Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“She went to the ladies’.” Beau looks up from her phone. “A while ago, actually.”
“I didn’t see her in the restrooms,” Allison appears, dabbing at her freshly painted lips.
My spine lengthens. My eyes shoot toward the ladies’.
“What do you want her for, anyway?” Beau asks, her look accusing. “You have a dinner date to get to.”
I’m blank, without the will to even find any excuse or words. Where is she?
“A date?” Rose asks.
I walk away, leaving the three women at the bar, the unease inside worsening the longer I stare at the corridor entrance and Pearl doesn’t come out.
“I thought we were going,” Allison calls, sounding whiny and indignant.
“In a minute,” I snap, my pace increasing. I push my way into the ladies’ restrooms and shove the door to the first stall open. “Pearl?” I say, as it hits the wood behind it. I shove the next one open. “Pearl, are you in here?” I work my way down the line, the bang of each door deafening as I shove them open, my heart hammering more with each stall I find empty. I swear to God, if she fucking left on her own again, I’ll lose my shit.
She doesn’t know about the cocky prick looking for her.
I rake a hand roughly through my hair. “Pearl!” I yell. I pull out my phone and dial her. It goes to voicemail. “Fuck.”
I haul the door to the ladies’ open and leave, feeling in my pocket for my car keys as I stalk down the corridor. I see Allison coming at me. “Not now,” I hiss, catching sight of the door into the alley.
Ajar.
I slow to a stop, eyes on the door. “Wait for me in the club,” I say without looking at her, walking toward the door.
“But—”
“Just wait in the fucking club, woman,” I growl, flicking out a hand dismissively, my patience lost. I know Pearl is outside this door—I can fucking smell her—and I don’t need Allison seeing the imminent showdown. Not that I care. But I don’t need an injured woman on my back, because I am in no fit state to pacify her. Not now. Not ever.
I push my way outside, my mouth loaded ready to rant.
And suck back my words when I find her being held up against a wall by her throat, a hand on her exposed breast.
A flashback of her on a dirty mattress in the hangar, a tube dangling out of her arm, attacks me. “The fuck?” I roar, momentarily paralyzed by my anger. I get my shit together a few moments too late, drawing my gun and aiming. He yanks Pearl away from the wall and pulls her back to his front. Her green eyes are blank. Her mouth’s open a fraction. Her hands are gripping his forearm around her chest.
The blade held at her neck glistens under the glow of the moon.
I lift my gaze from the knife to her eyes. She doesn’t look scared. Appears perfectly calm.
I can’t say the same for myself.
Red hair.
Red mist.
Red.
I close one eye, trying to line up my shot, but the fucker keeps dipping his head behind Pearl’s. “Let her go,” I grate, my voice thick with threat, my throat tight. “Or I will rip your insides out with my bare fucking hands.” I’ve already killed one man this evening. I’d say that’s enough for one day but knowing what I know, there’s not a chance in Hell this piece of shit’s walking away alive, whether he releases Pearl or not. I study his arm, the bend at the elbow, how far that precise part of his body is from her.
“You should have stayed in the club, man,” he yells, the panic in his voice real. Warranted. Stupid fuck.
“And you should have left her alone.” I aim, fire, and put a bullet in his elbow, sending his hand flying out, the knife ricocheting off the wall nearby before hitting the ground. Reaching for Pearl’s hand, I yank her behind me as the fucker screams, clenching his arm, circling, yelling, crying. “Does that hurt?” I ask, changing the magazine of my gun for a fresh one. A full one.
The music in club changes, Woodkid coming on.
Run Boy Run.
Perfect. Let’s make a show of this. I smack the bottom of my gun, smiling as he looks up at me. “Run,” I whisper, lining up my shot.
“Brad,” Pearl breathes, pulling at my arm. “Brad, stop.”
I shrug her off. “I said . . . run.”
Fear in a man isn’t something I ever usually get a kick out of. If they deserve to die, I kill them. Today, though? Satisfaction with purpose licks its way up my spine. I realign my shot and shoot, catching his upper arm.
“Shit, no, please!”
“Run, boy,” I say, walking forward as he staggers back. He turns, starting to jog down the alley. I stop, aim, and fire, hitting his lower right arm.