8. Morgan #2
“I’m not lying to my best friend.” It’s our one and only rule. No lies. Ever. And I’m sure as fuck not starting now. “And you’ve got to let me leave at some point. When Ash sees the state I’m in, he’s going to think you did it and want to go to the police.”
Flint opens his mouth, but it’s Jet who speaks.
“We think it was some of the Feral Beasts who attacked you.”
Reluctantly, I turn my head so I can see him.
“Even more reason to go to the police then.” I might not be able to tell them exactly what I saw, but I can sure as shit tell them who did it.
Flints tsks. “Yeah, you don’t wanna do that.”
Seriously, looking from one to the other is making me feel sick again, and I definitely don’t want a repeat of earlier. I settle back into the pillows and look up at the ceiling instead. “Why not? Are they above the law?” Surely shit like that only happens on TV.
Flint snorts. “They like to think they are. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got someone inside the police, but it wouldn’t get that far. The minute they find out you’re gonna name them, it’ll be all over.”
I stare at him, confused.
Surely he doesn’t mean?—
“They’ll kill you,” Jet clarifies.
Oh, so they did mean that. It’s my turn to scoff, because what the fuck? “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Flint’s not laughing. There’s not even a trace of humour in his eyes as he watches me. “You wouldn’t be the first person they’ve taken care of.”
Fuck me.
I close my eyes, shutting everything out.
This cannot be happening.
This. Cannot. Be. Fucking. Happening.
It’s Harlington for fuck’s sake. Hardly crime central.
The silence lasts all of five seconds.
Flint softens his tone when he speaks next. “If you tell Ash, you’ll make him a target too.”
I’m about to tell them I don’t believe a word they’re saying, that shit like that doesn’t happen. But five days ago, I didn’t think my dad would lose our house to some fucking gangsters in an illegal card game either.
“Birch is a nasty wanker,” Flint starts, but I tune out the rest of what he’s saying.
Feral Beasts.
Birch.
Oh fuck.
I remember.
I remember it all .
“Morgan? You listening?”
No. I’m too busy trying not to have a panic attack.
I open my eyes to find Jet’s head cocked as he watches me, like he can see every awful thought running through my head.
But it doesn’t matter, because they’re right.
I can’t tell Ash.
Any of it.
Whether he or anyone else believes me or not, I know what I saw, and Flint’s warning suddenly rings horribly true.
I can almost feel the ghost of their breath, smell the blood...
They’ll kill me.
They almost did.
And anyone else who knows.
Suddenly I’m not so keen to get out of here.
My fingers curl around the sheet, like they’ve got a mind of their own.
Jet’s eyes track the movement, but I don’t care.
Swallowing down the rising panic clawing at my throat, I ask, “How d’you know they won’t just kill me anyway when they find out I didn’t die? ”
Jet shrugs. “We don’t.” His expression doesn’t change when he adds, “But as long as they don’t do it near here...”
Then they don’t give a fuck.
I’m speechless.
Horrified.
Scared shitless.
“Fuck’s sake, Jet.” Flint rubs a hand across his face.
When he speaks again, his tone is considerably warmer and softer than Jet’s.
“We have no way of knowing what they’ll do when they find out you’re alive.
But if you stick to the story that you came off your bike, and don’t go to the police, then maybe they’ll leave you alone. ”
Maybe.
Then his words sink in, and my stomach hollows out. “Where is my bike?” Please don’t tell me it’s still out there in the forest. The thought makes me feel sick all over again. I restored that bike with money my mum left me.
After the house, it feels like the only thing I have left of her.
Fuck . The house.
It’s Sunday today, at least I think it is. “What day is it?”
Flint frowns. “Tuesday. And your bike’s here in our garage. If anyone asks, we’re repairing it for you.”
His words barely register.
It’s Tuesday.
Fucking Tuesday .
My house, my home, is no longer that.
My dad will have left already.
I wonder if he tried to contact me.
“Give me my phone,” I try again. When Flint hesitates, I glare at him, not even caring that he could kill me and not give a shit. I feel hollowed out inside. I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to Ash’s, not now. Not with this hanging over me.
Maybe I should take Dad up on his offer.
“As of Sunday, I have no home to go back to. I know you don’t care one way or the other, but I’d like to have somewhere to go when I leave here.
” He still makes no move to hand it over, and fuck him .
I smile, aiming for one as cold as Jet’s, as I add, “Ash won’t wait much longer to come looking for me.
In fact, I bet he’s already on his way.”
Flint shares a look with Jet and satisfaction curls inside me.
“Stop him.” He thrusts my phone at me.
“And you better hope you can convince him,” Jet offers, his smile more menacing than anything I could manage. “Because if they’re watching him or us, you just put a target on his back.”
He doesn’t have to say by who.
But it’s a bluff, right? I turn to Flint, but his slight nod is confirmation.
Fuck.
I call Ash, hands shaking as I wait for it to connect.
It rings and rings.
But he doesn’t pick up.
He won’t if he’s driving. Won’t even use fucking Siri.
So I do the only thing left and scroll through my apps, clicking on the Find My app. There he is. Fuck’s sake, Ash. “He’s on his way.”
Flint sighs. “How long?”
I shrug, only then remembering about my stitches, but there’s barely a pull. “About twenty minutes.”
“Bollocks.” Flint pulls his own phone out, tapping away on it for a minute before standing. “Lynx’ll be here in a sec.”
