Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Somebody calls from the mouth of the cave, “Mr. Russo!”
I jog to the cave. They left fast, abandoning several weapons and crates of supplies. Sleeping bags and stinking buckets litter the cave… and, further on, lit by oil lamps, several women crouch with their hands over their eyes. I recognize one of them from the video Mason showed me when he visited my office.
“Crystal?” I say, shouldering my rifle and offering my hand. “It’s okay–you’re safe. The Vultures are gone. They can’t hurt you anymore.”
It takes a while for the women to slowly stand and leave the cave. When they do, they wince in the sunlight. They look thin, as if The Vultures have been hoarding all the food for themselves, and several of them have bruises and wear torn clothing, leaving no question about what those sick fucks have been doing to them.
One of them, a young girl with dyed red hair, sees the corpse on the ground and runs over to him, letting out a wild scream. She kicks him in the side. “I told you, you’d pay for what you did! I told you God would make you pay, you rapist fuck!”
Rafe walks up beside me. “Chin up, Dom. At least you didn’t kill an evil man.”
“We’ve got no goddamn clue where they’re going now. This is FUBAR.”
“Fucked up beyond all recognition. Do I get a gold star?”
“Can it, Rafe.”
“We could question the kid again.”
“No, we can’t.” When Rafe looks at me curiously, I say, “I had two men stay behind and hand him off to the cops as soon as we left.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t trust the mob.”
“Dom, you are the mob.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Let’s get these women somewhere safe. Then we’ll figure out our next step.”
As I drive through Topanga Canyon, I reflect on the fact that today’s fuck-up had a grim silver lining. It means that I don’t have to let my Keepsake go right away. I unlock the gate, park, then go searching for her.
She’s in her studio, the whir of some tool the only noise as she leans intently over her worktable. Meatball meows and approaches me. I kneel, greeting the cat, then pick him up and watch as Evie loses herself in her work.
Even with her back turned to me, I can read the passion in her movements. I wonder how long she’s been in here, utterly lost to her craft, and I imagine a different scenario, a different life, in which I was watching my woman, my girlfriend, not my prisoner.
Finally, she lays down her tool and turns, starting when she sees me.
“How long have you been there?” she asks.
“I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked lost–in love with your craft.”
She walks toward me, smiling as if she’s unsure if she should allow herself. She’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, no bra as usual, her nipples poking through the fabric. I put Meatball down and remind myself to be calm. I can’t let my lust erupt like it did before I left her for a week.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She frowns.
“Is something wrong?”
“Uh – no.” She bites her lip. “Is something wrong with you? You seem tense.”
“It’s been some day.”
I gesture to the door. She walks toward it, then stops, trails her hand along my chest. She looks into my eyes with that classic Evie complexity. “I lied before. Something is wrong.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t seem to want to kiss me hello.”
I laugh savagely. “I’m afraid what will happen if I kiss you. And I’m afraid you won’t want to kiss me when you learn what I did today.”
Her answer? She throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around me and standing on her tiptoes to bring her lips to mine. I gasp as I kiss her, holding her tightly, my desire and my emotions responding in equal measure.
Lifting her off her feet, I let my hands move to the tempting perfection of her ass.
It takes a lot of effort to put her down, to stop myself from going the rest of the way and mauling her, but I pull back.
“What happened?” she asks.
I take a step back. “I killed a man.”
She gasps, looking at me as if she doesn’t recognize me. “Who? Why?”
“We caught a Vulture. He was just a kid.”
“You killed a kid?”
“He was a young man, but at my age, he seemed like a teenager.”
“Oh my God, Dom.”
“Wait, Keepsake. I didn’t hurt him. I’m not explaining this very well.”
“Then you need to make it make sense,” she grits out.
I want to take her hands, but I don’t allow myself. Affection radiates from her, and I know that touching would make it more difficult for her to think clearly. Just like it’s difficult for me to think around her.
“I questioned him – I didn’t hurt him – and he led us to the cave where The Vultures were hiding. They had off-road bikes, fled, and I shot out the tires to one of their bikes. The man fell and hit his head. His name was Justin. Or Justice. That’s what he liked to be called, apparently.”