I stop just before reaching the door, but I don’t look over my shoulder at the redhead. Luna said she wanted to talk about her mother’s murder, but she obviously has no clue what that actually means.
“Give me one good reason why I should stick around,” I demand, still not turning around.
“Because you owe it to my mother… considering she’s dead because of you.”
Murderous rage swirls in my system, the pressure building to the point where nothing I do will stop it from escaping. I whirl around and stalk toward her, my eyes wide, my muscles tense, my entire body ready to kill.
Somehow, my synapses fire enough to stop me in my tracks before I reach her and wrap my fingers around the column of her throat. I shake my head to clear the red haze from my vision and stare at her.
“Why the fuck are you just standing there?” I bark, annoyed that she isn’t doing anything to stop me from attacking her.
“I’m not.”
Luna lifts her hand and waves the gun she’s holding in my face. I narrow my eyes, glaring at the steel weapon, the one I didn’t even notice she grabbed because I was so singularly focused on my rage.
“So,” she begins. “My mother’s death is a trigger for you.” She tilts her head. “Why is that? Guilt, maybe?”
Guilt. It’s a funny word, an odd feeling. I don’t experience it often… I can’t afford to. My lifestyle, my club, demands some pretty fucked up shit of me. Shit I don’t give a second thought to. Murder, drugs, guns, violence, mayhem. It’s all a part of my everyday life.
“Guilt is a luxury I can’t afford,” I tell her.
Luna takes a step forward and presses the gun to my stomach. I let her. Like I said, guilt is funny.
“If you ever come at me again,” Luna snarls. “I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Got it?”
My cock responds before I can spit words out. Apparently, a fucked-in-the-head chick does it for me as much as a submissive one does. I reach down to adjust myself, and my hand brushes over hers. I feel her tremble at the contact, and when she lowers the gun, I arch a brow.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” I taunt.
Rather than answer me, she turns to walk back to her desk and sets the pistol down. Her hands are shaking when she runs them through her hair, tousling the red locks. I flex my hands and try to ignore the impulse to close the distance between us and muss up her hair myself.
The silence that ensues is deafening and only broken by the crackling of the speaker system.
“Looney Tunes, code black.”
“Fuck!” Luna shouts and bangs a fist on her desk. She starts toward the door leading to the staircase and stabs a finger in the air at me. “Stay here.”
Not happening.
I rush to follow her, catching up to her at the bottom of the steps. She glares at me, but before Luna can chastise me for not listening, we’re joined by two other women, both wearing the same cut.
“You know better than to use the speakers for this shit,” Luna bites out at them.
“I texted you,” one of them says with bitterness in her tone. She cuts her eyes to me and then back to Luna. “You didn’t answer.”
Luna pulls her cell out of her pocket and taps the screen. She mutters under her breath before pocketing it again. She turns to the chick who said she texted her.
“Mollie, get Spooks to lock the place down. No one gets in or out unless I give the okay.”
“Someone care to fill me in?” I ask.
Luna spins on her heel and glares at me. “I told you to stay put,” she seethes.
“And I didn’t listen.” I shrug.
No comments:
Post a Comment