Hell or High Water (The Four Horsemen MC Book 8)(10)By: Sara Rayne
Voo stole for necessity—Boone stole to fund his own personal demons.
“Now I can buy you out, and I’m assumin’ you’re willin’ to let go of what you stole from me?”
“I don’t care about the money.” Voo raised a brow, determined to be the bigger dick in his own damn diner. “You will never own Mt. Olympus. And that knowledge is worth more than two million dollars to me.”
His face flushed with anger. “You’re gonna let the building sit empty? A big, sucking money pit in the middle of Bourbon Street, because of some stupid sentiment over Artemis?”
The hotel had been more than simply Artie’s inheritance—it had been her dream. Their dream. And he’d turn it over to this waste of oxygen over his cold, dead body.
“Shut your mouth and get the fuck out of my diner.”
Apollo stood, clenching his fists.
The kitchen doors creaked as Coyote pushed through them. He leaned a hip on the counter and gave Apollo a sharp smile. “Some free advice, friend? We take the right to refuse service serious around here. Dead serious, you might say.”
His gaze flickered between Coyote’s face and his gun. Coyote stared straight back, eyes steady as a rattlesnake’s. His fingers twitched towards the holster, and Apollo stepped back.
“Fine. I thought things might go this way. I have other means of accomplishing my goals.” He gathered himself up and looked Voo in the eye. “I don’t know why you’re still clingin’ to her memory. She never loved you. How could she? Artie never knew who you were—not even the last name she was supposed to take.”
Apollo left, the stench of sleaze ball trailing him. Voo waited until the limo left the parking lot before taking his eyes off the bastard.
Slipping his phone from his pocket, he texted Lex. She should be grabbing her morning java at the campus coffee cart by now. Apollo touching her picture made his skin crawl. He knew she was alright, but he needed the reassurance of one of her grumpy pre-caffeine “good morning” texts.
“So his visit was the bad juju?” Coyote stepped up to the counter beside him. “At least it was short.”
Voo stared at his phone, willing Lex to text him back. The device stayed silent. The hollow feeling grew in his gut as he put on another pot of coffee for the Crows.
Or maybe it was only the first crack in the levee.
Lex sat on the stiff, extra-long twin mattress in her dorm room and stared into the dingy mirror above the built-in dresser.
“I look like shit.” Not like I care.
Tilting her head to the side, she inspected her newly dyed hair. A Billy Idol shade of platinum obscured every trace of the dark tresses she’d sported a week ago. She was barely recognizable as the same person, which was safer considering her current status as “most hated on campus”. The drastic image change felt painfully righteous—a reminder of how different everything was now. After Grant.
The past few months had taken their toll. Purple circles lived under her eyes. Her cheeks and stomach had hollowed, jeans slipping down her slimmer hips as if she was twelve again. Captain’s old Harley Davidson T-shirt extended past her elbows, hanging to her knees.
The alarm on her phone beeped. Class in 15 minutes.
Her chest tightened. She silenced the damn thing and dropped it into her messenger bag. The phone clanked against the hunk of shiny metal tucked in the bottom. Licking her dry lips, she reached inside.
Her fingers closed around the Smith & Wesson J-frame revolver. The piece’s cool, heavy metal soothed her. Rose, one of the club’s old ladies, had bought the gun from Inferno Firearms for her. Lex knew Captain would have objected, but Rose had survived sexual assault and understood what Lex needed to feel safe.
Methodically, Lex loaded the gun with the .38 special ammo, exactly as Rose had taught her. Sighting down the barrel, she aimed at the center of her forehead in the mirror and touched the trigger.
Her heartbeat slowed. She took a half-breath and held it.
Lex lowered the gun and checked the time. Clicking the safety in place, she zipped the loaded weapon into her messenger bag. It had taken a few tries, but she’d worked out a routine of running to class at the last possible minute. It avoided unwanted social interaction before the professor arrived.
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