25. Poppy
25
POPPY
“Open the fucking door, you stupid bitch. If you don’t, I’m gonna put a bullet into this kid’s head. And then you’re gonna have all of their deaths on your head. You don’t want that, do you? To know that you caused the death of Logan’s little brother?”
I almost open the door just to get him to shut his freaking mouth. But I don’t. Instead, I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1 because that is the smart thing to do.
“9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?”
A gunshot echoes on the other side of the door, and I look down, making sure that I’m not hit, before turning back to the phone in my hand.
Giving her the address as soon as I can, I barely manage to get the street name out before the door in front of me is just gone. A massive crack, followed by the hinges swinging inward and a blue piece of wood knocking into my side sends the phone sprawling and I’m pushed up against the wall.
“I told you to open the fucking door.”
I stare into the business end of a Ruger-57. I know it is a Ruger because it is the gun I just gave Bax out of Logan’s gun safe not even an hour before. The gun that Logan asked me to give his little brother over a week ago so that he could take the handgun safety course required of him to conceal carry in the State of Maine.
Time to get away.
I run, moving a lot faster than I should be able to, considering I’m ready to have a baby any day, and get to the other side of the room and almost into the kitchen before he realizes what is happening.
The knives are out on the counter, and I grab the smallest one, along with the brass knuckles that I just pulled out of my purse while I was looking for the key to the front door. I have them both tightly wrapped in my hands, but I think better of it at the last second and slip the knuckles into my pocket .
I may need them later.
He follows me into the room, but I’ve already put the kitchen island between us. That doesn’t stop him from pointing the gun in my direction again.
“Where’s Bax?” Yes, I’m asking a ridiculous question, considering the current situation I find myself in, but I have to ask. “Where’s Porsche or Hammer? Who are you?” I pepper him with questions, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
The man in front of me, when I finally force myself to look past the handgun to the hand holding it and then the body behind that, is all wrong.
From the yellow tint of his skin and the odor that wafts off him like he is a skunk, to the dirt and black whatever that coats his hair. All the way down to the lines I can see on his fingernails as he holds the gun like an idiot.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask again when he doesn’t answer me about Bax. “Why did you break down the door of my house? Why are you pointing a gun at me?”
Worst-case scenario, I am about to die. That means Logan is going to lose his shit, and I honestly almost feel bad for the creep standing in front of me. I blame it on the baby hormones. That’s the only reason I can think that I’m not currently crying and begging for my life.
That, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
At least until he opens his mouth again.
“I want to make you hurt. And I’m going to use you to make that stupid fucker regret the day he scarred my face.”
That voice.
That fucking voice.
I lose my cookies, literally.
The cookies I was eating in the kitchen when I heard the first distinct pops that meant a gun was being fired. They come right back up, and I can’t help the violent spasm that forces me to empty my stomach. It just happens to be that he is too close to get out of firing range. I haven’t just had cookies, either. While I was raiding Logan’s kitchen, I also drank chocolate milk and stuffed the rest of the leftover pizza from the day before yesterday into my mouth. All of it comes up and splashes over his shoes.
I don’t let go of the knife, though. And when he steps too close, I bring that bitch right up, the way my daddy taught me, and I slice his chest, up to his neck .
It isn’t a deep cut, barely even breaks the skin, but it shows him that I’m not going to go down without a fight.
Grabbing the handle the way I know it is supposed to be held when it is being used as a weapon and not a cooking utensil, I back toward the living room where my phone is still connected to 9-1-1. Hopefully, at least.
“You stupid cunt.” He slams the gun into the side of my face right as I make it through the doorway, sending me to my knees while I cover my stomach and lose the knife in the process.
Shit.
“I want you to hurt. You were already going to feel it, just like Lettie did. But now? Now I’m gonna enjoy every second.”
I have a cut under my eye, and when I gently touch it, I feel the swelling and the blood already starting to seep out of it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the phone on the ground and I glance down to my wrist where I never take off my smartwatch. Since I got too pregnant to go up and down the stairs, the damn watch makes it easy to check my phone when I lose it.
Of course the battery is dead.
Fuck .
Shuffling until he can’t see my hands, I use the ground to leverage myself so that I can get up before he gets smart and decides to kick me in the stomach.
“Your name is Ortega Grimes.” I groan pathetically, wiping the leftover vomit from the corner of my mouth, when a sharp pain hits my lower back and almost sends me back to my knees. “You murdered Logan’s little sister. I want you to leave. Now.” There is a gun in a fingerprint-locked safe in the side table. If I can just get to it…
“You’re not smart, bitch.” Ortega grabs me by the hair and drags me back when I step away, trying to get to the gun. “You’re just like all the rest. Underestimating me because you don’t know what’s good for you.”
