Page 181 of Beautifully Reckless
There’s nothing but silence, and a chill runs up my spine as I sense too many fucking guns pointed directly at me. Then, a spotlight from the treeline flashes on, lighting me up like I’m on a fucking stage.
I stand there exposed. Waiting. Watching.
At any moment, they could open fire. There’s no way I could get to cover in time. I’m a sitting duck. So what the fuck are they waiting for?
When nothing else happens, I hold for another beat, ready to step back and take cover when a second spotlight cuts through the dark. I stiffen, holding my fucking breath as I wait for something to happen, and then movement catches my eye.
A man staggers out into the clearing, limping slowly across the grass in my direction. I take a few steps closer, tracking the gun in his hand, his grip loose, muzzle aimed to the grass as he moves.
“What do you want?!” I shout, my voice echoing across the open space.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t flinch or look up from the ground as he staggers. He just keeps coming.
Glancing back, I see JD has stepped out from behind the shelter, with Mex at his side. Stocky and Vender remain hidden, their guns trained on the man approaching.
“Is that…” JD frowns, leaning forward to squint at the figure getting closer.
When I do the same, I find a hint of familiarity in the approaching man as he lifts his head.
Fuck.
It’s Cookie.
Not thinking twice, I stride straight for our missing prospect, relieved he’s still breathing, but with a thousand fucking questions bouncing through my head.
Where the hell has he been?
Why did he bail the second the cops showed up at the Western while we were stuck dealing with the warehouses?
Does he know Morris died that day?
“Cookie,” I bark, now just a few metres away, which is when he stops, and slowly raises his gun, aiming it straight at me.
I freeze, taking in his face, the tears leaking from his red eyes, and the fading bruises marring his skin.
Fuck. He’s in bad shape. The round belly he used to carry is gone, like he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks.
“I’m sorry, man,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I had no choice.”
“No choice about what?” I snap, knowing Vender has his scope trained on Cookie’s head, and he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger if needed.
“I didn’t want to do it.” Cookie sobs, choking on his own words. “They had my sister, man. I had to let them through the gates.”
“You talking about the cops?” I curl my fucking lip. “Allen?”
Cookie nods, but then shakes his head. “Not just them. The pigs came with backup.”
“Who?” I snarl, fists clenched, jaw tight, about ready to headbutt this fucker.
Cookie moves to glance over his shoulder, but thinks better of it, his bloodshot eyes snapping back to mine.
“Satan’s Rebels.”
Fuck.
Leo Marx was right. Our rival club is involved, deeper than we fucking knew.
“What about Morris? Were you the one who killed him and stuffed him in Casey’s trunk?”
