Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“I only brought five grand,” Roach said with a shrug. Take it or leave it.
“Then you can take the handguns or the semis, but you’re not getting both.”
“I think I’ll take whatever—” Roach started, taking a step toward Sway that anyone with eyes would call threatening.
But just then, something off in the trees snapped.
And so did the band of tension between both our clubs.
“You surrounding us?” Roach roared, shoving his hands into Sway’s chest, sending him back a step.
It was fucking instantaneous.
One second, all seven of us were just standing still, waiting to see how the negotiations would go. The next, we were all on each other.
My fist landed hard on someone’s jaw, sending pain shooting up my hand and through my shoulder. Even as a fist caught me just under the ribs, stealing my air for a long second.
But there was no time to catch your breath in a street fight.
The air erupted with the sounds of bodies crashing together, of hisses of pain, and seething threats.
My lip split open, blood slipping into my mouth—copper, hot, thick.
My knuckles split too, even as the crunch of someone’s nose breaking filled my ears.
The man fell to his knees, cradling his face, blood spilling out from between his fingers.
This was the place where your morals told you to back off, that you couldn’t kick a man when he was down.
But there was no such thing as morality when you were possibly fighting for your life.
I leaned down, gathering the front of the guy’s shirt, already wet with his blood, yanked him up slightly, then landed a hard uppercut under his chin.
His body flew backward, landing at an angle that looked painful—legs splayed underneath him in a W that probably twisted, if not broke, something.
I straightened, sucking in a few quick breaths, trying to decide if I should rush to Raff’s or Sway’s aid first.
Both were locked in close-contact fights, grunts of pain and anger filling the quiet night air.
I saw it.
Just a metallic flash under the moonlight.
But before I could even call out a warning, the knife plunged into Raff’s leg and pulled up brutally.
The roar that filled the air had my stomach twisting hard as I took a step forward.
Then it rang out.
Loud enough to stop all the fighting.
To make a bird lift from the trees ahead, letting out a startled cry.
A gunshot.
From behind me.
I whirled around, sure I was in shock, that I was hit and just didn’t register the pain yet. Because the shot was too close.
It had to have hit me.
Only, it didn’t.
Because the person who was hit was all of two feet behind me.
I hadn’t even heard him.
Hadn’t known someone was breathing down my neck.
No.
Not even breathing down my neck.
Because as his body wobbled and fell to the ground, I saw another flash of metal.
In his hand.
He had a gun.
He had a gun, and he must have been aiming.
But Raff was stabbed.
Sway was still fighting with Roach.
Who… who had shot him?
My gaze lifted, catching what I thought was a shadow. Until my eyes adjusted. Until I made out their shape.
Her.
Her shape.
There were the unmistakable curves of her hips and chest.
I couldn’t make out much—dark hair, a gorgeous face, a gun still lifted, the haze around it suggesting it had just been fired.
At the man who’d been ready to off me.
Seeing me, she lowered her hand, turned, and disappeared.
“Go, go, go,” Roach roared.
Then we were moving too.
Sway was closer, so he rushed to Raff, grabbing him, and half-dragging him to the car.
I ran around the hood, dropping into the driver’s seat and reaching across to slam the passenger door as Sway and Raff fell into the backseat.
There was no waiting for everyone to get in their seats, to strap into their seatbelts. I threw the car into reverse and peeled down the dirt road, then turned in the direction we’d approached from.
My foot didn’t ease off the gas until we were three streets away.
My mind didn’t work until then, either.
“How is he?” I asked, glancing into the rearview to catch Sway’s gaze.
He looked rough.
Half his face was starting to bruise. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. Blood trickled half-heartedly from his nose.
But his gaze was clear, focused, likely running on adrenaline still and not feeling the pain.
“It’s not as deep as I was worried it might be,” Sway said. “But it’s nasty.”
“It’ll make a nice scar,” Raff said. “Chicks love scars. Speaking of chicks, just drop me off outside of Lulu’s place. I think she’s been dying for a chance to play nursemaid for me.”
Raff had a notorious one-sided crush on Detroit’s cousin Lulu since I’d met him. Before, even.
Lulu worked for the Italian mob in town, cooking their books so no one could ever find the dirty money they washed through their legit business—the local pub called The Bog.