Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 107118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I nodded. He would. It was how Titus operated. Crow went to a dresser and came back with a folder. His fucking dark eyes fixed on me. His face filled with something that looked like sympathy. Then my fucking dead heart started lobbing into some kind of erratic beat in my chest, when he said, “I ain’t no hacker. But I know some people that can get a few things for me.” I wasn’t breathing, like I somehow knew that whatever the fuck he was going to say was gonna fucking change my life for good. “When I was looking into your past . . .” He threw the folder down in front of me. I stared at the brown card folder like it was a fucking atomic bomb.
His voice got quieter. Raspier . . . sympathetic. “I didn’t know about your folks.” Every cell in my body froze. Crow folded his arms across his chest. He pointed at my eyes. “I assumed from your eyes that you had some white in you. You’re too light to be fully black.” He ran his hand down his face. “I wanted to get this to you. But I didn’t know where you’d landed until recently. You’re here now, so I thought you’d wanna know.” My mouth got real fucking dry as the folder glared back up at me from the table.
“If it helps,” Crow said, “I ain’t got the best background either.” I stared at him blankly. He shrugged. “Way I see it, none of us in this life do. You’re in the Hangmen for one of three reasons: One, you’re a biker brat, born into the life of a cut. Two, like us, something real fucked up brought you here. And three . . .” He laughed and skirted his hand over his crow tattoo. “You’re just an out-and-out fucking psycho who loves killing, and fucking a different slut every night.” He grinned. “Or like me, I suppose you could be a messed-up mix of two and three.”
He pointed to a closed door. “I’m gonna catch some sleep. Was watching your ass all night, in case you decided to hitch an early ride across the River Styx. Decided I didn’t want that on my watch. As laid-back as the brother is, I didn’t wanna face Cowboy if his other half kicked it on my couch.” Crow walked to the door, stopping only to say, “There’s some fucked-up pictures in there. Assholes documented the whole thing for their newsletter or some shit. If you’re gonna look, just be prepared . . . It’s some fucked-up shit.”
“Crow,” I whispered as he turned the knob. He looked over his shoulder. “Thanks . . .” I didn’t say what for. He nodded, then walked through to the bedroom. When I heard the bed creak, I reached for the folder.
My hands shook as I brought it to my lap. I ran my fingers over the surface, leaving bloody streaks over the blank front. I swallowed, reaching for the whiskey that stood half full on the table. I downed a shit-ton then threw open the folder.
I choked on the liquor’s residual burn, hellfire surging through my veins as my eyes landed on a picture. Hoods. People wearing hoods of all colors, standing around a house . . . my house. My home. My heart beat faster as I looked at the window on the porch.
My teeth scraped over my split bottom lip. I held back a pained groan when I saw who was watching the Klan from inside the house.
“Mamma.” I dusted my thumb over her terrified face, leaving a bloody mark. Frantically, I rubbed the blood from her face with my shirt. It mostly disappeared, but I couldn’t erase it all.
Just like the memory of that night in my brain.
Red blurred the finer points of her face. Features that had started fading from my memory as time went on. Features I couldn’t hold on to no matter how hard I tried.
Men in white hoods held flaming torches in their hands. Some had signs. My eyes squeezed shut when I saw what was on them . . . 23/2 . . . pictures of a white woman and a black man with a red cross through them. I turned the picture over, only to read what had happened . . .
Tears fell from my swollen eyes and stung my cut cheeks. I turned my head away, staring blankly at the bare kitchen in front of me. A fucking scream lodged in my throat.
My mamma was meant to be out of the house . . . the fire was meant for me and my daddy, “the coon and his mongrel.” They were there to “save the white sister from the voodoo snare of her black husband and abomination of a son.”