Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(16)

I pushed closer, breaking skin, little drops of his blood slickening the fine-honed metal.

“All it’ll take to keep everyone safe, including that Shiloh of yours, is some cash.”

“Why now?”

“Why not?” Dickbreath would’ve shrugged if his carotid wasn’t in danger of getting sliced wide open.

“I don’t have that kind of cash anymore.”

“I bet someone does.”

“You know what? There’s a cemetery right . . . across . . . the . . . road.” I pulled a thin red line across his neck.

D’s hand swung to my wrist. “And there’re a lot of thugs ready to retaliate. Not against you, bro. They’ll start with your parents. Fuck your girlfriend. Screw your sister. And kill everyone else in their way.”

With a last guttural growl grinding from my throat, I jerked the knife away. “I do this, and you do not go near Shiloh or my family again.”

“You always had the brains, Rush.”

“And you always were a complete cuntface. Seems some things never change.” I feinted toward him just to watch the waster flinch.

I sneered. “How much.”

“Just one hundred big ones.” Diablo strolled away. “But I’ll give you a couple months.”

Fuck.

****

Fucking fuck.

A hundred thousand large.

Like I could get my hands on that kind of cash, not unless I turned over the savings for the brewery I wanted to open. Or I paid the bastard with the blood money from my dad, which I swore I’d never touch.

Two months, though? I could work with that. Maybe convince my parents and sister to leave the country after I—ya know—made amends after seven years of silence.

Then there was Shy. On the Satan’s League radar just because she was my friend.

I needed to make sure she was safe.

I needed to make sure she would never be anywhere near me ever again.

This stupid shit had started when I was a junior at Bishop England.

My goddamn rebellious streak.

Meeting up with older guys in North Charleston, Summerville, and even farther out in the boonies. I had a sweet ride back then—and not just the supercharged cars, either.

Money, money, money.

I was always good for a fast race and a hefty bet. And I always won.

I was simply known as Rush. High speeds. Late nights. Lotsa laughs.

I raced my way to the top during the spontaneous Friday night runs so fucking different from the usual Friday Night Lights at the football fields.

Pure octane. Until the drugs. Then it became about a different kind of speed, and smack plus upwards of 100 mph in ripped cars inevitably equaled a dangerous combo that ended in an explosive head-on collision.

Both drivers died on impact, and when the cops converged I probably could’ve done a runner like Diablo, but it was time to grow up.

Man up.

Pay my dues.

But I couldn’t get over how my folks had paid me off then written me off . . .

A week after Diablo’s ultimatum I was still spinning wheels in my head. And here I was, tanking a pool game against Tail, and he didn’t even razz me about my loser-fail probably because I’d been scowling all friggin’ night long.

None of that mattered when Ashe bolted inside Retribution, bawling her eyes out, her hands wrapped around her big baby belly, her MPPD badge still hanging from her waist.

We all stood, slack-jawed, watching as she fled down the hall before shutting herself inside the office.

“APB Brodie now.” Hunter—on the Vice squad with Ashe—advised.

About five minutes later, Brodie rushed inside. “Where is she? Is she okay? Is it the baby?”

“Dunno . . .” I cornered him. “She’s locked herself in the office. Don’t think it’s the baby. Did you do something stupid? Like not fucking marry her yet?”

“What?” Brodie dashed down the hall. “Gave her a ring, didn’t I? And I adopted Cara because of love.” He rattled the doorknob. “Fuck.”

I handed him the keys before he just plain busted the door down. “You gonna make it right with her?”

He keyed open the lock. “Yeah. Of course, man. You stay here and keep watch against nosy fucks.” Cracking the door, he peered back at me. “Think she might take her baton to me?”

“’Fraid so.” ’Cause someone sure as hell needed to knock some sense into the man.

Boomer had talked to Brodie. Tucker and Cat had too. Had never thought the idiot would be commitment-phobic, not after how hard he’d fought for Ashe’s love, not to mention her life.

“Shit,” he uttered before slipping into the room.

I took up my station, peeking inside.

Brodie made a beeline toward Ashe, who lay sideways on the couch, cradling her stomach—the mound that grew bigger every day.

“Ashe?” His face whiter than I’d ever seen it, Brodie cautiously approached his woman. “What’s wrong, babe? Are you okay?”

“I’m f-f-f-ine. The baby’s fine. I just want to get m-m-m-married!”

Done told him so.

That was my cue to clear completely out of the vicinity, but Brodie saw me shutting the door and frantically shook his head at me as he kneeled beside Ashe.

“Ashe, babe, I didn’t know you were that upset . . .” He folded his hands around hers on the fertile hill with their baby inside.