid Oscar’s questions and Zeus’s knowing looks and the weight of every secret I was carrying.
Forty-eight hours until I either disappeared for good or ended up in a shallow grave somewhere off Highway 175.
I can do this. I’ve done harder things.
I had. I survived Michael. Survived the Pussycat. Survived years on my own with nothing but my wits and my anger to keep me going.
I would survive this, too.
I had to.
Morning came too soon.
I had managed maybe two hours of sleep, my dreams filled with faceless men and the sound of motorcycle engines, and the metallic taste of fear. When I finally gave up and dragged myself out of bed, the sun was already climbing over the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and red.
Blood and fire.
Stop being dramatic.
I pulled on jeans and a tank top, tying my hair back in a messy bun. My reflection in the mirror looked tired. Haunted. The girl staring back at me had dark circles under her eyes and a tightness around her mouth that hadn’t been there four years ago.
I looked like someone running out of time.
Because I was.
The smell of coffee hit me as soon as I opened my bedroom door. Strong and bitter, the way Oscar always made it. I followed the scent downstairs, my bare feet silent on the worn wooden steps. My brother was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked up when I entered, his dark eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice casual as I headed for the coffeepot.
“Morning.” His voice was flat. Neutral. The tone he used when he was trying not to show what he was thinking.
I poured myself a cup, added sugar, and turned to face him. He was still watching me.
