Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
I stand there. Let it pour over my head. Down my back. Washing away road dust, and Savannah's perfume, and the residue of every choice I've made that led me here.
If I could go back—
The thought rises unbidden.
If I could start over. Be fourteen again. Before Eleanor really got to me. Before she haunted my mind with truths and consequences. Before the club. Before I convinced myself that power and brotherhood were the only things worth having.
Would I do it different?
I press my forehead against the tile.
Yeah.
Yeah, I would.
I'd take Savannah's hand that first day in the silo and tell her the truth. That I already loved her. That I'd always love her. That whatever happened, she was the only good thing I'd ever touch.
I'd keep my distance from Badlands. From Brick's offers, and Diesel's knowing looks, and the magnetic pull of belonging to something bigger than myself.
I'd work honest jobs. Save money. Buy that farmhouse she imagines when she's riding me slow and looking at me like I'm the answer to prayers she didn't know she was saying.
At the very least, I'd make myself something she could take home. A man who wouldn't embarrass her. I'd be the man she deserves, instead of the demon she settled for.
But I can't go back.
Can't undo the choices that carved me into this shape.
Can only stand here under cold water and wish I was someone else.
The water turns warm. Then hot. I scrub myself clean with bar soap that smells like nothing. Rinse. Turn off the spray and dry off with a towel that's rough from too many industrial washings. Then I pull on the only clean sweats I've got left—gray, worn soft, hanging low on my hips.
Back in the main room, I dig through my jeans pocket until I find the pack of cigarettes. Shake one loose. Light it up and lie down on the bed.
Then… I stare at the ceiling.
I smoke.
Ash into the empty beer can on the nightstand.
Try to sleep.
Can't.
Tomorrow changes everything.
One way or another, when dawn church convenes, and Brick calls my name, and asks if I've got his money—
Which I don't, so…
So what. What's gonna happen tomorrow? I haven't really let myself think about it, but obviously, the fine is a way to get me to cave. To accept the rats and work for them. Spy, or whatever the fuck it is they're doing.
That's how fines work. You pay, one way or the other. If a brother owes a fine and misses his deadline, depending on the amount, he might get roughed up a bit or he might get put in the ground.
Twenty-five grand is an obscene amount of money to owe.
I roll over. Try to find a position that doesn't make the brand ache. My elbow hits something.
I freeze, my hand closing around something hard and lumpy beneath the pillow—something that definitely wasn't there the last time I was in this bed.
"What the fuck…" My voice comes out rough, edged with exhaustion and suspicion. It better not be a goddamn mouse that crawled under there to die, or I swear to Christ I'll burn this whole bed.
I sit up fully, joints protesting the movement, and reach back under the pillow with more purpose this time. My fingers find fabric and I pull it out into the dim light filtering through the blinds.
A drawstring sack. Canvas. Worn smooth at the edges like it's been used before, handled plenty. And heavy.
My pulse kicks up a notch as I work the drawstring loose with fingers that suddenly don't feel quite steady. The mouth of the sack opens, and I tilt it toward the weak light coming from the security lights outside.
Stacks of twenties. Banded tight with those little paper wraps.
I dump the whole thing onto the mattress in front of me, watching the stacks tumble and scatter across the rumpled sheets. My hands move automatically, separating them, lining them up, fingers rifling through the edges to count. My brain's already doing the math before I'm halfway through.
Already know what the total's gonna be before I finish the last stack.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Exactly.
I count it again just to be sure. Separate the stacks. Hundreds mixed in with the twenties to make the math work.
$25,000.
My fine. My blood price. My Get-Out-of-Consequences-Free card.
There's a note in the bottom of the sack.
I unfold it.
Typed. Block letters. Nothing handwritten. Nothing that could be traced back to whoever put this here.
Three words:
GOT YOU TOMORROW.
I stare at it.
Read it again.
Got you tomorrow.
Could mean: I've got your back. I'm covering you. You're safe because someone paid your debt.
Could mean: I've got you trapped. You owe me now. This isn't freedom—it's a different kind of leash.
Could mean: I've got plans for you. This money buys your life, but it also buys your loyalty. And you'll pay it back in ways you won't see coming until it's too late.