I scowl. “Wonderful.”
Flint’s lips twitch but he doesn’t say anything else. Not to me, anyway. “I’m gonna go meet Ash at the gate with Callum. You coming?”
Jet glances behind him, and it’s only then I notice another occupied bed further down. “No. Unless you can’t handle the hum— him by yourselves?”
Flint’s eyes widen a second before he quickly schools his expression, but my heart stutters at Jet’s words.
I glance between the two of them, my mind adding two and two together and coming up with nothing I want to fucking think about while I’m trapped in this bed. I reach for the water next to me, mouth as dry as the desert again.
Flint’s stare is like a lead weight. I don’t want to look, though. Don’t want to show him what’s in my head right now, because I know it’ll be written all over my face.
Eventually he stalks off, followed by Jet, and I finally settle back on the bed.
My reprieve is short-lived though, because although Flint left the room, Jet is now sat next to the occupant of that other bed. And his sharp gaze is trained on me.
I look away quickly, but I can feel it.
This has been the worst week of my life. And it’s not over yet. I rub my temples, trying to ward off the headache that— Oh. It’s gone.
There’s no dull throb, no nausea now either.
I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure concussions don’t wear off that quickly. Seems Corey is either full of shit or incompetent. Not sure which I’m rooting for.
I don’t get long to contemplate either before I have more visitors.
Why are the hot ones always such wankers?
My body is a traitorous piece of shit, pulse immediately kicking up as Lynx walks over to my bed.
He’s got Corey with him, but I barely notice him.
Not with Lynx stood next to him, looking rough and windswept.
He’s all angles and moodiness, and I really shouldn’t find that as appealing as I do.
He’s wearing his cut now, and the black leather bearing his club’s name only serves to make him that much hotter. He’s got bad boy written all over him.
He’s so much worse than that, I remind myself.
Lynx Harper isn’t just bad, he’s lethal. I need to remember that amongst all my drooling.
My reaction pisses me off, because I don’t like him.
He’s an arsehole.
Not as terrifying as Jet, for some reason, but he gets under my skin like the itchiest rash and I’m already scowling before he even opens his mouth.
And I don’t give a shit what he has to say. “I don’t have a concussion anymore,” I blurt to Corey before Lynx can get a word out. His mouth snaps shut, and I enjoy his glare for all of two seconds before Corey steps forward, way too close for my liking.
He breathes in, gaze boring into mine, then reaches for the sheet covering me. “May I?”
There’s a tense set to his shoulders. It makes me nervous enough to debate telling him no.
But at least he asked. From the look on Lynx’s face, he’s ready to tear them back regardless. Curiosity gets the better of me and I nod.
Corey manages to shield my view from what he’s doing.
“I’m just going to check your stitches,” he says softly, and I relax back into the pillow.
For whatever reason, I trust him in a way I don’t any of the others.
Maybe it’s because he’s a doctor, or maybe it’s the way his eyes don’t hold the same coldness that the others’ do.
His touch is gentle, practiced, and I lose interest trying to see what he’s looking at. My attention wanders to Lynx again, immediately wishing it hadn’t when I find him looking straight at me.
I inhale sharply, biting my lip to keep the sound inside.
His eyes narrow, and fuck me , they are the most amazing colour.
Contacts , I think. Got to be.
For one drawn-out moment, those eyes are full of something wild and inviting, and my body heats in response.
I want it.
Then he huffs, and it’s gone. Vanished like it was never there, and the sudden iciness in its place feels like a slap.
“All good?” he says, and I realise just in time that he’s not speaking to me. Of course. Why would he?
Corey straightens and carefully pulls the sheet up over me. “Yeah, the stitches are healing nicely.”
I frown, stretching my feet back and forth to test the pull on my thighs.
Nothing.
No pain, just the tug of the stitches that I reckon I don’t need anymore.
They’re both staring at me when I glance up.
“I put some numbing pain relief on your wounds earlier. It’s probably just kicked in.” Corey looks pointedly at my stomach. I’d forgot all about the wounds there.
It makes sense. They’d hurt like a bitch when I first woke up, and no way that disappears altogether in a couple of days. I want to ask about the concussion, but he’s already stepping back.
“Even though they might not hurt,” he says, “It’s important that you don’t try and move around while they’re healing. And don’t remove the dressings or you’ll risk infection.”
Hadn’t even thought about doing that, but now I kind of want to.
They leave without saying anything else, and the minute they’re out of sight I pull my phone out from under my pillow.
I scroll all the messages from Ash, guilt seeping in as they get more and more concerned. And then finally there’s one from my dad.
Dad: I know you’re angry. I don’t blame you. I was hoping to see you before I left, but you didn’t answer, and Ash didn’t know where you were. Or he wouldn’t tell me. Just that you were safe. I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry.
Shit.
I blink back tears before they get chance to fall.
Not doing that here, not with Jet still stealing cold-as-fuck glances my way.
I guess part of me was hoping it wouldn’t happen, that for whatever reason they wouldn’t actually follow through and take the house.
.. I don’t know who he got himself involved with, but looks like they don’t fuck around.
Am I any better off?
I might not have gambled away my home, but I’ve still found myself in a huge fucking mess. One I have no idea how to get out of.
But it’s my mess, and I’m not about to drag Ash into it.
I try again to call him, pulling up our message thread when he doesn’t answer. I text him. Hopefully he’ll read it before he gets here.