Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“It’s okay, brother. I’m going to take care of it. Put the fucking Glock down,” Blade hisses.
“Who are the others?” I spit out, my voice raw. I see nothing but red.
“Dozer and Burner,” Reed says from behind me. And that’s all I need.
My mind is fine. I’ve stopped making the noise. Either that or everything has gone mute, like a TV.
It’s quiet in my head as I pass people, no one makes a sound. The door is open and I’m looking….
I finally see the dead fucking rat. The man who sobbed at my hospital bed when I had burns covering my hands, feet, and knees. The man who stepped up to help bury my child, then tried to take over the club. But the club, much like the human heart, doesn’t beat with an evil soul.
He stands, laughing, with a fucking beer bottle in his hands. He’s gotten away with murder for ten years and now it’s time he atones.
“You die today.”
I hear nothing but see the confusion.
Then it’s in his eyes, always the eyes. A blink and he doesn’t need to say anything as I see red.
My pain that my child lost her life because he said so. My uncle and cousin and poor Debbie, who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All of them had their own sins but not Tabatha. She was light, sunshine, and pure and this man said kill her… I don’t know when the pounding of flesh began or which fucking idiot Disciples are trying to pull me off.
The sounds of his nose breaking and his wails that he’s old are almost like a symphony I heard in Manhattan.
Ox holds me back. All I know is I don’t hear bones crushing anymore or my symphony of death.
“What the fuck, Poet?” Ox has me pinned with a hand on my throat. I bare my teeth, unable to formulate words.
“Let him go, and if anyone else moves, I’ll put a bullet in their head.” I look over at Blade walking through the group of Disciples.
“Blade,” Lucky wails as he reaches for him and coughs up blood. “It had to be done for the future of the club… I wanted the club to be big and strong.” He wheezes as he searches for sympathy.
“Like it is today. Chuck was too into pussy to do what needed to be done. But you… I did it for you.”
He vomits up blood. And that’s the last thing he ever says or does.
“You did it for Blade? You killed Tabatha for Blade?” Ox lets me go and I attack him, pounding his head into the ground as I hear myself screaming, “Why? You could have saved her… You could have…” I don’t stop pounding his head into the ground. Finally, his neck snaps and he’s nothing but a bloody rag doll.
When I hear Reed’s voice, I look up at last. “It’s over, brother.” Sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes as I let go of the piece of shit and stand up. Everyone backs away as if they are scared of me. I smile as women scream. I take my Glock out and point the gun at Lucky’s dead body, and to be absolutely sure, I shoot him in the face and turn the gun on Dozer and Burner.
“Not these motherfuckers. They’re all mine.” Blade brings his gun out, and in one swift, graceful move, he puts a bullet into Dozer’s and Burner’s heads. They crumple to the ground, sliding to the side as women scream and Disciples quiet them.
“Ryder, take care of it,” Blade snarls.
More screams, Disciples saying, “Oh shit!” and Blade drops the gun on Lucky’s chest and walks toward the house. Axel and Ox follow.
Reed stands at my side. As I look into his green eyes, they swim with the turmoil of a storm that is projected into mine.
This is why Reed has been my best friend, my brother for years. He never judges.
He feels the need to repay my kindness when all I did was see a fellow damaged soul who was as wild and as fucked up as me.
“Take Charlie home for me, Reed.” My chest is heaving; my heart is pounding.
My brain is like an old movie that can’t quite pick whether it wants to be silent or have music. Fast or slow.
“Of course.” He turns and starts to leave.
“Reed?” He doesn’t respond. He knows what’s next, always has, but unlike me, he has a reason to go home. He has a reason to love and cherish his family and himself.
He has a reason.
“Don’t do this, man. You’re free. It’s time to start forgiving yourself.”
“Would you?”
“No, no I would not.” He turns. This time, I don’t call him back.
This is my journey—mine to nurture like a festering wound. And mine to decide what takes me down.