Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Ira waved a hand. “He’s been here, girl. Looked like hell and stayed beside you every second until his brothers dragged him out to go stop the madness.”
“He was here?” I whispered.
“Of course. Didn’t say much, but the look on his face?” He smiled and shook his head. “That wasn’t anger. That was something else entirely.” Ira settled deeper into his chair, his voice going quiet. “Gladys said he told her he loves you. Just not sure if he’s in love or if it’s ‘love-love.’”
I frowned. “What’s the difference?”
He looked at me, then shrugged. “Hell, if I know.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement—slow and steady, something that felt instantly familiar. When I turned my head, I saw Eddie.
He didn’t come into the room, didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as glance my way at first. But as he passed the doorway, he paused just long enough to look in, saw my eyes open, and gave a small nod. No smile or fanfare, just the kind of acknowledgment that said, I see you. Then he kept walking, continuing his silent patrol up and down the corridor like a soldier on duty.
I watched him for a long moment, comfort blooming in my chest. He didn’t need to say anything—his presence was enough.
Ira followed my gaze, and his mouth curved just slightly. “He’s been here since it all went down.”
I turned my head slowly toward him, my throat too raw to speak, but he got the message.
“After Gladys pulled the fire alarm, one of Maddox’s men panicked. Tried to run. Eddie got him. Stashed him in a supply closet until your friends could come collect him.”
My eyebrows rose faintly.
“No one’s tried anything since,” Ira added. “So, either word got out, or Eddie’s got an entire closet of cuffed bodies somewhere in this hospital, waiting for pickup like lost luggage.”
A small huff of amusement escaped me. It hurt to laugh, but I didn’t regret it.
Ira shifted a little in his chair, the kind of movement that said he was going to settle in for the long haul. “Now stop fighting sleep. You’ve done your part. Let us handle the rest.”
My eyes drifted back to the doorway, catching just the faintest glimpse of Eddie’s shadow as he moved past again—steadily, quietly, a silent wall between me and the worst of it.
"I have one last question for you. The last injury I remember was a bump on my head. How the hell did I end up like this?" I gestured with my good hand to my casted arm.
Ira's mouth twisted. "Someone clipped the back of the car. They just came out of nowhere, hit us, and drove off as we were skidding down the road. My poor baby's been written off, and you almost were, too."
My eyes widened. "Is Gladys okay? What about you?"
He held up his arm, showing me his injury, and said dryly, "Gladys came out of the accident better off than both of us. You got the worst of it because you were lying down in the back seat when the car spun down the road."
I was glad I couldn't remember it. Car accidents scared the shit out of me. "I'm glad you're both okay."
He leaned in and took my hand in his again. "Well, you'll be okay, too, if you have a nap. Ira's orders."
I chuckled, but I let my eyes close. For the first time in what felt like forever, I believed I had people behind me now who'd actually catch me if I fell.
And with Ira by my side and Eddie keeping watch, I let the darkness take me.
Webb
The TV blared from the corner of the room, and all of us were crowded around it in Jackson’s living room like we were watching the Super Bowl, except no one was cheering. Jesse, Marcus, Elijah, Remy, Matty, Malcolm, Benny, and I sat in tense silence, eyes locked on the screen as the camera zoomed in on a makeshift podium set up inside what looked like a marble-floored government building—likely the local courthouse.
There he was—Colin Maddox, standing on a pew like some kind of preacher delivering a sermon, though this was no Sunday morning. He was a man caught in the middle of a public relations inferno, trying to sell calm while everything burned behind his eyes. His tie was crooked, his hair tousled just enough to look effortless—though it was clearly calculated—and his smile was tight, forced, and cracking at the edges as he launched into full-scale damage control.
“I want to assure the public that the recent allegations are completely fabricated,” he said, palms out like he was begging for belief. “I have always conducted my business with integrity—”
“Lying piece of shit,” Malcolm muttered.
“—and this attack on my character is clearly the work of someone with a personal vendetta.”