Читать книгу Long Way Home - Кэти Макгэрри, Katie McGarry - Страница 14

CHEVY

MY ENTIRE BODY THROBS, but I ignore it as I watch Violet enter the bathroom. She’s slow going in. Shuffling her feet. Most of it in reluctance to face what’s waiting for her in there, also could be because they kicked the hell out of her last night by the road in order to make her kneel. She has a limp and I can’t help but wonder if they did damage to her knee.

I don’t think she notices. I don’t think she feels any of the pain from the bruises on her body. Too much in shock. Too damn headstrong. What the hell was she thinking gunning for a man ready to shoot her? I rub the back of my head, feeling my own head wound. I know what she was thinking. She was trying to protect me, trying to take on the world on her own...again.

Violet’s knee gives, she trips and I shift to the balls of my feet to catch her, but she remains unaware, recovers and keeps moving. Not sure if I’m grateful Violet’s numb to the pain or if that scares the hell out of me more. If we survive this, how are either of us going to snap back mentally?

Violet looks behind the bathroom door, then hobbles to the bathtub and peeks behind the light blue curtain. We’re upstairs now, but there’s no window in this bathroom. Still no escape.

She glances at me to let me know that, at least in the bathroom, she’ll be safe.

In the basement, Violet dozed in my arms, did that thing where she dreams but stays somewhat conscious. Could tell by the way she jerked and murmured. Even with the seminap, the circles under her eyes are black against her pale skin and the bruises are overpronounced.

“You can take a shower if you want.” The president of the Riot, Skull, is by my side, acting like we’re out-of-town guests. “Towels are under the sink. You’re safe now.”

“Take your time,” I say, meaning if there’s a lock on the door to use it, shatter the glass of the mirror and use it as a weapon and hide in the bathroom until help hopefully arrives.

“I’m not taking a shower.” Violet holds eye contact with me. “Just using the bathroom.”

“Take your time,” I repeat, and Violet nods before shutting the door. There’s the click of a lock. Good girl. Got to admit I could pick that lock in seconds, but it’s better than nothing.

Skull inclines his head down the hall, away from the bathroom. “Why don’t we go in the kitchen? Give her a few minutes to regroup, get you some food.”

Considering we were kidnapped, he should be offering to call the police. I’m not stupid enough to mention that. Not stupid enough to think this scenario is over. There are no pictures in the hallway. No personal touches in the kitchen we passed on the way here. No color to the walls. This place is nothing more than a dump house—a place to lie low, a place to hide, a place to take people you kidnap or want to kill. “I’m staying here.”

“Come to the kitchen and we’ll call Eli. Faster we make that call, faster you two go home. You and I both know she’s not coming out unless she knows you’re on the other side of that door.”

I want ten-foot-thick concrete walls between Violet and the Riot. For now, a door will do. I knock on it. “I’m going to the kitchen. Stay in until I come back.”

“Okay,” comes her muffled response.

Skull goes first, I follow and weigh my odds of making it out of here with Violet if I were to knock the hell out of him from behind, but figure there’s a wall of cuts surrounding the house. We enter the kitchen and I’m surprised when no one else is there. House feels too empty and that’s eerie.

“Take a seat.” Skull pulls out a folding chair from the cardboard table.

I choose to lean my back against the corner that leads to the hallway so I can keep an eye on Violet. “I’m good.”

He shrugs. “Your choice. Before we call Eli, there are a few things we need to discuss.”

Skull looks over at me as if waiting for my permission to continue, but I say nothing. He eases down at the table in the compact kitchen and kicks out his legs. “Look, I did send out my guys to find you, but they misunderstood my instructions. I told them to tell you that I needed to talk to you. To convince you to come with them. Not kidnap. Just for us to talk.”

My eyebrows rise and the action causes a slice of pain. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

Skull sighs, then leans forward, drawing his legs in and rubbing his hands together. “Son—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You turn eighteen soon,” he talks over me, ignoring my response. “And the way you’ve been groomed, I’m betting you’ll have the shortest prospect period in the history of your club or you’ll have a full-blown cut on you by the time the clock strikes midnight on your birthday.”

Not seeing how that’s his concern.

“Before that happens,” he continues, “I only felt like it was right to let you know some pertinent information. There’s a detective from Louisville who has been digging into our past and he seems intent on talking to your club, too. Because of that, I think you should know before your club does. Give you a chance to protect yourself.”

He’s talking in code, in circles, verbally waving his right hand to keep me from looking at his left. My eyes flicker down the hallway and the bathroom door is still closed, light still peeking out from the cracks.

Some of what he’s saying is true. There’s a Louisville gang detective who’s been trying to nail the Riot MC and the same detective talked to some members of the Terror in hopes of us being able to supply them with information. I’m in the dark on whether or not the Terror can or have helped.

“I liked your father, Chevy, and for what he did for us, you deserve to know the truth before you have the Terror’s colors on your back.”

Did for them? There’s a ringing in my ears as my world narrows in on him. My dad died before my birth, and I’ll admit to not knowing much about him other than family ramblings about Thanksgivings and Christmases, but I know my father was Terror through and through. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your father may have had Terror colors on his back,” says Skull, “but he was loyal to the Riot.”