Page 21 of Raine
My knees hit the beige comforter, and the floorboard creaks under my feet while I look at the teddy sitting on her pillows. I lean over, and the bed moves, causing me to lose my footing and trip over the carpet.
“Mother-fucking-fuck,” I grumble, landing on my ass and jarring my tailbone.
Pain latches on and I grimace, lowering my body to the floor and turning my head to the side. The blood stain was inches from my face, but that wasn’t what drew my attention away from the faded red stain.
Running my hand over the raised floorboard, I squinted and rolled onto my side to avoid the stained timber. Forcing myself onto all fours, I move a couple of feet and slide my fingers underneath the floorboard.
I can’t move my fingers around much, but the little bit I can has my fingers brushing against something soft.What the fuck?
Removing my fingers, I stand up gingerly, the pain in my lower back throbbing and reminding me of my clumsiness. Moving around the room, I search for something I can use to wedge under the floorboard.
Walking into the walk-in robe, I’m momentarily stunned when I look around and spy my mother’s clothes lining the wall from when she was a teenager. Upon further assessment, I find some of her and dad’s clothes in the back corner, and I feel a tear sliding down my face. I swipe it away angrily.
It’s been fucking years since I’ve been in this room, and although I knew Babushka kept all of my mother’s clothing, it was still a bitter pill to swallow because she was taken too soon from me.
Scrunching up my nose, I swallowed back a sneeze, the musty smell aggravating my sinuses. Standing in the middle of the wardrobe, I chew my lip and force myself to move forward, swiping another wayward tear falling down my face.
“Stop being stupid, Raine. It was a long fucking time ago.” I scold myself and step forward to rummage through the clothes.
The sound of coat hangers clamors around me, my back aching from the force I was using to push the clothes to the sides after my fall.
“Ah huh! There you are,” I say to the empty space, grabbing the metal coat hanger and a pair of black heels from the floor.
Closing the door, I walk back to the floorboard and wedge my mother’s heel underneath, causing it to crack and splinter a little before I push the coat hanger in and drag what looks like a journal or notebook closer.
Sticking my hand into the space, I grab hold of the book and fall backward, jarring my back again. Pain shoots up my spine, and I grimace from the agony traversing through my lower back.
“For fuck’s sake!”
Taking a few deep breaths, I steady myself before looking at the journal. It was a brown leather-bound book, with a string of darker leather wrapped around the cover to keep it closed.
Turning the journal over, I look over the covers, spotting the Tartarus Mafia symbol on the back. Intrigue weighs heavily in my gut, urging me to open the bound book and find out what it’s about.
Flipping the book from front to back, I surmise there has to be a reason it was hidden in here, and looking at it, I wonder if it has some of the answers I’m seeking inside.
With trembling hands, I begin to open the book, but a loud bang downstairs has me dropping it like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Standing up, I withdraw my gun and switch off the safety. When I round the corner, I almost shit my fucking pants.
“Justyce, for fuck’s sake! I could have shot your pretty-boy face,” I grind out, walking down the stairs to meet him in the lounge room.
He smirks, rolling up his black sleeves and showing off his tatted arms. “Aww, come on, Raine, you know that’ll never happen.”
Flicking the safety back on, I holster my gun and flip him off. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Clearly. But why, and how did you know I’d even be here?”
He holds his phone up. “Phone tracker. Remember, the four of us have one on our phones. I need you at the club.”
Fucking phone tracker. I should have turned that bastard off.
“Can you elaborate a little more? I’m kind of busy wallowing in my own pity party here.”
His eyes soften a fraction, and he steps closer to me, but I put my hand up. “Don’t.”
“We’re worried about you.”
“Who? You? Yeah, right. You have Kenzi to keep you on your toes.”
