Page 5 of Wicked Dove
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Pride.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Dignity.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Worth.
We reach the door and I cling to the frame as if my life depends on it.
“I’m good, but thanks,” I mutter, knowing I’m blowing my shot at the money, but I’ve felt a man’s hand on me like this before. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.
If I’m learning anything right now, it’s that it’s pointless to take the money if it means letting men control me. That’s nodifferent from staying at home and letting my father dominate me.
“It’s sweet you think you have a choice.” The Vulture snickers, manhandling me even more—a feat I didn’t think was possible—yet I refuse to let go of the doorframe.
“Walker,” I blurt, glancing back at my friend, my safety net, to find him staring at me with concern etched in his brow.
Panic overtakes me as indecision flickers in his eyes, and I frown. I’ve never been concerned about Walker’s intentions before; that’s not going to change now… is it?
He stands up and my pulse pounds so loud against my eardrums that my face feels like it’s throbbing, but as soon as his eyes meet mine, I know I’m in safe hands.
“Sorry, Johnny. Not tonight. She’s mine.” Walker’s words hang in the air for a moment and the hand holding me relaxes, giving me hope.
The click of a safety being knocked off echoes in my ears a moment later, quickly shattering the hope I’d been silently clinging to. I brace, ready for the butt to smash against my temple—that’s where it goes every time my father wields his handgun—but to my surprise, the familiar explosion of pain never comes. When I drag my eyes away from Walker to figure out why not, I find it pointed across the room at him.
Hell. No.
Stumbling back a step, I press my back against the wall, watching as Walker raises his hands in surrender. “That’s not necessary. Is it, Johnny?” he asks, but he doesn’t get an answer. Instead, the Vulture moves his gun three inches to the right before pulling the trigger.
I scream, the air rushing from my lungs as horror coils down my spine, but it’s not Walker who hits the ground with a thud. It’s White Tee Guy.
Walker gazes at Johnny, eyebrows lifted. “He’s dead because…”
“Because I fucking say so, and if I say I’m taking the girl then I’m taking the goddamn fucking girl,” he snarls, nostrils flared. His gun moves back three inches, centered on Walker’s chest, and he takes a step toward him.
Horror shifts to terror, melting into fear as I move instinctively. I launch myself at the Vulture, colliding with his solid chest, desperate to protect Walker when the gunshot echoes again. I’m falling, twisting on my heel as I scream.
Chaos erupts around me, the men by the door yelling as the ringing of gunshots grows louder, but I’m sprawled on the floor, staring into Johnny’s lifeless eyes.
He’s dead.
I think.
I know.
But how? It doesn’t make sense.
The floor trembles beneath me with the thunder of heavy footsteps as I struggle for each breath, expecting the burn of a bullet headed my way.
I’m dizzy with fear when the sounds stop, movements pause, and the world becomes still. A shadow looms over me, and to my disbelief, it’s Walker hovering above me.
He plants one hand on his hip while he scrubs his chin with the other. “This is fucked, Elodie,” he grunts, a hint of irritation flashing in his eyes as he offers me his hand, but my limbs feel heavy. I can’t lift an arm to meet him.
Nausea twists in my stomach as Walker glances at the man beside me. “Is he dead?” I rasp, and he nods grimly. Uncertainty battles within me, but I ask the other question swirling in my mind. “Was it my fault?”
