Page 72 of Bullseye
Shit. Why did I do this? “I-I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry—”
“Wait! Sloane, your boy, Avery was here. Looking for you. He’s a nice man, Sloane.”
Despite it all, her approval makes me smile.
“Yeah.” It dawns on me. “Wait, what? He was there?”
“He’s looking for you. He’s worried. He thinks you may be in danger. But, Sloane, here’s the strange part. I don’t know why, but the way he asked questions, the look on his face when he asked the names of the men who may be after you. Those two dealers who—”
“Yeah. I know, Mom. What did he say?”
“Nothing really. And I don’t know why… Call it mother’s intuition. Even after all this time. But, Sloane, I think Avery knows something about Matt.”
No…
Shaking my head, the phone slips in my grasp. As my mother rambles on, my mind races.
No. There’s just no way. There’s no waymyBullseye could be the man who made the conscious decision to let my brother rot in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, just sohecould be free. That would never happen. Bullseye’s a good guy.
A good guy who I know nothing about. And who’s on the run from…
…somebody.
Slamming the phone down, I slump on the side of the bed and stare at the filthy carpet.
There’s just no way that Avery “Bullseye” Pairings could have fucked me over like this...
Chapter Eighteen
Bullseye
“Jesus,” I mutter to myself while turning off my bike. Staring at the giant white house with covered archways lining a mammoth porch and the long path leading to the front door, I cannot believe I’m at the home of Don Bordono. Again. The one place I swore I would never return to.
But I have to see where they have my father. I owe him that much at least, and I have to find out what Mikey and Tony know about Seneca. Underneath all of that… I have to find out the truth. Is Seneca’s brother the kid at the hit that went bad?
And the most important part of all of it—I have to keep Seneca safe. Damn it, Sen. Where are you?
Dropping my kickstand and swinging my leg up and over my bike, I draw in a deep breath as I take off my helmet. I’m still a good distance from the mansion and the guardhouses that flank the house, sitting on both sides of the driveway. No doubt I’ll be visited by guards soon enough. Obviously, they don’t think I’m a threat; otherwise, I’d be dead already.
Even though there are several secret entrances and exits to the house and I know where they are, there’s no sense in trying to sneak up or come in quietly from a back road. Don has cameras set up for miles down all the roads leading to his house, so he can catch anyone who dares come to his family home.
Regardless of the cameras, “sneaking up” is not a good game plan when dealing with Don Bordono.
Standing up tall, I don’t make any sudden moves. No doubt I’ll be paid a visit from the guards watching from the guardhouses.
Looking up at the second-floor balconies that may be the size of my entire apartment building back home, and then down at the walkway made of flagstone and slate with patches of real, one-hundred-percent, freakinggoldoverlay, I chuckle.
No, the situation isn’t funny, but considering the amount of time I’ve been spending in Hoppa’s Taphouse and my tiny apartment in Arizona, it’s absurd that I’ve been to two sprawling mansions in the past couple of hours.
The floodlights kick on and shielding my eyes, I turn my chin away from the glare.
“Who the hell are you?” A guard with a thick body and carrying a shotgun materializes out of one of the guardhouses. His long hair is dark black and greased back.
For a moment—although he doesn’t look anything like him—he makes me think of Bucky, and a feeling of melancholy for the club and all the guys—Bucky, Vil, Jonesie, Small Fry, Texas, Nick, and especially Bullet—washes down over me, threatening to render me useless. Man. What I wouldn’t give to have the guys back me up right now. But are they still my guys? And would they still have my back?
But I was right to leave. Although it felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin when I handed my Steel Knights jacket to Harry, I had to, andhaveto, do everything I can to keep them—and Seneca—safe.
“I said, who the fuck are you?”
