NINETEEN
Garrick was furious. Irritated. Confused. And yeah, a little hurt. He had no idea what was going on in Ginger’s head, but he wanted to find out. Now.
The only problem? She’d shut him out, literally and figuratively.
Just when he thought he was making some headway with her, she went and did this.
Women. They were either riding his nuts or acting as if he had the plague. He would never understand them.
Well, he wasn’t going to stand around all night with his dick in his hand. If she thought he was, then she was sorely mistaken. Garrick wasn’t going to become her whipping boy whenever she had PMS. That was something she was going to have to learn.
“Fine. You want me gone, babe, I’m gone,” he called through the door. “When you’re ready to be reasonable, you know how to reach me.”
Not that he expected she would. That woman had a stubborn streak a mile long and twice as wide. He’d have to come to her once the waters stilled, and he understood it could be a very long time—depending on what had crawled up her ass, that is.
Grabbing his jacket, he yanked the front door open, nearly taking it off its hinges, and pressed the button on the knob to lock it before closing it behind him. Movement from the curtains next door let him know that the neighbor was once again watching. Scowling, Garrick had a mind to march over there and pound down the door, find out who this clown was and why he was so concerned with everything and everyone in the building. But he was more likely to tear his head from his shoulders than issue a stern warning, so he forced himself to turn away. He charged down the stairs and over to his bike, pissed that the night had turned out the way it had.
He’d had plans. Naked plans. After she’d fallen asleep in his arms, those plans had transformed into a naked sleepover, but it was still solid. Until it wasn’t.
Didn’t make a lick of sense, the way she was behaving, but he was damned if he was going to sit around trying to figure it out. It wasn’t worth the brainpower nor the headache.
“I need a fucking drink,” he said to himself as he fired up his bike and rode off. And he knew just where to get one.
The compound was always popping, even this late at night, when the streets were deserted, and the houses were dark. He wouldn’t get to have his pretty redheaded bartender serve him, but that wouldn’t stop him from having a good time.
Just a few drinks, something to take his mind off things. He could use some time with the guys too, blow off some steam.
Spotting the lights marking the clubhouse grounds in the distance, Repo could already feel some of the tension in his shoulders lifting. Rolling to a stop at a red light, it was tempting to run it, since no one was around to see, but his luck? There was a cop lurking in the shadows just waiting for some idiot to come along and try it.
He wasn’t about to press his luck. Getting a ticket would just darken his mood more than it already was. It would be a downward spiral from there.
Headlights rolled up behind him, and Repo glanced in his side mirror. Being on a motorcycle had one major drawback: other drivers. He was always on alert, making sure to watch his ass from every angle in case some idiot who wasn’t paying attention attempted to take him out.
The car was one of those super expensive models, quiet as a ghost, jet black, and pristine, reflecting the streetlights like still water.
Something about that car, in that moment, on that night made Repo uneasy. He couldn’t put a finger on why, but he trusted his instincts, and they were firing on all cylinders.
When the light turned green, he shifted into gear. Lifted his feet off the ground. Started rolling. As soon as he began picking up speed, he heard the car behind him do the same. But that wasn’t what worried him.
It was its body language. Like people, cars could communicate their intent by the way they moved, and this car was following too close and closing in too fast.
The instant Repo felt like prey, he revved the engine and shot off, intending to put some distance between them, but whoever was driving the car did the same.
Fuckin’ A. He was being targeted.
A dozen questions and possible answers raced through Repo’s mind, but he didn’t have time for any of them. The clubhouse was just down the road, within his sights. All he had to do was reach it.
It became apparent about twenty yards away that he wasn’t going to.
The first opening the driver of the car got, they took it, pulling up alongside him. Garrick glanced over once, and only once, seeing the passenger window silently fall.
And that’s when he heard the gunshots.
***
The party was going strong. Sometimes, it seemed to Blake that it never ended. With his son, a new wife, and a baby on the way, he was fucking tired. But club business was priority because the club was as much his family as, well, his family.
