Thief(65)By: Alexa Riley
“No fucking shit, Sherlock,” the woman on the ground snaps. “I’ve been shot. Vincent is going to kill me. I can hear his mouth already. I’ve been playing with guns my whole life. My whole fucking life. Never been shot. I do this one small task, and this thing shoots me.”
Her eyes snap over to me, and she glares at me so hard she could give Scarred Guy a run for his money. I just stand there. I can’t seem to form a sentence as I just watch what’s playing out in front of me. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing at this point.
“Nothing, man. No one is here.” The skinny guy searching the house comes back to join us, a little out of breath. “Is she Pinch’s bitch?” he asks, nodding at me.
I know Pinch is my brother. I’ve heard a few other people call him that. I look around the room to see everyone is wearing leather jackets. The one leaning over the dark-haired woman makes the writing on the back easy to read. Ghost Riders.
“I knew I should have shot that little shit with more than a rubber bullet,” the woman says, trying to pull herself to her feet. But as she does, her legs give out on her, and she lands back down on her ass.
“Goddamn it, Casper! Sit the fuck still.”
“I’m not going to a hospital.” She pushes the man, and I see the bloodstain spread on her jeans.
“Stop that! You’re making it worse. You need medical attention. Stitches at the least. That much is clear,” I exclaim, unable to help myself.
“You a doctor or some shit?” the scarred man gripping my arm asks, looking down at me.
“Good enough. Get Cas in the truck and clean that blood off the floor.”
The man next to Cas picks her up and heads out the front door while she mumbles about some Vincent guy. Why hasn’t the alarm gone off? The skinny guy picks up the gun I dropped and cleans up the blood on the floor with his shirt.
“You got a medical kit?”
I nod my head.
“Good. Get it. If you try something…” He doesn't have to say what will happen if I try something. I get the message loud and clear. I won’t be trying anything.
He finally lets me go, and I run to the front door and pick up the medical bag I keep for emergency calls.
“Make sure everything is cleaned up. I don’t know if anyone heard that shot,” Scarred Guy barks.
“Got it, Savage. See you at the compound.”
Savage grabs me by the arm once again and pulls me outside. As the cold air hits my legs, I realize I have nothing on but a shirt that barely hits mid-thigh, underwear, and socks.
I start to protest, but he pushes me into a truck. Cas is lying on the back seat, and the man who carried her out sits behind the wheel. Savage, whose every inch embodies his name, slams the door and informs me of my fate.
“She dies, you die.”