Page 55 of Creature's Vengeance
Not really. “I guess you do.”
“We should try.”
Fuck. I just wanted him dead. “I suppose so.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s dying tonight,” Maddog clarified.
Good. “Then let’s go in. I need to see this motherfucker’s face when he realizes how badly he fucked up.”
My pres and closest friend only laughed in response.
Since it was late, well after three in the morning, no one lingered outside or close to the windows to view our entrance outside Jim’s trailer. Hell, not a soul was awake during this time that I could tell. Drake confirmed he felt no presence from anyone other than Jim’s snoring inside the double-wide walls.
We didn’t knock or hesitate to fling open the door, stepping inside to the trash-littered floor covered in empty bottles of liquor. The guy consumed nearly as much fast food as he did booze, and the evidence lay all around us.
The loud noises we made didn’t startle him.
“I think we need to jolt his ass back into awareness,” Maddog concluded as he stomped his way into the kitchen, picked up a big bowl he found on the counter, dumped the contents, and began filling it with water. Once he had filled it within a few inches of the top, he returned, giving me a wide grin before he dumped the icy fluid over Jim’s head.
Jim coughed and sputtered as his eyes popped open. He tried to shoot to his feet, but the gun I had aimed in his direction made him pause as he discovered the barrel pointing at his chest. “Fuck. What the fuck do you want?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t slur. Maybe he was sober. Probably slept off the effects of the liquor by the time we showed up.
“You came to my house and took from me. I’m here to return the favor.”
He scoffed. “Don’t fucking know you, man.”
“You’ll remember soon.”
He sat forward, staring me down. “You know my club? We’ll fucking slit your throat and everyone you know for this.”
“You’re not gonna live long enough to tell,” Maddog informed him.
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name isn’t the detail you should focus on, you piece of shit,” I snarled. “It’s what you did.”
“Or, to be more accurate, what you didn’t do,” Maddog clarified.
Jim tried to stand, but I cocked the gun. “Don’t fucking move.”
He pushed off the furniture anyway, and I pulled back on the trigger, hitting him in the kneecap. A scream tore from his lips as he staggered backward into the chair he’d been resting in.
“As I said, don’t move, asshole.”
He clutched the fabric arms of his worn chair and winced against the pain. “Enough games. Who are you?”
“You should recognize me. I resemble my father, Tinman.”
He paled as his gaze swept over me. “Shit.”
Yeah, shit.
“You came into my house, stood by while your club brother shot my mother, and then left him to do whatever he wanted to me.”
“You weren’t harmed. I know that.”
“Not harmed?” I growled, shooting his other knee.
