Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance - Riley Rollins Page 0,90
They can go to the cops if they need to."
A lump formed in my throat.
"Fuck," I whispered. I looked at the two men lying on the ground next to their van. "What happens when the cops find them?"
"That ain't happening. Somebody's gonna come clean this shit up stat," Axl said, grimacing. "I'm gonna stash these guys in the back of their van for now."
"What about the blood?"
He grimaced again. "It'll be gone before dawn. Right now you gotta get your stuff and leave a note for your parents. Tell 'em to bounce."
I swallowed hard. "Okay."
I hurried back toward my house. As I started across the street, out of the corner of my eye I saw Axl dragging the men's bodies into the back of their van.
15
Axl
While Holly grabbed her stuff, I crammed the two dirty Reaper carcasses into the back of the van. I thanked fuck that this had gone down in boring-ass Coppertail; not a soul drove past while I loaded up the van. And no one noticed that when I backed it up ten feet, it was to cover the massive pool of blood on the asphalt.
I put the van in park, pulled out my cell phone, and sent a text to the contact in my book named "Mr. Clean." The Sons contracted him to take care of fucked-up situations like this. I grimaced at the thought of the drain this'd be on my bank account—this was a personal call, not a club call, and a nighttime rush job at that. Mr. Clean didn't work cheap.
I exited the van and slammed the door, locking the keys inside as Holly came out of her house. As long as he got here before the Reapers did, we'd have a head start. Mr. Clean would be doing a good deed, I thought wryly. By getting the carcasses outta here, he'd be saving the neighborhood from a god-forsaken smell when the sun came up in the morning.
"I'm ready," said Holly, apprehensively. She had a small red backpack slung around her shoulder.
I stepped off the road into the ditch, hauling my bike upright. It was too dark to see the damage, but I had no doubt it'd need some fuckin' bodywork after that. Pissed me off, but I'd done what I had to.
I pulled off my cut and surveyed it. It was splattered in Reaper blood. Now there was a badge of pride if I'd ever seen one. I grinned at my jacket, and if it'd had a mouth, it would've grinned right back. But I couldn't wear this thing right now. It'd just be another target on our backs—literally.
I stuffed the cut into a saddlebag, but not before using the clean side to wipe the fuckin' blood off my face. "Let's go," I said.
We mounted the bike, and we rode the hell away from that bloodbath.
I took us to an old hideout of mine. An old, decrepit motel in the desert near the California border where no one ever fucked with you. It was full of people who couldn't afford to fuck with you. Everyone there was running from someone.
The guy at the check-in desk was an old, stodgy-looking dude with thick-rimmed metal glasses. The lobby was small and hot despite the cool night, and it reminded me more of a gas station than a hotel lobby. The clerk sat behind thick, bulletproof glass.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"Room for two," I said. "No check-out date."
The man casually thumbed through a ledger book in front of him, a look of disinterest on his face. Then he looked up, and his gaze switched from me, to Holly, and back.
"You ain't just want an hour?" he said. "Discount rate."
"Hey," said Holly, "What the hell does that mean?"
I shook my head in disgust. This asshole was a real creepy old fucker. "She ain't a whore," I said, leaning forward and looking down my nose at the man, "She's my woman."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holly shift uncomfortably, but she said nothing. The man looked at her again, shrugged, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and booked us a room.
We exited the lobby and began walking back toward the bike. The sun was starting to come up, and the distant sound of desert birds echoed across the dawn. Holly remained silent until we'd grabbed our stuff from the bike. We were walking across the motel's parking lot to our room when she spoke.