He lifted his head, laughing a little. “Go to hell,” he said, right before he went to reach for something inside of his jacket.
“See you there,” I said as I pulled the trigger and hit him in the center of his forehead.
He went completely still after the blast echoed around us and rattled the loose pieces of my skull. Moving his jacket to the side, I found the gun he was going for. He should’ve just used it from the beginning. Less trouble.
Again, though, he didn’t want me dead. Which was fucking strange. Not wanting to have a debate with myself on the street about it, I took him by a foot and dragged him across the cement, leaving him on the other side of my car. His head left a wet trail of blood.
What was I going to do with this fucking stick wielder?
I looked up as a car was coming from the direction of the country club.
It was an expensive make and model, and judging by the silhouette, a woman. She slowed when she came close, stopping over the main blood puddle. She rolled down the window. She was younger than I expected. “Do you need help?”
“Nah,” I said. “Flat tire.”
She stared at me for a second before she lowered her designer glasses. “Are you sure?” Her voice went lower, and her eyes were hard on mine, trying to establish the connection.
She could tell I was trouble, and in her plush life, exactly what she was probably looking for. A different kind of dangerous than the one she was probably married to. I was the one her husband called when he wanted someone snuffed out.
“Move along, miss,” I said, leaning down to pick up the tire iron. “Your husband is waiting at home for his dinner to be served.”
She huffed at me as she pulled off.
I checked my watch. Yeah. It was getting late and I had to get home to my wife. Even if she didn’t eat, she still had to sit with me at the table every night while I did.
I touched my head and pulled back fingers stained with fresh blood. Maybe Maureen would be generous enough to stitch me up.
Sighing, I took the fucking stick wielder by the leg, dragging him toward the small patch of woods. More traffic might pass through soon if something was going on at the club. These were high-powered figures who didn’t all think so highly of me.
That was the last thing on my mind, though. I kept going back to why the guy didn’t finish me off. He wanted me in that trunk.
It wasn’t wise to rule anyone out, so taking that into consideration, it could’ve been Grady who sent him, or one of his men, or even someone the Scarpones paid. But again, it made no sense. They would’ve never come in that way, with a fucking whistling stick and only one guy.
It didn’t fit.
They would’ve come in guns blazing—in and out. And not around here. Too many potential witnesses around such a high-profile place. Which backed up my theory about the stick wielder wanting to stick me in the trunk. He wasn’t looking to cause a scene, or a mess.
My gut told me it was someone new. Someone unrelated—or not.
It wasn’t unusual to be tested and tried. There was always a man, or two, who thought he was more ruthless, more powerful, more cunning than whoever controlled what they wanted. But the timing was too perfect. The man knew exactly where I was going to be at the exact time.
It smelled worse than this dead guy. It smelled like a rat.
I stopped for a second in the middle of the woods, looking around. I’d stick him against a tree and be done with it. I wasn’t even going to bother hiding him. Though I’d leave that fucking stick with him. He might need it in hell.
23
Keely
Nothing was the same.
After the night I caught CeeCee covering Cash with the blanket, I started to hate his actions even more, though on the other side, I loved him even more. Especially when he came home bloody and needing stitches. I wanted to go to him, to take care of him, but the spiteful part of me wanted him to suffer—a physical representation of what he was putting me through emotionally.
Except.
The guilt tore me up inside when I felt that way.
There was no winning with Cash Kelly. I couldn’t just pick a side and stick to