Page 33 of Sinister Red
“I’m not entirely sure why they sent me down here to get you, but uh… we’re…”
“I’ll be right out.” I turn on the water and pat my cheeks, wiping under my eyes the best I can.
I don’t really need to hide my tears, not today, but crying them for more reasons than the one that brought us here seems wrong, but also, a little bit right.
I’m crying for that sweet little boy sitting in the hearse outside, for his mother and father, his baby sister, and his entire family that will be following him as he takes one last ride to his final resting place.
I’m crying for both clubs that have suffered because of this loss, the men and women, their families that have all been affected by this situation as well as so many similar ones. I’m crying for those members that should be here to mourn, but aren’t because it doesn’t matter what age you are, the lifestyle of any club eventually catches up to you and it’s ignorant to think otherwise.
I’m crying because my heart is broken. Broken for all the reasons I listed and what I have to do because of them.
I’m crying because I’m not going to get the happy ending with my soulmate because a relationship that started with death can only end that way, and I can’t allow that to happen.
Life is far more important, and even if it tears my heart in two, I have to walk away from all of this and choose life.
I have to walk away from my soulmate in order to protect what we created because I’ve seen time and time again first-hand what love built from death can do.
Death does not discriminate; it does not follow rules.
Death will take whoever it wants, however it wants, whenever it’s ready, and if I allow myself to be surrounded by it, it will come for me and my soulmate too.
I’m choosing life for all of us…
And life has to be enough for both of us.
CHAPTERSEVEN
SAM
Seven years ago.
With narrowed eyes,I watch Dr. Lewis Weston climb out of his silver Porsche.
He tugs at the lapels of his suit coat, adjusts his cufflinks, then pushes a hand back through his perfectly gelled hair before glancing anxiously around the street.
Weston may not look anxious to anyone else, but I can see it. I’ve been seeing it for about two weeks now, and his tells have become more than obvious.
The constant picking at his clothes, the way his beady eyes search his surroundings, how the fucker’s back is ram-rod straight until he’s out of sight, and even then he’s tense until he’s behind closed doors. Weston looks like he’s going to lose his shit at any second, and if he has any sort of human emotion behind that perfectly crafted appearance, his anxiety is fueled by a guilty conscience.
He closes his door then walks around to the other side of the car, bending a bit to grab the handle in order to let out hispassenger.
Tall. Blonde. Leggy with tits faker than her smile.
The woman is wearing what can only be described as scraps of fabric that cover her nipples and ass crack, and the outfit is topped off by a pair of heels that makes the entire thing stupid as fuck.
It’s fucking November for Christ’s sake.
The car, her outfit, his lack of winter coat.
All of it makes the scene playing out before me even more ridiculous than it already is, and it’s pretty goddamn ridiculous considering the reasonwhyI’m watching in the first place.
Weston helps the bimbo—Stephanie something, from his office—out of the car and the two quickly move toward the front of the motel.
A motel in Rolling Meadows.
The same one my own mother hooked out of, the one she was murdered in when I was fifteen, no less.
The guy has real classy taste.
