Chapter Thirty
Noah
If Bobbi weren’t staring at me in shock over what just happened, I’d probably take the opportunity to kill Reggie Hopkins and Floyd Baggett on the spot, witnesses or no. It would only take a moment, and I don’t need a gun.
Instead, I put my arm around her, hustle her into my car and take her to the hospital. Four fucking stitches. Every time the doc’s needle pierces Bobbi’s skin, I feel like a bullet is tearing through my guts.
Bobbi pats my arm like I’m the one who needs to be soothed. It just makes me want to murder Reggie and Floyd more.
The doctor says Bobbi is fine, but what the hell does he know? Doctors always say everything’s fine. Fuckers.
You’re being unfair, a cold rational voice points out, but I ignore it. What’s unfair is what happened to Bobbi.
The doc sends her home with a lot of pain meds. If she were really fine, he wouldn’t have to give her anything.
Bobbi studies my expression. “It doesn’t hurt that much. I’m all right,” she says, but the tight hollowness in her eyes tells me not to trust her words.
There is physical pain, but the meds are containing it. Worse is the emotional damage. She’s upset because she didn’t just make the cake to be a pretty decoration at the party. She imagined people enjoying the beauty of what she’d created and marveling over its delicious flavor. To her, baking is about nourishing people’s souls and bodies.
Reggie and Floyd ruined it. And they will pay. I’ll make sure of it.
My phone buzzes.
–Griffin: Is Bobbi okay? How badly is she hurt?
–Me: Four stitches. Pain meds.
–Sebastian: What the hell.
–Grant: Shoulda been there to lend support. I didn’t realize you and Bobbi would be attending Rachel’s party.
–Me: Rachel loves me, and I was trying to be nice.
–Nicholas: I should’ve gone. I honestly didn’t think anybody was going except Griffin.
–Emmett: When I heard about what happened to the cake and Bobbi, I couldn’t believe it.
What he can’t believe is that anybody would be stupid enough to ruin a party at Dad’s place. He hates people who interrupt him, but what he absolutely loathes is a good party gone wrong. In his mind, the purpose of life is to party.
On top of that, the disgusting duo made a big mistake in injuring Bobbi. Dad might never remember her name—memorizing such details is an effort and that’s what Joey’s for—but her being my girl and wanting to have babies is etched in his mind forever.
–Griffin: You should’ve seen Mom’s face. I’ve never seen her that angry.
–Emmett: Bet Dad was pissed too.
–Nicholas: What a way to ruin your career. They were hoping to break into acting, right?
–Me: At least the girl was.
–Griffin: Mom’s going to blame them when her relationship implodes.
And her little romance with her boytoy of the moment will expire within the next four weeks—at the outside. Her relationships don’t last more than ten or eleven weeks, tops. But it’ll be blamed on Reggie and Floyd now. In Rachel’s world, nothing is ever her fault.
I put the phone away and look at Bobbi.
“I gotta go pick up some stuff from my place,” I say. “It won’t take long.”
She nods, her eyelids drooping. “Don’ worry ’bout me.” Her words are slurred from the meds. “I’ll be fine.”
Remains to be seenis on the tip of my tongue, but she doesn’t need an argument right now. She needs some tender attention.
I wander around the house, grabbing stuff she might need. Her phone, Kindle, TV remote, a bottle of water. Anything else? I look around, but the items in my hands seem adequate. If she weren’t injured, I might bring her wine, but no alcohol until she’s fully healed.
I leave them on her nightstand. She watches me with amused affection. “Y’know my legs are fine, right? Hands’re fine, too.”
“Believe me, I know your legs are fine.” I kiss her. “Now, shush. Bedrest. I’ll be back soon.”
Heading out, I open the app on my phone. Mom’s going to blow a fuse when she discovers what I’m about to do, but my girl deserves justice.
Let’s see… What the hell is Floyd up to right now? Reggie’s post pops up first—tagging Floyd. It’s a photo of them in a hot tub, enjoying some champagne and laughing. Candles surround them, and she captioned it:
The best way to end the evening. Nothing cleanses away the ugliness of the day like being with the one you love.
