Page 43 of Wild Night

Lucian moves the hand that’s still tangled in my hair from side to side to make his point. Okay then, he doesn’t give a fuck about me. So, if that’s the case, why won’t he just let me go? And why does he have to keep pulling my hair?

And also, how rude. He doesn’t give a fuck about me, but he sure as shit married me, bought me expensive things, had a lot of sex with me, and then came back to beat me up. What the hell?

“Interesting,” Monty murmurs, but his words are drowned out by the whimpering and sobbing of Ranae, who is still tied up to a wine barrel. Monty lifts his hand, with the gun firmly secured, and points it at Ranae.

“This is the one you care about?” Monty asks.

Lucian doesn’t speak, but I can feel him trembling behind me. “And you thought you were going to get away with whatever the fuck you were trying to get away with, and I would be none the wiser?” he asks.

“I didn’t do anything,” Lucian barks.

“What do you want?” Monty asks. “You came here, deceived my employee, tried to wiggle your way into my inner circle, which, let me tell you, did not work. We were playing you as much as you were playing us. We clocked you as a Fed the minute you stepped into the tasting room. So, pray tell, what do you want?”

Lucian growls. He’s becoming frustrated with this, and at least I can agree with him on one thing:this is frustrating. I wish he would just let me go. In fact, I wish we had never met.

“Pay me to walk away. I won’t submit any of my findings. I’ll just disappear. Pay me.”

“Yeah?” Monty asks. “How much do you foresee me giving you?”

“Ten million. It’s a drop in the bucket for your operation. I know all your contacts. I know everything about the inner workings here. You claim that I don’t, but we both know you’re bluffing.”

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

Before I realize what’s happening, I hear a loud bang. It bounces off the walls around us, and then finally, my hair isreleased, and that’s because the man standing behind me is on the ground, moaning and holding on to his thigh.

There is blood seeping out of his leg as I stand above him, completely frozen as he writhes on the ground. He’s been shot.

“You don’t know shit, boy,” Monty growls.

Three of the five men rush forward, ignoring me completely, and grab Lucian, then drag him away. I don’t know where they’re taking him. I’m not sure I want to know, either. Monty lifts his hand and motions for the men to do something else. He doesn’t say a word, and yet they understand what he wants.

A few moments later, Ranae is being dragged out of the room, following behind Lucian’s blood trail. And I’m left alone with Monty and his gun. I’m not sure what this means, but I am not feeling any sense of relief because as I stare at this man whom I thought of as a kind boss, I am seeing that he is not just some cute older man.

He is ruthless.

And his dark gaze is now focused on me.

Shit.

IVY

Work. Home. Work. Home.

Day in and day out, this is how my schedule goes. I wait for Shocker to call me with an update, but I know if he’s even made it to California, he hasn’t done shit yet. It’s at least a five-day trip if you’re riding hard, which I don’t think Shocker can do. Otherwise, he’d already be there. Realistically, it’s going to be between seven and ten days.

They should have flown.

Every minute that passes, I wonder if Posey is even still alive. But today is a reality that I wasn’t quite prepared for. I wanted this shit done and handled by the time Bullet came home from his honeymoon. That is not going to happen.

He arrives today.

He’s already texted me that he wants a meeting at my office first thing in the morning. I’ve sent the note to Cidney, and she’s added it to my calendar. So, I sit at home alone, staring at the television that is on, but I have no clue what’s playing. I take a sip from my bottle of tequila.

I’m going to get fucking tanked and hope to hell that everything turns out the way it’s supposed to. I’ve let down my president in an effort to keep my club out of hot water. I’ve let down Posey, the only woman I could see claiming. And I’ve let myself down.

I’m worthless, useless, and fucking pointless.

I am ashamed of myself, and I know that I don’t deserve the tattoo on my back or the cut that is hanging in my closet at the moment. I don’t deserve to call myself a Vicious Reaper. I continue to drink. And drink some more, knowing without a fucking doubt that I’m going to have a hangover tomorrow.

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