Page 41 of Auctioned to the Lumberjacks (Auctioned)

“Definitely.”

I lead the way, checking that Finn is following. I’m bumped by the leather skirt woman who’s drunk and staggering toward the ladies room. She gives me a funny look and then carries on.

There’s a large group of shaven-headed men by the exit, arguing about something. It’s good that we’re leaving before anything happens. I squeeze past and draw the cool night air into my lungs, craving the clean alpine scent of my forest.

“Did you get what you came for?” the bouncer asks.

“The beer was good. The pussy, not so much.”

He laughs in a raspy way that probably comes from smoking too much. “Told you.”

“You did.”

When Finn and I are safely in the car and on our way home, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is only the beginning, but at least we know there’s a chance to make things right for Skye.

It won’t be easy, but we’ll do our best.

16

JACK

DEMONS FROM THE PAST

With West and Finn gone, I’m on edge. Carter Reynolds is a dangerous man with no limits. People have gone missing and had their lives smashed to pieces by him for pettier reasons than Skye's involvement.

It has been years since I last heard his name, and the fact that he’s still a player on the scene can only mean that his empire has grown in size and strength. Or his protection racket has.

I hate that I have to be the one who stays with Skye tonight. I want to be out there, investigating, protecting, and taking control. It was my job before Bill fucked it all up.

Despite my insomnia being at its worst this past few weeks, I’m wired and struggle to sit still. I pace the porch, irritating myself with my restlessness. The heat from the fire in the cabin felt stifling, and the stale smell of leftover dinner lingered in the air despite Skye cleaning up after we ate.

I had to get out of there.

Tonight, there is no moon. Stars and distant galaxies twinkle instead, reminding me of how small and insignificant we all are. Troubles linger on the horizon. Troubles that feel huge.

I rest against the railing and close my eyes.

Skye headed to the studio after Finn and West set off on their mission. She didn't want to sit in the cabin, waiting for their return. She needed to keep herself occupied, which is something I understand. As much as I’m curious about what she’s doing over there, it suits me to languish in my solitude. At least from here, I can make sure she’s safe.

The recent wind has died away, and this evening is still. The only sound I hear is my ragged breath as I shudder against the dropping temperature. The thought of smashing up some wood passes through my mind, but I also have to keep an eye on the studio and the cabin after Ethan's latest visit. Although he’s a pathetic weasel, I doubt that Skye could do much to protect herself if she found herself alone with him.

Closing my eyes, I imagine myself lighting up a cigarette and inhaling deeply on the welcome tang of nicotine, and the sudden rush of calm hits me full-on. But that is something I managed to bury well in the past, and that is where I intend it to stay. The last time I had a drag on a cigarette, it was one that belonged to Bill.

He never worried about vices. He was into them all despite being a cop.

A bright flash of rage surges within me as the memory of our last job together resurfaces: Bill inside, getting his fix, me outside, keeping guard. It was stupid. The undercover operation was in full flow, and we had watched the joint all evening. Bill somehow escaped from a rear exit unseen, making his way back out front as backup arrived. The son of a bitch set me up and had his drug dealing felons inside testify that the bent copper cuttinga deal was me. It was lucky I had some dirt on a high-ranking officer that I threatened to expose, or I would have ended up banged up instead of out on my ear with a payoff.

Bill Tappin didn’t get to his high rank through being a decent cop but by knowing the right people inside and outside the force, and being prepared to do whatever it took to survive.

He knows Carter Reynolds.

I flex my hands into fists, trying to keep my rage at bay, but I have to admit defeat.

I stomp down the wooden steps that are slick with moisture and head off into the forest, grabbing West's tomahawk as I go.

I know exactly what I’m going to do.

Not far in, there is a clearing where we store bigger logs, perfect for smashing the crap out of to ward off a fucking stress-induced aneurysm.

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