The ugliness of the day?They aren’t the ones with stitches. If I had the power to reach into photos, she and Floyd would have broken necks.
I tap the photo and run it through the AI. Geo-recognition AI isn’t as sophisticated as the facial programs, but it should be accurate enough.
Within seconds, it spits out a location. I smile grimly. Bingo.
The assholes are at a house in one of those secluded canyon communities with lots of trees and bushes. It’s one of the two Floyd inherited from his mother, and he uses it when he wants to impress a woman and get laid. The place isn’t swanky, but it has its charm with lots of privacy—there aren’t any houses in the area except for one a mile away—and a hot tub, adequate for two adults.
During my drive, the app spits out a detailed dossier on Reggie, who is clinging to Floyd, both literally and figuratively. She has nothing but debt to her name. Spending every penny that comes into your account tends to do that to you. For a has-been with no prospects, character or brains, Floyd is the best option. The second she can upgrade, she will, although it won’t be easy in a city where youth is the most prized currency.
I park my car far away enough that nobody will hear the engine noise, then pull out my tools from the hidden compartment in the trunk and head toward my targets. I position myself in the trees around the house, and take a look.
Reggie and Floyd are in the hot tub, oblivious, and my scope is good enough to see that they’re sipping Jaume Serra Cristalino Brut Cava. She whines and pouts. I read her lips. She’s pissed off that Rachel got upset and my dad kicked her out. “How am I going to be a star at this rate?”
There’s always porn.
Floyd puts his arm around her and kisses her temple. “I know, baby, but I’ll take care of you no matter what.”
For sex. I don’t need to be able to read minds to know that’s what he’s thinking.
“Thanks, love. In spite of all the crap, it was so satisfying to see that bitch’s cake land on her.” She tilts her head back in a raucous laugh.
My earlier rage returns, tightening my skin. What’s gonna be satisfying is seeing you shit your pants. I drag a black balaclava over my head, bend back down to the sight and pull the trigger on my cheetah.
Bullets puncture the hot tub without hitting the trashy couple. Water begins to spew out through the holes. Reggie and Floyd look around, their wide eyes wild. The silencer muted the sound, but they know what just happened.
There is the usual moment of paralysis. Then Floyd flings a hairy arm like a panicked one-winged chicken, his elbow knocking the bottle of the bubbly over. The laser sight on my rifle puts a red dot on Floyd’s chest, causing Reggie to scream, and he slides under the water, like the rapidly plummeting water surface will stop the next bullet. Reggie continues to screech, but nobody’s going to hear her. The only occupied house in the area is full of drunken teenagers, partying to music loud enough to permanently damage your hearing.
I fire more shots. She scrambles out of the tub. Floyd finally seems to realize that water isn’t Kevlar and heaves himself over the edge to land in a heap on his wooden deck. I rise from my position and walk toward them, rifle by my side.
“Oh my God, don’t kill me!” Reggie says. She’s scrambled off the deck and into the yard; now she puts her hands high above her head. “I’ll do anything!” She rips her bikini top down, displaying her tits.
Agh, my eyes!Why do women like her think guys want to see them topless? Or that showing their tits will make a difference?
I pull out a pistol from the back of my waistband with my left hand. My ambidexterity is something not even my brothers know about, but I can shoot more accurately with my left hand.
Floyd tries to get up but stumbles. Tears drip from his eyes. “Please. Don’t kill me. I’m too young.”
“My name is Reggie Hopkins. Short for Regina. I’m only twenty-nine.”
“Why the fuck do you think I care?” My voice is distorted from the little chip on my neck. The government spends a lot of money on things like that, calling them “toilet seats for the Pentagon.”
“Doesn’t knowing my name humanize me?”
She’s watched too many movies. “Naming a rat doesn’t make it a human.”
“What?” The blood drains from her face, making her appear ghostly.
“You’re lucky I’m not that good with knives. Otherwise, I’d skin you both.” Mom did that once. The other guy deserved it.
Reggie and Floyd scream, their eyes so wide with terror the white shows around their irises. Then they sob. From the smell, one of them definitely peed. Or maybe they both did.
Still not enough.
I raise the pistol and fire twice.