feckin’ gub of yers. Stop talkin’!”
“My IQ is—”
“Off the feckin’ charts?” I chortle, reaching into the backpack for the zip tie that will bring his ankles together. Damn, where is it?
“You don’t want to do this, Leith.”
“Aye? What I really, really want is to clip yer tongue out and stuff it up yer arsehole. And I’m gonna do it soon. Then, when ye’re gargling on yer own blood, these here eejit fists will batter ye until ye choke to death!”
I grip him about the throat. “Then, and only then, will I be fully satisfied. Wit? Ye have nothing to say?”
“You-you’re mak-making a grave mis-mistake.”
I’m still searching through my backpack. I checked all my materials three times. I grip a switchblade in hand, motioning to his tongue.
Yates shouts, “Whispertips69, initiate failsafe!”
The air shifts. What resembled a toy airplane on the desk jets upward. The power of it slices the air—swoosh. Bullets rip from the drone. The drywall around me shreds. I scramble to the side of the dresser near the door.
“Ye’re a deid man, Douglas!” I snatch the Glock from the back of my waistband.
The front of the wooden dresser shatters from gunfire. The drone comes into view.
“Shite!” I grit out, gaze narrowed. I double tap. Standing, I aim the gun for the drone. The other hand stays pressed on the blood leaking from my ribs. Warm viscous liquid spills over my fingers. I’ve been shot. Can’t be much of a bullet, though, maybe a .22 caliber. Feckin’ bullet is still wedged inside me.
I let off a shot. Yates isn’t on the ground. He’s used a glass fragment to cut the zip tie from his wrists. Since I hadn’t secured his ankles, the bloody snake has got free. A wild glint shines in his eyes. There’s at least one last card up his sleeve. He wiggles his cellphone.
“Ye have a ringer in yer hand. This right here is a feckin’ Glock, numpty nugget.” I laugh.
A loud cackle grates my eardrums. Yates stumbles toward the only window in his bedroom. “This is my territory. Look at those wires, Leith. I’ll grant you one last chance to calm down.”
“Or wit?” I taunt.
“I’ll blow us up before I let you ruin the empire I’ve created!”
Chapter 39
Chevelle
Tonight’s becoming shittier by the second. I’m hornier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. To make matters worse, with Leith so far away, I have a big ass mouth. This afternoon, I bit my tongue from sharing my conversation with Ophelia Kelly with him. She was the surprise. Mia’s Label would be taking flight. She’d called ecstatic about us finally working together. Leith had been my first thought upon hanging up. I called him around lunch, eager to celebrate.
In the end, I settled for tempting him with a surprise. Let’s hope he has the same opinion of my new connection. Although, it reads more like a secret that Leith may or may not be happy about.
For instance, yesterday. Working for Michie made me feel crappy. The dick attempted to manipulate me by way of those gorgeous eyes. He knows Leith’s adamant that I not bartend. Why did I help him out?
But tonight, I’m on the phone with Ophelia for a second time. I’d been on pins and needles for almost two weeks. While standing on the balcony with a robe wrapped around me, I perceive the difference between now and earlier. The excitement that was in her voice could now be likened with the dark, gloomy sea.
“I apologize for calling so late, Chevelle.”
“No worries,” I reply, sensing that my dreams are about to shatter. No, my visions are in a rocket that I’m not flying to the moon. Damn, Leith, I need you right about now.
He’s my happy.
Justice strongly suggested that I expand my horizons, but there’s the stubborn girl in me who fell in love with him ages ago. The same girl who was denied her father.
“So, how can I help you tonight?” I ask. Ophelia had been all ecstatic earlier, and I laid on the charm, discussing the uniqueness of Mia’s Label. The air seems to shift as I await her reason to call a second time tonight.
“I must ask,” she pauses, hesitantly, “are you affiliated with those MacKenzies? Your husband is black, right?”
“No.” I pause on suspended hope. “The love of my life, father of my child, he’s a proud Scot and a proud MacKenzie. I am too. Although,” I cringe at the unnecessary clause, “we don’t dabble in certain familial hobbies.”
“I’m sorry, Chevelle.