So, despite it being a weeknight, and despite him having to be on the construction site in the morning to oversee expansion of a new project, he was at the compound making sure everything was copacetic with his brothers.
It’d be a long-ass day. But at least they didn’t have any problems to speak of. Yet. He was well aware that could all change in a heartbeat. After the last several months, following the drama with Ricky Cruiz and having to rebuild his home while shaking off the local heat, he was beat but thankful to be regaining some kind of normality.
He’d been working too long and too hard gaining the Spartans’ respectability and earning trust with the locals to see it all go to waste over a POS with delusions of grandeur and a thirst for expansion.
Which was why, even though the head had been cut off the snake, Blake was keeping an eye out and an ear to the ground.
There was always—always—someone looking to slide into leadership positions when there was a vacancy.
And Cruiz had left one hell of an opening.
It was just a matter of time before the Spartans would have to dispatch another bastard who had his eyes set on their turf, but hopefully, that would take some serious time.
For now, Blake had his players in place, and he was determined to enjoy some downtime. He’d spent half the night after work going over paperwork with Country, making sure he understood everything inside, discussing shipments and partnerships and making sure everyone who needed paying got theirs.
Being the president of the Spartans was about as involved as running his own business. There was always something to do, someone to check, places to be.
Good thing he had his brothers to lean on for support. Country, Repo, Taco, and Moose…they were his boys. They got shit done, and he never had to look over their shoulders to make sure it was done right. They understood the business and acted, never complained.
It was a partnership forged in years of blood, sweat, and tears. Unbreakable.
He didn’t know what he’d do without them.
“We good then?” Blake asked, rubbing his tired eyes.
Taking a drag off his cigarette, Country released a steady stream of smoke on a weary sigh. “All good, man.”
Blake stood and clapped palms with his right-hand man. “Good, because I need to get out of here before my brain melts. What time is it?”
Country checked his watch, a flashy silver thing that took up his entire left wrist. “Just after one.”
“Shit. I told Gabby I’d be home by eleven.” He’d promised her a late dinner, just the two of them, followed by some quality time together. She hadn’t called to remind him, which either meant she was respecting his responsibility to the club, she was pissed off and giving him the silent treatment, or she’d fallen asleep and didn’t even realize he was late.
He was praying for the latter.
“Damn, not even married for a month and she’s already carrying your balls around in her purse.”
Blake scowled. “She doesn’t carry a purse.”
“My bad. On her keychain, then.” He smirked. “Just fuckin’ with ya, man. What you two have is a beautiful thing. Besides, my Talia has me by the short and curlies too. And she knows it.” He checked his phone, then holding it up as if to prove something, he gave it a shake. “She’s been blowing it up for the past hour.”
“Guess we’re both going to be doing some groveling tonight.”
Country’s eyes glittered, and when he spoke, his Southern accent was thick and heavy. “I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t mind spending some time on my knees.”
“TMI, brother. TMI.”
“Oh, come on, you know you love eating some pu—”
Gunshots rang out in the distance, but nearby enough to instantly put an end to the festivities. The music was cut off, and the laughter and boisterous conversations dulled to a low murmur as everyone tried to decipher where it’d come from and how seriously they needed to take it.
Another round of shots followed by rubber peeling on asphalt had Blake and Country running. Brothers and prospects joined them. When they broke out into the parking lot, it was just in time to see the tail end of a black sedan flash by, but that wasn’t what caught and held Blake’s attention.
Jesus. Christ.
“Holy shit,” Country breathed in disbelief. “Is that…”
The horror that washed over Blake had only been felt one other time in his life: When he’d almost lost Gabby to that psychotic Cruiz and his garbage cronies—all dead now, thank fuck.
But this…this was…unimaginable.
The black mass lying in the middle of the concrete was half machine, half flesh and blood. And a lot of that blood was leaking out onto the compound’s pavement, a garish, crimson stain continually spreading out from its source.
Men burst past him, rushing to the fallen’s aid. Still, Blake couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing, what his brain was telling him. He knew though. Even though his feet refused to move, in the back of his head, he knew.
Repo.
They’d fucking killed him.