Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 245(@200wpm)___ 196(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 245(@200wpm)___ 196(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
“She wasn’t here, but her car is.” She points to Gracie’s car parked across from us. I hadn’t even noticed it was hers. I walk over to it, my head pounding. If it’s here and she’s not, he must have taken it from her. If anything’s happened to her… My brain goes numb when I see blood smeared along the trunk.
No. Fuck. No. I check the handle to the back door. When it clicks open, I check inside. Nothing. Slamming the door, I move to the trunk, my head pounding in rhythm with my heart. Fate couldn’t be this fucking cruel. She’s going to be at her mother’s freaking out that her car got stolen, and I’ll pull my head out my ass and do right by her.
I pop the trunk.
Everything feels like I’m watching a movie play out as it creeps open. Flesh. Gracie’s fur coat. Red. Fucking red. Oh, fucking god, no. Wide, void-of-life eyes peer up at me. A rock lodges in my throat. My knees almost buckle. My arm reaches for her, pulling her into me. She’s limp, her body barely cold. Already knowing it’s too fucking late, I scream out, “Call an ambulance!”
There’s too much blood. Her pretty face is covered in slashes. Her head lolls, almost rolling from her shoulders, a gash from ear to ear. “No, Gracie—fuck, I’m so sorry.” I cradle her, my breaths lodging in my throat. Cold sweat seeps from my pores as acid stirs my gut. My fists clench against the fabric of the coat I bought her.
“Rage?” Drew says my name, her voice shaky. Her body crumbles to the ground in horror. Every nerve in my body freezes as fury bubbles up and tears from my lungs. “ARGHHHHH!”
This is on me.
Thirty-Five
Gabe
Two months later…
Pain.
Pain is something I should be used to, and yet here I am, the ache coursing through the marrow of my bones, acid searing the blood in my veins.
Flashes of Gracie’s face are burned in my mind, creating a shadow of despair.
I’m fucking cursed.
Sweat coats my skin as I lie there, trying to summon up a different outcome for her.
Kicking back the covers, I storm to the shower, blast the water on cold, and step beneath its punishing spray. I hate being home. I’ve spent the last few weeks on the road fucking up every sick fuck I can track down. Copper sends me the details of perverts and women murderers who beat the system and walk the fucking streets. I give them my own kind of justice in hopes it will wash away my ledger of sin for failing Gracie. But there’s something I need from the club. I’ve been avoiding the place. The pity stares just make me want to cut a bastard.
Sleep has evaded me since I found her body. Battered. Punctured. Blood soaked. Fuck, I want the opportunity to kill Kai over and over. Incinerate the stain he’s left on my fucking soul. She deserved more than what he put her through. She deserved more than the cold fucks I gave her. My fist connects with the tiled wall, the pain overriding my thoughts for a blinding second. I hit out again, and my knuckles crack the tile.
Whack, whack, whack.
Breathing rapidly, tears build and fall from my eyes under the disguise of the shower spray. Blood seeps from my open wounds, shards of tile burrowed into the skin. The pain gives my brain a reprieve, but it’s fleeting. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I go back to my bedroom and open the windows to let the cold air punish my wet skin. My head pounds. Too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Isn’t one supposed to make the other easier? Fuck, I just need to sleep. My cell buzzing is something else that’s constant lately. Jameson knows I’m unraveling and is scared of the repercussions. He’s had to take care of my messes before—shit, if it weren’t for him looking out for me, I’d be serving a life sentence. Probably more than one. “I’m fine,” I grumble down the line, pacing in front of the window. My apartment overlooks a park teenagers like to congregate at, making noise and pissing off everyone who can sleep. “Drew has that photo you asked about.”
“I know,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. It’s a picture of Gracie pinned behind the bar at the clubhouse. I want it. I need to have a small piece of her with me.
“I fucking hate that you’re blaming this shit on yourself,” he growls.
If I’d just kept her with me, told her I loved her back…who fucking knows what would have happened.
“I know why I’m still up, why the hell are you?” I change the subject.
“Monroe is on a late shift. I want to pick her up when she gets off.”