Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Except that plan won’t work now. Two more guards stand outside of Tusk’s open stall—not watching him, but watching over Doc, who’s examining the big fighter.
Crash and Handlebar share a look that seems to say “next time” before heading toward their own stalls.
“Cherry.” Doc’s voice stops me before I can follow them. “When I’ve finished here, Papa wants to see us up at the farmhouse.”
Where I’ll receive my punishment, probably. Or be executed, too. Still numb, I only nod.
Not unkindly, the doctor adds, “Perhaps freshen up first?”
Because I didn’t fix my makeup after finding Lissa and crying over her body. I only wiped most of the smudged mascara off.
Papa won’t like that. And I don’t give a shit what Papa likes…but my life isn’t the only one at stake here.
“I’ll take about ten more minutes here,” he says, which is just enough time.
Or not enough time. Because Matt’s standing at his stall door, with tension drawing his face into harsh lines, his emerald eyes fiercely bright. His fingers are locked around the bars, but although I see his knuckles whiten, he doesn’t reach for me.
“Whatever it takes,” he whispers hoarsely as I slowly pass his stall. “Whatever you have to do, do it. Just stay alive.”
“You, too.” My throat aches as if the numbness is burning away. “I love you.”
I say it so quietly, I don’t know if he can even hear me. But he knows. Just as I know where that torment in his eyes comes from. My brother has been my best friend for my entire life—and we can hold conversations with simple looks, just as Crash and Handlebar do.
So it’s that look Matt gives me, the one that tells me how much he loves me, that I hold within my mind as I repair my makeup and head back to the barn’s entrance. Doc is waiting for me just outside, with two guards still serving as his escort—and probably to make sure he doesn’t run off, too.
These guards aren’t part of Victor’s militia, but the more sophisticated, suit-wearing guards that travel with Papa. I don’t know what hold Papa has over the doctor, but it’s easy to imagine. He looks like the kindly, easily-befuddled father in a family sitcom. The roundness of his pale face is emphasized by his receding hairline and the mouse-brown combover he wears. He’s not much taller than I am, and overall gives the impression of slender softness disrupted by the angular points of his elbows, knees, and nose. A white lab coat tops a blue dress shirt, necktie, and khaki pants, but I’ve never asked if the coat is a uniform, just like my nurse’s outfit is. Maybe it’s something he wears in real life and Papa drags him away from his medical practice on demand. I don’t know. We don’t share personal information. He knows the fake name that Matt gave him—Christina Miller—but calls me Cherry just like everyone else around here. He probably knows that I was a veterinary technician, because my medical vocabulary would give that away. But he hasn’t probed for details and I haven’t volunteered any. The doctor has been nothing but kind and helpful, but I don’t know who or what Papa has threatened him with. And if it’s a wife or kids, then Doc might decide to place their safety over mine—and I wouldn’t even blame him. So I won’t ever confide in him or ask him to help me, beyond what he already has.
Instead I keep trying to help myself—and Matt. I’ve only been up to the farmhouse once before. This compound is out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by desert scrubland in every direction. The fighters’ stables consist of two horse barns, and the farmhouse is an old white clapboard building. The house is older than the barns, which makes me think that whoever bought this place came into a little money racing horses—hence the track behind the barns—and made those improvements first before running out of money. My grandpa always said that the best way to make a small fortune racing horses was to start with a large fortune. Apparently whoever owned this place before Papa took it over never made enough to upgrade the house.
Parked near the house are two black sedans, along with the pickup that Victor’s men use to make their rounds around the property. Nevada plates, but I’m not near enough to read the numbers. The truck has Arizona plates. I note the makes and models—just more information to give Matt later, to help him and the FBI take all these fuckers out.
All of them. There’s more coming. A distant rumble and a dust cloud tell me that the Iron Blood is on its way. The motorcycle club serves as Papa’s real muscle, at least when it comes to the stable and bringing more fighters in. I have no idea how deep it all goes. But for sure there’s the Cage, drugs and guns, and sex trafficking.