Page 63 of The Biker and the Loner
"Okay." But his steps are hesitant, deliberately slow. It's as if he knows something I don't.What does he know?
Halfway up the stairs, I struggle to extricate myself from his hold again, pissed the hell off.
"What iswrongwith you?!" I yell at him. "What do you know? What aren't you telling me?"
There's sympathy in his eyes when he looks down at me. "You don't smell it, do you?"
"Smell what?" I'm so confused.
He stops and drives me back against the wall, pinning me there with his hips. His hands cup my face, his tone earnest when he says, “I want you to stay here and let me go check. Please, Ley.Please."
"Why?"
He’s scaring me. The look in his eyes, the dooming tone of his voice.
"Promise me,” he begs. “Promise me you’ll stayright hereuntil I come back."
"But wh—"
"Leyana, baby, I'm begging you."
Shit. He's never called me by my full name before. "You think she's—Oh my God...You don't think she's—"
"Just promise you'll stay here. Please."
She is, isn't she? She's gone and he knows it and he doesn't want me to see. He's scared for what it would do to me.
"Okay," I agree, defeated.
He presses a kiss to my forehead before letting me go.
I slide down the wall, numb to the slam of my butt on the marble step. "Go left at the end of the T-hall," I say ghostly. "It's the second door on the right."
As he leaves, I knock my head back against the wall and take in a deep, accepting breath. And that's when I smell it. The foul, rotting stench.
Shoving up to my feet, I tug my sweater up over my nose. Whatisthat? It’s the most horrible thing that's ever infiltrated my nostrils. How? How did I not smell this before? It's unbearable.
Needing air, clean air, fresh air, I run back downstairs and out the doors.
That's what Scratch smelled... That's what he meant when he asked if I didn't smell it. That's how he already knew what I didn't want to accept.
A few minutes go by, and I'm pacing outside the front door when I see him descend the stairs with his phone pressed to his ear, his eyes searching for me. They skim across the foyer and land on me outside the door. Our eyes lock, and I don't need his words to confirm it. It's written in ghost letters all over his face.
I crumple—spiritually, mentally, and physically—into a heap on the floor. And I don't cry.
Ibreathe.
~
The ensuing couple of hours are a blur of men in blue, sirens, yellow tape, and questions. Lots and lots of questions. Someone throws a blanket around me and sits with me on the front steps.
I see familiar faces. Grunt's and Onyx's.
Mouths are moving but I hear nothing. It feels as if I'm underwater, white noise gushing loudly in my ears. It's sunrise by the time the stretcher is carried out, Kathy’s body outlined under a pristine white sheet, a tendril of her golden hair peeks out at the top.
"I'm so sorry," I mouth as they load her into a white van.
I don't know what happened. But I do know it's all my fault.
