Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Just like the kitchen, the bedroom is in a state that’s just on the wrong side of lived-in. Men’s clothes are strewn over one side of the bed, and a pair of shoes that must be Jay’s are on the floor. The bed isn’t made, and the sheets are a shade of purple just a little darker than my sweatshirt. There's a vanity and a chair, with makeup strewn over the top and a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. Inside a drawer is a green velvet jewelry box. I take it out carefully, reminded of Logan’s treasure case.
The contents hit me like a punch in the chest. There's a lock of dark blond hair, held together with a piece of tape and kept in a little plastic bag. I recognize it immediately. We each have one that we kept after Logan’s first haircut. Next to it is a silver locket Mom used to wear. I slip both into my pocket, not wanting to risk Jay taking the necklace downstairs to hock for cash.
I'm glad the bikers are waiting out in the living room giving me my space, but even though they're right out there, a feeling of intense loneliness rolls over me like an avalanche. “Why?” I whisper to the ghost of my sister’s memory.
If the place had been totally trashed, then maybe I’d be willing to believe she was in such a bad state that I’m wrong, and she really was to blame for everything. But it’s not. It could use a good cleaning, and to kick out the slob that’s probably not paying rent, but it doesn’t look like she was strung out or planning to take off. Did Jay finally snap? That doesn't explain her grabbing Logan instead of coming to me for help.
I don't get it.
I dig around a little more while trying to get my emotions back under control, but I don't find anything else that matters. Some weed and a few edibles in her underwear drawer, but no sign of the hard drugs that Officer Dillard claimed she was on. That doesn’t mean it’s impossible, but it doesn't feel right.
Georgia, what were you running away from?
A door opens in the other room. “Hey! Where the fuck are you going?” Jackal yells.
Rushing out, I only catch Stiff's back as he disappears out of the apartment. Jackal's boots are already clomping down the stairs, leaving me and Lash alone in the kitchen. I look out the window and see Stiff and Jackal chasing someone into an alley. I move towards the door, but Lash stops me. “Stay put. Stiff and Jackal are on it.”
“It’s probably just Jay.”
“Yeah, so then there’s nothing to worry about.” His grin has an edge to it. “That’s why we’re here, right?”
13
JACKAL
This fucker’s quick on his feet. But I’m quicker.
He darts into an alley, glancing over his shoulder to see how close we have. Grabbing the handle of a garbage can standing outside the backdoor of a restaurant, he flings it behind him, sending rotting garbage flying. For once I’m glad it’s cold, because the stench still sears the inside of my nose.
“For fuck’s sake!” Stiff swears as he dodges the trash.
Our mark bursts out of the alley onto the next street, sending a guy flying to his ass on the sidewalk. The collision slows him enough that my fingers brush his jacket, almost close enough to grab, but he veers left, sprinting as hard as he can. I can hear Stiff behind me, and I motion for him to go wide and come up the side, hoping to flank the asshole.
Panic can only give you so much energy. After that, it takes training to maintain any decent speed, and he’s running out of juice. He falls back on old tricks and grabs at a girl who does her best to get out of the way, but not fast enough. He catches her by her purse and yanks her straight into my path. I get a split second to choose between hitting her like a linebacker and losing a little time. Fortunately for the girl, I pick the kinder option, but I’m not sure she’s grateful when I flick a knife out of my sleeve and slice through her purse strap, whipping it out and slapping the guy in the back of the head. He staggers, more surprised than hurt, but it gives Stiff time to tackle him into the side of a building.
He hacks a glob of bloody spit onto the sidewalk at Stiff’s feet. “What the fuck is your problem?” he snarls.
“Hey Jay,” I say in an overly friendly sing-song, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him around the corner where there are fewer curious eyes.
“Do I fucking know you? I ain’t done shit to the Sons.” He wiggles his jaw like he’s testing to see if something’s broken.