His fingers dig into my hair, locking around the braid I’m mentally cursing. My hands instinctively go to his, and I try to scratch my way free. But that is the first mistake I make.
That, and going back to Logan’s house for my clothes and cookies, instead of staying at Sam’s house like I planned.
I thought I was safe.
Not only did I have two of my dad’s club members, but Bax, too .
Back to the mistake I’m currently making.
My stomach isn’t protected.
The first hit isn’t with the gun hand, and it feels more like a teenage girl hitting me than anything else. His fist connects with my chin, barely moving my head back.
The second hit, though, is the one I should have been prepared for.
It is the one I don’t see coming.
He uses the gun, bringing it down directly on my temple at the same time that he shoves his fist into my ribs.
Pain, the likes of which I’ve never felt before, explodes through my face and eyes. My knees buckle, but he is still holding me by the hair, yanking my head up.
“Not yet, you don’t. You’re too fat for me to carry to the fuckin’ car, and we gotta go before your father smartens up and realizes it’s not me he’s following all over the state.” He snorts. “You’re all idiots.”
Razors sliding down my spine have me crying out, and bright colors start dancing everywhere in my vision, making it impossible to think past the pain .
“Oh,” I manage to get out weakly before he is yanking on me.
I can’t tell if it is a good thing or not, but I don’t pass out from the agony that he’s inflicted. Instead, I am conscious and awkwardly trying to bring gasping breaths into my lungs for every agonizing second that it takes for Ortega to drag me out the splintered door and down the steps of Logan’s house.
Past the bodies on the ground. Bodies. Not just one.
The bloody and beaten men whom I trusted with my life.
Porsche has a bullet hole in his forehead, and I know from the blood and the way his head is positioned in the grass that he is missing the back of his head.
If there was anything in my stomach to come back up, it would have.
As it is, I lurch back and bile spews out of my mouth, right next to Hammer’s missing face.
Only their cuts are untouched, but I can see the blood starting to pool around them.
Bax isn’t there.
Where the hell is Bax? I don’t see him on the porch, where the last gunshot came from. Turning my head wildly, I ignore the pain and torture of Ortega holding on to my body.
Hope.
Hope that he isn’t hurt, that he’s gotten away, fills my bones.
For a second.
Until I see his face.
His lifeless and bloody face, staring directly at me through the wooden slats on the porch.
So much blood.
My heart lurches, and short gasping breaths for air bring tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Bax?” Calling out his name like it will wake him up, I yank as hard as I can away from the jackass who refuses to let go. “Bax, you better wake the fuck up before Logan loses his shit on you.” No movement. “Please, Bax. Don’t do this to him. Don’t do this.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ortega hisses, spit flying into my face. “Before I put a bullet in your head.”
The gun is there, pressing into the tender skin on my temple, and the pressure sends the now-familiar jab of pain into my head and neck, down into my spine. Like he found the one spot on my body that moves through everything.
But I don’t let my eyes stray from Bax .
His blank stare means I am all alone. I can’t hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. There aren’t any motorcycle engines roaring to my rescue. None of the men—the heroes that I couldn’t get rid of when I didn’t want them—are coming to save the day. There is no one.
No one but me.
“Get the fuck in.” Ortega rips open the rear door with his hand. “I’d stuff you in the trunk, but you’re too fucking fat.”
“No.” I shake my head, ignoring the wave of nausea that comes with the movement, and pull away from the sound of my hair being torn out of my head. “I’m not doing it.”
“If you don’t get the fuck in, I’m just going to put a bullet through your stomach, and when you finish losing that little bastard, I’m going to put another one through your head. That’s the mistake I made last time, you know. I didn’t stay and wait to make sure I finished the job.”
I get in the car.
Less than five minutes. That’s how long everything takes. From the first gunshot until he forces me into the vehicle.
I don’t buy myself enough time before he is pulling out onto the street, heading away from Birch and any sort of civilization.
Breathe .
I order myself to stay calm, which would have been a lot easier if I wasn’t freaking out and hormonal.
But I take breath after breath, bringing air into my lungs as I push through the nausea and pain.
I didn’t get a chance to tell Logan I love him.
Breathe through the pain.
That I forgive him for keeping secrets.
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.
I haven’t seen him in two days. Two days that feel like they’ve lasted longer than the entire last fourteen years put together.
Breathe so you can tell him.
I’m not stupid.
I know how to survive.
And I don’t need a man to come to the rescue.
I just need to stay alive a little bit longer.
He didn’t cover my head. He didn’t knock me out. He didn’t put me into the trunk.
He is an idiot.
My fingers reach into the pocket of my leggings where I brush against the cold steel of the weapon I have at my disposal. When I see his vile smile in the rearview mirror, I wipe my face completely, bringing my hands up to protect and cradle my stomach.
Dead women can’t save themselves.