Page 62 of Dreadful

“I’ll handle the cops,” Coco says, smoothing a strand of hair back behind her ear with clinical precision.

“Fuck,” Bishop says. “All hands to load. Rafe and Gage, you’re on official cleanup. I’ll handle the power. Cruz, take care of all the broken shit inside.” His gaze moves to Bells. “And you help Cruz.”

Something flickers across her face before she nods. “Okay.”

Coco ducks under the sink, retrieving a fat stack of cash taped to the underside of the cabinet. One of many places she’s stashed cash and weapons around this place.

Rafe picks his gun up from the island, checks the magazine with a practiced flick of his fingers, the metal clicking sharply. “Let’s go.”

We move as one, boots scuffing over the debris, adrenaline humming through our veins, ready to erase every trace of what happened here.

The louder the sirens get, the more my heart hammers inside my chest. Coco’s been buying goodwill in this community for twenty years. Tonight we find out what it’s worth.

The boys peeled out of the driveway thirty seconds ago, the SUV packed full of dead bikers.

Not even the infamous Coco Calloway could talk her way out of that many bodies.

Bells and I are in the family room when the sirens finally stop. We stare at one another, her wide eyes holding mine.

“What do they do with them?” she nods toward the backyard.

“Desert.”

She nods as she continues picking up the spilled cards on the floor.

I look around the room. An hour ago, Gage was proudly stripping out of his underwear while Bellamy schooled us in poker. Now one of the windows is blown out, the coffee table is broken, the couch is tipped over, and there's blood splattered in several spots.

Bellamy reaches for another card.

“Baby girl.”

She looks up.

I hold out my hand. “Peas.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m using them.”

“You're holding them against your ribs.”

She looks down at the bag tucked against her side like she forgot it was there. “Oh.”

“Let me help you.” I take the peas from her and crouch in front of her, tipping her chin toward the light from my phone. The cut on her cheekbone stopped bleeding, but the whole left side of her face is starting to swell. By morning, she's going to have one hell of a black eye.

“We have to clean up,” she says.

My thumb brushes lightly beneath the cut, and she can’t stop the wince fast enough.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The confession does something to my chest.

“It's fine,” she says it automatically.

I keep looking at her. “I wanted to get to you.”

“I wanted to find you too—all of you.” She pauses. “Bishop wouldn't let me.”

A breath leaves me through my nose. “Yeah. He gave everybody their fucking assignments.”

Her forehead creases. “What assignment?”