Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Not that the job was bad. Actually, I loved it. Julian was a fucking hoot, I got as much coffee as my system could handle, and I was constantly so busy, there was little time for idle hands.
But even without idle hands, I still had dark thoughts. I still had the ache to destroy the nice little routine Colby and I had settled into. To burn it all to the fucking ground in order to save him from me accidently ruining his life later on by being just too damn fucked-up. I was doing really good at playing normal, but the cracks were still there. And I could feel them.
“A flat white, please,” the woman in front of me said. “And an interview about what it’s like to be the sole survivor of this state’s and this generation’s most notorious serial killer.”
I looked up at her, the words taking far too long to sink in.
I hadn’t really seen the woman before. Looking at her now, I saw that she was older than me, but not by a lot. She was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, showing off harsh cheekbones and excellent skin.
She was wearing a white tee, expensive jeans and an oversized blazer. The jewelry she wore was subtle yet expensive. She was chic. Pretty.
And I had a very strong urge to strangle her with her gold fucking necklace.
Luckily for her, that urge was deeper down, the feisty part of me screaming underneath the layers of shocked silence. “Excuse me?” I finally whispered.
“Emily Ryan,” she held out her hand, her voice still pleasant, maybe even warm. “I’m a freelance journalist, but I most often work with the New York Times. I’m here to talk to you about your experience with Beau Granger.”
The sounds of the café were drowned out by the low ringing in my ears.
“Excuse m-me?” I stuttered, repeating the two words I’d already said. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what else to say.
“I understand that you were one of his last victims,” she lowered her hand, her tone conversational, like she was talking about what pastries she was ordering instead of me being tortured by a madman. “And you were the only one to survive.”
I swallowed past the knot obstructing my airway, struggling to stay upright.
“I, um, don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She gave me a knowing smirk. “I’ve done a lot of research, and a lot of effort was put into keeping this quiet. But I’m a good journalist. I know that you were the reason Beau Granger was found and killed. I also know the local motorcycle club was somehow involved.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
This was bad.
Not only was this bad for me, but this could be a threat to the club. To Colby.
My vision cleared, my protective instincts kicking in. The club was my family.
“You need to leave. Now,” I stated firmly.
“I understand that this is a lot for you to take in right now—”
“You heard what she said. You need to fuck off right now.” Julian’s gruff, scary tone made me jump. I hadn’t even known he was behind me, let alone that he’d heard the entire exchange.
His cheeks were red, and his normally warm eyes were cold and threatening.
I’d never seen the jovial, loveable man like this. Ever.
Emily’s eyes darted from him to me, uneasily but still intent.
“We will speak again, Ms. Cardoso,” she promised.
“We most certainly will fucking not,” I told her sweetly.
She gave me one more determined look before turning on her Gucci loafer and leaving.
My heart was still pounding.
“I’m calling Colby,” Julian muttered, immediately reaching into his pocket for his phone. Julian must’ve been briefed on some kind of Sariah protection/breakdown protocol. Not surprising.
“No!” I yelled.
Julian paused, considering me with a shrewd gaze. The man knew me both before and after the warehouse. I was close to him. Considered him a friend. Or a wacky uncle. I knew he cared about me too, which made this more complicated. He felt duty bound to call Colby.
“Don’t call him,” I repeated at a more normal decibel. “It’s … it’s not a big deal.” I smoothed my apron. “I can handle it.”
Julian stroked his beard, not looking convinced. “She’s not going to give up.” He nodded to the door the reporter had just walked out through.
“I know.” There was a pit at the bottom of my stomach.
Julian, though concerned, didn’t call Colby to come to my rescue. I went back to making coffees, and the cracks inside of me deepened.
I was drunk and dancing on the bar at the club. Not an unfamiliar situation for me. At least it hadn’t been.
It had been over two years since my last appearance, and things had changed. There were a couple of new faces, patched members and women. Chloe, one of the newest club girls, was kick ass and just happened to be dancing on the bar with me.