Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Stan’s takeout menus were organized by food type and then alphabetical order in his drawer.
Guys like that didn’t leave evidence of their crimes sitting on their nightstands.
Traveler didn’t want to hear that, though. And standing with her, feeling her almost vibrating with emotion, I wondered if that was the wrong move. Not telling her my thoughts. Especially after the kid at Sheryl’s house. Who walked in confidently. Like he belonged there. Like he was completely comfortable with the layout and his right to be there.
I’d given that kid good advice.
Get out while you can.
Because anyone who cracked under so slight of pressure was not going to live to see their twenty-first birthday.
If Traveler had any concerns about Sheryl’s involvement in this situation, they were wiped away by her friend’s words.
Well well well… look who finally figured it out.
There was so much fucking condescension in her tone, too.
I’d never wanted to slap a woman before, but I wanted to smack that smirk off her face as she stared at a woman who just had her whole world pulled out from under her.
The thing was, Traveler wasn’t someone who necessarily saw the best in people. Daughter of a dirty cop, running a business in an area overrun with dealers and other criminals, she didn’t get the luxury of naïveté about the human condition.
So the fact that she did let her guard down and befriend someone, someone she thought she had so much in common with—something evidenced by Sheryl’s hippie home that looked like the kind of place Traveler would feel right at home—and then found that said friend had been doing nothing but lying to her for years, yeah, that sucked.
And this woman was fucking gloating about it.
“Travy, go,” her father demanded, voice rough and raspy.
He looked… rough.
Stan and Sheryl had their mitts on him for hours, and clearly had spent most of that time torturing him.
His face was bloodied, bruised, and swollen.
His chest was a mess of cuts and blood, of bruises over his ribcage.
I imagined his back looked similar.
Had to give the man credit, he was a tough old fuck. He wasn’t giving in, giving them whatever it was that they wanted from him.
“And you brought a friend,” Sheryl said, her gaze moving over me, stopping on my gun. “You can put that down now.”
“No fucking way,” I said, my free hand moving out to Traveler, trying to tuck her behind me, but she wasn’t cooperating.
“I knew you were a traitorous shithead,” Traveler said, surprising me with how strong her voice was as she addressed her ‘uncle.’
“Not until it was too late, you didn’t,” he said, his gaze going to her throat.
“I’m surprised,” Traveler said, acting like he hadn’t spoken at all as she turned her gaze toward Sheryl. There was venom on her tongue as she spoke.
“By what?” Sheryl asked, seeming to enjoy this, judging by the little smirk toying with her lips.
“By your associating with fuck-ups like Stan,” she said. “Who doesn’t even know how to strangle a woman half his size to death,” she went on, and, fuck, was I proud of her in that moment. There was no emotion there, no way for them to know they’d gotten to her, even if I knew they had. She was cool. She was fucking ice-cold. “I never figured you for such a fool,” she added.
That cut through Sheryl’s unbothered facade like a hot knife. All that humor fell, leaving her instantly uglier as her jaw tensed, as her eyes slitted.
“Look who is talking. Someone who had been fooled for years,” Sheryl shot back.
“Maybe,” Traveler agreed. “But at least I associate with people who know what the fuck they’re doing,” she said, and this time, it was Traveler who smirked. “You might need to be looking for a new acne-covered lackey, by the way,” she added, leaving off that the guy was likely just running for his life when he got free, letting her old friend think I’d killed him.
Sheryl’s eyes flared for a moment before she banked down the emotion. “Yes, you are an interesting development, aren’t you?” she asked, looking at me. “You’re not from around here,” she added.
“No, I’m not,” I agreed, wondering how long we were going to have to have this fucking conversation before it would be safe to shoot.
But Stan was way too close to Traveler’s father, a nasty-looking serrated knife in his hand. Strained relationship or not, I had to make sure that man made it through this night.
“You don’t look like a drug dealer,” Sheryl said, trying to read me.
“Because I’m not,” I said, nodding.
It was Stan’s lifetime on the force that had him putting the pieces together much more quickly.
His gaze cut to the woman who was supposed to be his niece, his family—even if it wasn’t by blood—, who he was meant to care for and protect. Not attempt to murder.