Page 102 of Rogue
I dial Francis’s number. Three rings later, he answers. “Kylie, I thought . . . you’re not dead?”
Soon.“Alive and fighting,” I say, brushing aside my panic as I hit Speakerphone. “Two questions,Francis.What’s a number between six and eight?” I holler into the phone.
Jaxson—are you listening? Can you hear me?
“Why do you keep asking this? The answer never changes. Seven. Fucking seven.”
“How many of Novák’s men did you tell me were at Franco’s house?”
Dead silence.
Close by, someone screams, “Grab her.”
I hold my ground. “Come on, Francis. We both know the truth. The answer never changes.”
The phone hits the wall.
I’m tackled to the ground. The Prick on top of me grabs my head and slams it into the cold stone floor.
My last thought is always my first, my ever present.Jaxson, I never meant to hurt you.
28
Shelby
“Just keep your eye on the time,” Jaxson reminded me a short while ago, after I checked my messages only to discover Madelyn’s call:Wherever you are, pay attention to the weather. Come home when you can, okay?
“She’s not answering my calls. And it stormed something fierce last night.”
Jaxson gave me a wicked smile before growing more serious. “She’s your sister. You said she sounded worried. Go find out why. We’ve got this, fireball. I’ll have Veronica to keep me company,” he added with a wink.
Yeah, the man isn’t the least bit naive to how damn attractive he is. And I have proof of his virility all over my body.
There’s a bruise on my stomach and a hickey on my neck; my ass smarts from Jaxson’s “I like it rough” belt marks. I can’t help the mad grin plastered on my face as I hurry toward our trailer, failing miserably at composing myself before I do the strut of shame before my sister’s ever-curious eyes.
But as I race across the trailer park and approach the single cement block we’ve been using as a step, reality bowls me over as brusquely as a door slamming in my face. Literally bowling me over—the significance of the dead man in the polyester tracksuit I almost trip over nearly bringing me to my knees.
No. NO.
“Madelyn!”
Paying little heed to the dead mobster lying facedown in the dirt and half hidden in the shrubbery to the right of the step, I fumble with my keys. Drawing in a breath, I manage to unlock the door. My heart races as I try to calm my thoughts. The door is locked…is still locked.
I burst inside our trailer, calling, “Madelyn, Madelyn.”
“I’m right here.”
I spot her standing inside our small kitchenette and immediately notice the cupcakes on the countertop. In the Smith family, on special occasions like birthdays, it’s our custom to bypass cakes in favor of smaller, individualized cupcakes. As I’ve no tolerance for baking, Mama passed down her recipes to Madelyn.
Oh crap. I missed her twentieth birthday.
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s no biggie you forgot. A lots been going on…”
“Holy mother of God, are you okay?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. The storm blew out as quickly as it rolled in.”
Don’t. Worry.
