Page 43 of Chasing Wildflowers
Her jaw tightens, and she yanks her hand away. “You know nothing about me,” she snaps, voice breaking, as more tears pool in her eyes. “Get out.”
“Wildflower,” I plead, hoping my nickname will soften her. “Please, you can trust me.”
She looks away, tears streaming down her face, refusing to budge.
Fuck. How the hell do I fix this?
I knew her shutting me out was a possibility, but I had hoped she would open up once she knew about the abuse my mom and I suffered.
I don’t rage. I don’t argue. I let the pain in my chest be a steady hum and say the only thing that comes to mind. “I’m not giving up on you.”
Somehow, I managed to find the will to walk out of her house and into the twilight. As I climb into my Bronco, the porch light clicks off like a final goodbye. With one final look at the house, I drive away, even though it kills me.
Rage coils in my gut, as I drive through the quiet town, my headlights cutting through the darkness, sunrise still a few hours away. Lane may not be talking to me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let Luke get away with putting his hands on her.
Twenty minutes later I pull my Bronco over on the side of a back road a few miles from his house. Slipping on a pair of black leather gloves, I get out and make my way through the woods. Stopping at the edge of his property, I bring a pair of night vision binoculars to my eyes, scanning the two story home and surrounding property for security cameras. There aren’t any.
Good.
This will be quick and easy.
With practiced ease I sprint across the yard silently and slip a gloved hand into my pocket, pulling out a small silver tool. I slip it into the door, disengaging the lock with a soft click.
Stepping inside the garage, I spot his lifted, diesel Chevy truck. He’s definitely overcompensating for his manhood.
I ease the interior door open, careful to keep it from squeaking and step into the kitchen. The light above the stove casts the room in pale light.
I keep my steps light as I make my way through the house, clearing rooms as I go. I find him on the second floor in his bedroom, passed out drunk, face down in his bed. Making this too easy.
I’m pissed I can’t kill him with my own hands, watching the life drain from his eyes. To put the same fear in his eyes that he put in Lane’s. I have to make it look like an accident. I can’t have the cops sniffing around.
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I pull out a syringe, carefully removing the cap. It’s filled with a clear liquid that will keep him knocked out. Completely untraceable. A good insurance policy to keep on hand.
I shake my head.
The things you can buy on the Dark Web.
I plunge the needle into his neck, right at his hairline. He doesn’t even twitch. I haul him over my shoulder, his body dead weight as I carry him through the house to the garage.
I tug his truck door open and dump him inside, with a grunt. He slumps forward, his body draped over the steering wheel. I push him back and strap the seatbelt around him, holding him in place. The engine growls to life when I turn the key and I shake my head. Too much power for such a small dick asshole.
I don’t look back as I close the door behind me with a satisfying click, leaving him trapped inside, windows barely cracked.
It will be ruled an accident.
He fell asleep in his truck while it was running. Too drunk to make it into the house.
Carbon monoxide poisoning, way less than he deserved.
Once I’m back in my Bronco I send a quick text to Miles telling him to take care of the cameras at the bar, just in case. I don’t think the cops will look too far into his busted up face. The guy seemed to invite trouble everywhere he went, according to Betsy.
I take a deep breath, though it does nothing to ease the tension coiled tightly around my body.
I pull up Kam’s number, putting it on speaker.
It rings several times, the noise echoing through my cab, before going to voice mail.
I look at the clock on my dash. 6:45 AM.
