Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Jet stalks toward me his hand on his hip. He’s bleeding and he’s pissed.
“What did I tell you?” He demands, taking his gun and wrapping an arm around me. He hurries us out of the shop. “What the fuck did I tell you?” he barks. He half lifts me over the body in the way and we walk out, forgetting our umbrella. He stops, pulling my hood over my head as I stand in the pouring rain mute and shaking.
I may have grown up in the mafia world, but I’ve never experienced violence like this first-hand. He must see my shock.
“Hey. You okay?” he asks. “Amal? Look at me. Are you okay?”
Tears spring from my eyes, all the adrenaline leaving my body.
“Shit. Are you hurt?” Jet’s hands move over my body. He’s feeling for an injury.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Good. Let’s get to the car. You’re safe, come on now. Walk with me. They’ll likely send backup.”
“Who are they?” I ask as we hurry toward the SUV.
“The guard. Keys?”
I nod, stopping when we get to the vehicle. Digging into my pocket, I feel for the keys and am relieved I didn’t lose them in that chaos. Jet takes the keys, unlocks the door and opens the passenger side, lifting me in, even though I see it hurts him.
He closes the door, hurries to the driver’s side and once he’s in, he pulls the seatbelt across my lap and pushes the hood back from my head to look at me, scrutinizing my face.
“You’re cut.”
“It’s fine.”
I glance at his wound. “You’re bleeding badly, Jet.”
He glances down but doesn’t even wince. “Let’s get out of here before they send more men.”
18
JET
I’ve been both shot and stabbed before. Hell, I’ve been through worse. It hurts but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Amal, though, is in shock. At least she’s not hurt.
“Take my phone out of my pocket,” I tell her. I need to keep her busy.
She nods, and, her hands shaking, reaches into my jacket pocket to pull out the phone. She looks at it, then at me, waiting for further instruction.
“Code is 1852. Unlock it.”
She has to wipe sweat and blood off her hands before she gets the code in and the phone unlocks.
“Good girl. Now call Malcom.”
She scrolls through my contacts, finds his name and puts the call on speaker. Malcom answers on the first ring.
“All good?” he asks.
“We’re alive. I’m going to need a suturing kit. Can you get me that?”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Again. Good to keep in practice.”
“We should take you to the ER,” Amal says.
I turn to her. “That’s sweet but I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine, Jet."
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
“How far out are you and are you being followed?” Malcom cuts in.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. “No, but I don’t expect a drive by. They’ll have plenty of time to dish out their punishment. We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel.”
“Come to the staff entrance. I’ll head down. Make sure it’s clear.”
“See you in a few.” We disconnect.
“Tuck the phone back into my pocket, sweetheart.”
“Do we need to call Cassian?”
“Why?”
“If these men are after us…”
“This has nothing to do with Trevino business and we’re going to keep it that way. Christ, this driving on the wrong side of the road is a bitch.”
Amal spends the rest of the ride worried when any vehicle gets too close. When we get to the staff entrance, Malcom meets us. He holds out the old-fashioned brass room key. I reach for it, but Amal snatches it away. When he sees the state of me, he also strips off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
“Bleeding in the kitchen has got to be against code, but what can you do?”
“He’s in no state for this. We should take him to the ER.”
“I’ve seen him dig a bullet out of his thigh,” Malcom tells her, and while she processes, turns back to me. “Through the kitchen there’s an elevator. I’ll see you upstairs as soon as I park the SUV. One of the boys is on his way back with a suturing kit.”
I wrap an arm around Amal, and she puts hers around my waist. I’m leaning some of my weight on her because each step is fucking excruciating, but the wound is low and more of an inconvenience than anything else.
We move swiftly through the kitchen, getting a few glances. Luck is on our side, and a man is just returning after room service deliveries. He stops, his cart half-out, when he gets a look at us.
“Um…”
“Get out,” Amal says, standing taller and moving slightly in front of me.
“The guest elevator is—”
“I said get the fuck out,” she tells him and gives his cart a shove.
I chuckle because it’s funny but pay for it immediately and press my hand harder to my hip. Amal pushes the button and the service elevator groans, climbing to the seventh floor. I press my shoulder against the wall, leaning my weight into it. I’m going to need to sit down pretty soon.