Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I answer it and hit speaker. “What?”
“Are you out on a job?”
I grit my teeth. I’m more frustrated than normal lately, and I’m betting it has everything to do with the fact my cock knows what she feels like around it. I adjust myself and drop the car into third, shooting forward. “No. There’s a lead I’m chasing with who it was that drugged us that night. Why? What’s wrong? Need someone to go baby shopping with you?”
“Fuck you.” Nate chuckles. “Asshole.” It was too late to take back the words after I had spat them out. I forget about Micaela. I shouldn’t tease them so much with it.
“You need something or you just miss the taste of my cock?”
“Again, fuck you. Yeah, I’m with Hector. I’ll put you on speaker.”
“Brantley?” Hector’s voice comes through my phone and I sit up a little straighter. “Son, I have a lead. I don’t want you going there until I’ve sent in backup.”
“Just send the details through. That prick fucking drugged me while Saint was around. He’s down to his final hours.”
Pause.
“Son, it’s complicated.” A door opens and closes in the background.
“Bran?” Bishop’s voice is hard. “Where are you? I’ll meet you.”
“About to head over the bridge.”
Another stretch of silence.
“Which bridge?” Bishop asks, and I can imagine all of their faces now. They’d be all looking among each other, wondering when I’m going to explode. Because I haven’t. But in my defense, exploding isn’t my thing. It’s Bishop’s and Nate’s go-to to hide any of their emotion. I don’t explode. I implode, and the only person that I damage is myself. Works better this way.
“Wickers Lane.” I hang up the phone before they can talk me out of it. The scenery on the New York side of Wickers Lane Bridge and the Riverside end are not all that different. Riverside isn’t as small as you would think, and just like Perdita, everyone who lives here knows who the fuck we are.
But this time when I say we, I mean not just The Kings.
Someone else, too.
I drive my car over the cobblestone that arches over Hector’s waters below. Never really liked coming back to Riverside. It was like visiting old ghosts that you tried to bury a long time ago. Not that I have ever been old enough, or was even born yet to remember a lot of the events that happened here, as well as the driving out of EKC, but the smell of being unwanted is heavy in the air any time we’ve had to come back.
I drive down the dimly lit road until I reach the end, and the sign, Riverside Welcomes You.
“Yeah, fucking right,” I whisper, flooring it until I’m passing through the town. People are walking around, going about their day, and every so often you see them staring at my car.
“Yeah, fucking right,” I whisper, flooring the car forward until I’m passing through the town. People are walking around, going about their day, and every so often I catch them staring at my car.
They know. If there’s some flashy fucking Euro vehicle that’s blacked-out rolling through the streets of Riverside, they fucking know that a King is behind those heavily tinted windows, and no one, and I truly mean no one who lives here wants that.
I park my car in one of the spots outside of the town square, running my finger over my upper lip. All I have to do is wait, and one of the cocksuckers will jump out from somewhere.
When they don’t, I start up my car again and rev the engine, just as another call comes through. Bishop this time.
“What?” I snap, grinding my teeth.
“I know you’re mad.”
“Fucking furious. They pulled that shit with Saint. I need them dead.”
“You and me both, brother, but you need to pull out. Meet me at Buckingham. We can talk there as a group. I know you’re feeling trigger-happy and you want to eighty-six all those fools, but you can’t right now. Meet me there.”
I pull out of the town square, the anger only bubbling further.
Revenge is sweet, and I just so happen to be fucking starving.
Saint
The plane landed forty minutes ago, but I needed to rush to the bathroom instantly after getting off the jet. I don’t know if I like flying long periods of time. That was twelve hours, and I feel like I’ve lost a whole week.
It’s quiet, the only sound the slight dripping of a tap. I turn it around and cup my hands beneath, waiting until they’re full before splashing water over my face.
“Ava Garcia,” I whisper, rubbing water from my eyes. I jerk backward as a black shadow zips past me. It was through blurred vision because of the water, so I reach to the side to grab a paper towel, rubbing it over my face.