Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(35)

“Nothing,” he said. The spark in his eyes snuffed out, obliterating the magic.

“What?”

“There's nothing here, Summertime. Absolutely f*ckin' nothing. I tried.” He tugged on Bingo's leash and stepped away, pulling his cut flush against his chest. “For the last goddamned time, get your ass home. You're wasting your time here chasing a crush that's never coming back. You show your face around my grandpa's place or the clubhouse again, I'll make sure a couple prospects give you a ride back to Georgia.”

I stood there like a dumb statue about to fall, watching the whole time as he walked to his truck without looking back. He put the dog in the passenger seat, got in, and took off, driving right past me without even turning his head.

“Bastard!” I whispered, balling up my fists, fighting the hot tears.

A chubby middle aged couple came close, staring intently, one more humiliation I didn't need. I'd been a complete fool for the second time since I'd shown up here.

And yet again, I'd failed to make any progress getting closer to whatever Hatch wanted. I'd put my life and my son's one step closer to a horrific end.

“Jackson Taylor...go to hell,” I whispered, taking long, angry strides toward my car.

I promised myself I wouldn't feel guilty about putting him there anymore, if it kept us safe. Now, if only I could figure out how the hell to do it.



*

“Brrrrrrrr!” Alex sat in the corner at our hotel room later that evening, playing with a couple toy planes I'd brought along on the trip.

I smiled feebly at him, trying to enjoy the little things. At least he was happy.

If only that meant something. With the sword hanging over our heads, even my son's little laugh and vroom-vroom noises couldn't cheer me up.

My phone buzzed a second later. I picked it up and sighed, wondering how badly he'd torment me tonight, stepping into the bathroom so Alex wouldn't have to see the horror on my face.

“How'd it go today, bitch? You suck him off yet, or what?”

“No. I'll try again tomorrow.”

“Try? Try?! Try, try, f*ckin' try?” Each word hit my eardrum, more explosive than the last. I held the phone away from my ear.

“Jesus f*ckin' Christ, woman. You're even dumber than I thought. Sure wish that sonofabitch picked a smarter cunt to f*ck all those years ago. Some bitch with a bigger fire under her ass over the fact that, f*ck, her own f*ckin' son is gonna die in front of her!”

“Please, Hatch. You don't understand. It isn't as easy as you –“

“Shut up. From where I'm sitting, you're the stupid f*ckin' slut who ain't hearing me. Let's try this again...”

No, no, no, I mouthed, shaking my head. You've tortured me enough. This isn't making it any easier, you bastard.

“You f*ck me over, you waste my club's money, then you and your kid are dead. Dead! Fuckin' offal. Carcasses we'll drag out into the woods and feed to the bugs.”

No more. I flung the phone away from my face and cut him off, ending the call, slamming it down on the counter next to the sink.

He must've called back at least five times while I sat at the edge of the tub, hands over my face, trying to think of some way out of this maze from hell.

This was hopeless. There wasn't truly a chance at ever satisfying this demon out for blood.

Come tomorrow – hell, maybe later tonight – I'd take my chances on the open road. I'd flee until we were several states over, turn ourselves into the police there, and hope that taking down the Deadhands was a big enough deal to get us into the best witness protection a confession could buy.

On the sixth angry, vibrating ring, I picked up. I had to stall him, see how he'd react to the realization that he'd already lost me as a pawn.

“Listen to me, you f*ckin' bitch –“

“No, you listen!” I snarled into the phone, pressing it against my ear so hard it burned. “I want to know something from you. Why are you such a f*cking monster? These stupid gang fights are really so important that you're using an innocent woman and her baby? Is that what you always wanted?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then he began to laugh.

Jesus.

His long, drawling chuckle was just as evil as the rest of him. But it gave me a tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so pissed I'd have a nice head start before his men came.

“Really, Summer-Bummer? You think you can lecture me? Me? The man who's f*ckin' mowed down bitches and brats several times over?”

“Why?” I whispered, begging for an answer, truly wondering through all the terror smothering my heart.

“Because I'm God, bitch. G-O-f*ckin'-D. I decide who lives, who dies, and who sucks my damned cock. It's just me and Betty G, together, and we are both hungry motherf*ckers. Right now, the ones who die are the motherf*ckers who ain't paying their dues to the only club that belongs in Dixie. The Pistols are f*cked because they're bad for business. That's it. So are you.”

I couldn't tell if he was genuinely insane or just eaten up with greed like a bad cancer. Honestly, that made him even more terrifying.

“Whatever. I can see what god you really worship,” I said.

“Fucking shit, didn't call you up for a talk about theology. Here, why don't you do me a favor and get off the pot. Go by the TV and take a good, long look at little Alex.”