Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Brody stopped joking and stepped aside.
The air vanished in my clamped throat.
Rocket, no taller than five-foot-six, wore a different septum piercing. The brow piercing was new, and so were some of the tattoos that practically darkened his tanned skin at his muscular forearms where a Henley was pulled up. He clutched a puffer jacket in one hand.
Brody eyed his mom’s weapon that she held low at her side. He retrieved a gold Magnum from beneath his leather jacket and aimed it at Rocket’s head.
As if annoyed by the display, Lachlan pulled out a baseball, tossed it in the air, and caught it. Lazily, he continued to toss and catch it while muttering, “I’m missing training for this? Just to see my big brother, and he isn’t even here.”
“What are all of you doing?” Rocket’s voice broke, high-pitched.
All?
I glanced behind me. Leith and Big Brody were no longer glued to the television. They trained guns past me at his chest. Only Leith leaned a shoulder against the wall, similar to Lachlan. He seemed bored by the standoff. And Rory had finally gotten off social media. While the MacKenzie’s resident Romeo didn’t hold a gun, the smile on his face had vanished. Arms folded, making Rory’s thick biceps more prominent. He fisted his cell phone in his hand.
Rocket held his hands up. Different sized rings adorned his fingers. He really was a peculiar individual. An oxymoron. Small yet unforgivingly muscular, like he downed creatine and Popeye’s spinach so that his shoulders were as broad as he was tall. “You said they’d hear me out, Brody.” His cold brown eyes cut to the man who’d just joked with him. “This looks like a friggen ambush.”
“Looks can be deceiving, frien’. And these”—Brody pushed the barrel of the .357 against his friend’s nose—“help my clan hear you a wee bit better when you apologize to Jamie’s lassie.”
“Apologize?” I found my voice in a room of armed Scots and a hotheaded drug dealer. “To me?”
“Yep.” Brody’s revolver gave Rocket’s nose another nudge. “That’s why he’s here. Back in July, Leith explained why I needed to keep this stubborn numpty occupied. So that he didn’t …” Brody’s eyes flicked to his mom as if mentioning my purchase was too disrespectful to utter aloud. “Well, y’know. Hop to it, Rocket.”
“Jordyn,” Rocket spat. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe I chose the wrong words.” Brody shook his head. “When I said the guns help us hear you, I meant feel you. Understand you. I blame it all on Justice, though. She’s turned me into this touchy, feely numpty. So, make me agree with your apology. The girl has to agree too.” Brody glanced at me. “Do you agree?”
I folded my arms. “It lacks the compassion I’ve felt from Rocket when he was squeezing his hands around my throat. It’s a start, though.”
That got a rise out of Nan. She tapped the meat tenderizer in her hand.
In one hard thrust, Brody snapped his foot forward and swiped the back of Rocket’s legs. My second owner fell to his knees.
“Jordyn, I-I was surfing the dark web to offload a few weapons. Saw a picture of you.” He babbled. “Tried to buy you back to give you your freedom. I apologize, baby, from the bottom of my heart for what I’ve put you through in the past. I apologize.”
“You wanted to give me my freedom?” Like Jamie? Before Jamie reappeared, I’d never have imagined that to be true of any man.
“Yes. Yes.” His head bobbed. Snot and tears coated his mouth and chin. It was hard to look at him. I … believed him. Through mangled sobs, he said, “I treated you like crap.”
“Worse than a dog!”
A … dog? Rebel. Where was my girl, Rebel? She’d been out in the cold for too long.
26
LOS ANGELES
Jamie
The warehouse reeked of dust, mildew, and rat droppings. Broken skylights allowed bright moonlight to stream in, casting long shadows across the rotten rafters. I lay prone on the upper mezzanine, cheek pressing against the rest of the matte-black .408 CheyTac that I’d assembled in two minutes—would need to cut that time in half the second I confirmed the kill shot. The long barrel balanced on a tripod over a shattered window frame.
I flicked a glance at the teddy bear near my elbow. Carly’s de-stuffed teddy bear. Leith had given me the keys to Camdyn’s F250. Those trucks came a dime a dozen, which was a blessing. The blessing in disguise was the custom doll from her Build-A-Bear party. I was in Somalia when Camdyn’s little girl had turned five. Of course, I hadn’t responded. Not even to decline the invitation. Camdyn texted a picture of Carly and this curly-haired teddy. After I saw it and hadn’t responded, he’d sent an emoji of a certain finger, which I assumed he hadn’t shown the birthday girl.