Page 19 of Hot Receiver

An icy cold hand squeezes my heart.

There’s nobody else for me to call.

A loud ping jars me. I look down at the screen to see an address in Snowshoe, West Virginia.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face. It’s almost midnight now. By the time I get there, it’ll be close to four.

Blood rushes between my ears.

The press conference.

It’s at eleven tomorrow morning.

I need to be there, no excuses. According to Marc, I may be the team golden boy now, but things change so quickly, I could easily be on the shit list just as fast. And I can’t jeopardize the one lifeline my family has. Without it, I don’t know how they’d survive.

And Zak needs me, too. I can’t let him down again. In a way, I’m the reason why he’s in the hot seat right now.

I plug the address into my GPS and head to the address. It should be a struggle to keep my eyes open on the long, dark roads, but adrenaline pumps hard through my veins, keeping me awake, alert, and scared because I have no fucking idea what I’m gonna find once I get there.

Once the GPS says I’m five minutes out, a deep chill settles into my bones. Right now, I’m probably half a mile from my family’s house. But this area is fucking desolate. Feels like I just crossed into an alternate reality. No streetlights illuminate the roads so I flip on my brights and immediately wish I didn’t. They just make everything look worse. Rusted cars, overgrown weeds, broken wood fences, trash in the gutters. Other than my car, the moon is the only thing that casts a bit of light on the place.

Snowshoe sounds like it should be a nice little town, not the shithole it actually is.

My gut plummets into my shoes when I pull up to the address. The only way I’d have ever seen the number is because my brights caught the corner of the metal number hanging off the front door. I get out of my truck, gritting my teeth when I remember I’m in a fucking tux with nothing tochange into. It’s hard to look intimidating in a goddamn penguin suit.

I grab my phone and slip it into my pants pocket then get out of the truck.

The stench of rotting garbage makes bile rise in the back of my throat.

That’s when I see the car.

Dad, what the fuck have you done?

The walk to the front door is too short, and I’m still not even close to prepared for what I’m gonna find once I knock.

I don’t have long to wait. They must’ve been watching and waiting.

Whoever “they” is…

My skin crawls like a bucket of spiders has been dumped over me when Rusty Strickland pulls open the door and leers at me through bloodshot eyes. A foul-mouthed criminal motherfucker who dropped out of our high school a year before we graduated. He was always trouble and got caught up with some motorcycle club called the Barbarians that operated outside of Fairmont.

The name says it all, and he was a shoo-in to all their illegal dealings. Years ago, it was drug running. I can’t imagine what kind of shit he’s gotten into now.

The thought that my father has gotten caught up with these crazy bastards makes me want to throttle him.

“About fucking time you showed up. You didn’t need to dress so fancy.”

I try not to cringe from the stench of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey breath that can peel paint.

Rusty leans forward. I hold my breath for his next words. “Glad you finally showed up, superstar.”

“I came as soon as I got the call.”

“Nah, you came as soon as you took the call, brah.” Thedoor swings open wider and Rusty’s older brother, Wheeler, blows out a mouthful of smoke directly in my face.

I fight the urge to cough, the smoke stinging my eyes.

A quick look behind these guys makes my spine stiffen. I don’t see my dad, but I see a lot of other shit that roils my gut.

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