Page 67 of Dreadful

Something in her tone makes me look at her again, but she's already taking a sip.

TWENTY-THREE

RAFE

I shift in the chair for what feels like the hundredth time and check my phone. The screen glows pale blue in the dark of the patio, and the numbers haven’t changed since the last time I looked.

Ten more minutes.

Hours of staring at the same stretch of backyard without so much as a stray fucking cat. Just the stillness of night and the itch behind my eyes that keeps me in a suspended state of waiting.

Whatever Devil's Hand is doing tonight, they're doing it somewhere else.

Good.

Let the fuckers wonder what happened to the ten men they sent through our doors last night.

My gaze drifts toward the house. A single light burns behind the curtains in my old room—the soft, yellow bulb from the lamp on the nightstand.

My girl disappeared into my room about an hour ago wearing one of my shirts, and I've been trying very fucking hard not to think about what she's doing in there without me.

The fact that I’m still out here proves how dedicated I am to this family.

Or that I’m a fucking idiot.

Probably both.

The patio door slides open behind me, and I know it’s Gage before he speaks. That same unhurried gait since he was a kid, and the hums under his breath like a song stuck in his teeth.

“Don't you look comfortable.”

I glance back as he steps outside with the rifle already in his hand, slung loose over his shoulder.

“Never been happier to see you, brother.” I flash him a wide grin.

His footsteps slow as he narrows his eyes on me. “You know, it really fucking freaks me out when you look so jolly.”

“Fuck off.” I push out of the chair, blood rushing back to my legs in a pins-and-needles rush, and hand over the walkie.

“That's it?”

I clap him on the shoulder as I pass, smirking at his flinch. “Enjoy your shift.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

I'm almost to the door when it opens again. Coco steps outside with a cocktail in one hand, dressed in one of her beloved silk robes.

“I need your help with something, honey.” She jerks her chin toward the house. “In the garage.”

“Can it wait?”

“It'll only take a minute.”

It never takes a minute. Coco has always had a loose relationship with time and priorities.

I follow her inside. She reaches for the switch on the wall, and the door seals with a hiss that makes my teeth ache. Soundproofed. There are only so many reasons Coco wants a conversation to stay trapped in a box.

I press my shoulder against the wall, watching. Waiting for whatever pit she’s going to throw me in tonight. The night air feels different in here, stale with disuse and thick with abandoned plans.