Chapter 27
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can’t believe I drugged Vera.
Skulls’ woman appears at my side as I lower Vera into the bed.
“Your place is really nice,” she says, wide-eyed, looking around.
I can’t speak for a good ten seconds. “You won’t let her?—”
“I promise, I’ll take very good care of her.”
“She could throw up. She could choke. Fuck. Anything could happen.”
Katie nods sympathetically. “I understand you’re worried. I’m going to put my smart watch on her, and?—”
A sharp knock at the door cuts her off. Skull and Rio were both outside so I’m surprised they let anyone knock.
When I open the door, it’s the doctor who handles our wounded—off-the-books—the man called Six.
He glances down at my knuckles. “You need stitches.”
“What are you doing here?”
“A house call. I was in the neighborhood. Smitty told me to pay a visit.”
Smitty. Of course he’d know I wasn’t happy about the choice I made, and I’d be worried as fuck about drugging Vera while I took care of business.
Six steps past me, glancing around my apartment. “Cookbooks. What the fuck?”
I grit my teeth. “You’ll watch over her?”
“That’s what you’re paying me a cold K for.”
I’d pay him a hundred thousand to take care of Vera.
Without saying a word, I reach into the night stand and get out a thousand dollars. He’s looking smug when he pockets it.
“Katie here will keep me company. We’ll make sure sleeping beauty is just fine.”
I scrub a hand over my face.
“Go,” he snaps. “That dose won’t last forever. You got a couple of hours.”
With my heart jammed under my jaw, I lean over the bed, and sweep Vera’s hair back from her forehead. She looks peaceful. But when she wakes up, she’s going to be mad as fuck.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
When I turn and walk out, I don’t let myself look back.
Rio and Skull are waiting in the hall.
“You good?” Skull asks.
“Not yet.”
Skull’s the one who follows me out of the clubhouse parking lot. Our Harley engines are screaming as we hit the main road.
Fourteen thirty-one Smokehouse Road is a warehouse. A vacant shell of a building. The metal echoes the sound of our arrival.
Skull scans the lot as I climb off my bike. “Where did you grab him?” I ask.
Skull mutters, “His yacht. Snoring, passed out from one too many umbrella drinks.”
“Do accountants make enough to buy yachts?” I wonder out loud as we cross to the hidden doorway.
“Dirty ones,” Skull replies echoing my thoughts.
“Does he know who has him?”
“Nope.” Skull tosses me a mask and holds out his hand for my cut. “There’s a butcher’s apron hanging on the wall in there.”
“Oh, fun.”