Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“Yeah, fuck.”
“Okay, well, you can take the hit tonight. It will give you something to take out all that frustrated energy on. Don’t say I never give you anything.” He stands as the door opens, and Kenzo strolls in. Kenzo, I would say, is the more reserved of us, while Zuko is the ears and reason. And I am here to fuck shit up.
Zuko has knives, which he is an expert with.
Kenzo is the best sharpshooter I have ever seen. Plus, he can track almost anyone.
And me? Well, I…
Fuck if I know.
Let’s be real—I just show up and take out the target.
“What’s wrong?” Kenzo asks.
I say nothing as I step past him, but Zuko says, “He went to her wedding.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kenzo asks.
I shrug as we walk out to make our way to the car. “You’ve been busy.” In reality, I know that’s not right, but I barely tell anyone anything. The one I talk to the most is Zuko because he knows I’m thinking of getting out.
Kenzo shakes his head. “I’ve been helping Grayson with the club. You know where I live. You could have come to me,” he grumbles.
Grayson is probably the only other person we trust, apart from Pops, who gets us the hits. But now, we don’t need Pops because our names alone are enough to attract attention. Those in our world know us, and they know us well.
Grayson runs a sex club that I’m sure Kenzo does more than help at. I’ve seen the cuts on him, so I’m sure he goes into the red room for some knife play. That place has many fantasy rooms for men, each is set up for their every need or want. And it’s incredibly popular for “underground” men, who like to keep their shit secret. Grayson is good like that, and so is his woman, who helps him run the place.
“And you know where I live. I only see you at times like this,” I add.
Kenzo stops as we get to the car.
Zuko pays us no attention as he slides in the driver’s side and shuts the door.
“Is that the issue? Me not visiting you?” Kenzo asks.
“No,” I tell him, swinging the door open and getting in.
“It sure as fuck sounds like it.”
“When was the last time you saw me?” I ask as Zuko starts the engine and pulls out onto the road.
“Two months ago.”
“Exactly.” Shaking my head, I turn to Zuko. “When was the last time I saw you?”
“Last weekend,” Zuko relays.
“So, what? You’re mad that I don’t visit?” Kenzo asks. “Grow up!” There is no doubt that the mockery in his voice is evident.
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Sometimes, for someone so clever, you are dumb as shit,” Kenzo says. “You know where I live as well. Fuckface.”
“You never answer when anyone comes to your door,” I remind him.
Zuko grunts next to me because he knows it’s true. Kenzo hates having people in his space.
“What?” Kenzo huffs. “I don’t like to let people in, but you two are different.”
“I call bullshit,” I say, shaking my head.
“Fuck you both.”
Finished with this shit, I look out the window and see a mass of brown hair in a white dress holding a bottle of whiskey walking on the side of the street.
“Stop the car.” I hit the dash, and Zuko pulls the car to the side of the road. I open the door and get out.
“What the fuck? We have a job,” Kenzo shouts.
Glancing back into the car, I say, “You two do it. I’m out.” Before they can argue, I run across the highway to where she can barely keep herself up straight. She’s wearing the same white dress she wore at that wedding a few days ago, and she looks like a mess. Despite her size, she’s easy to spot. The woman is a damn hellcat. It took days for my balls to recover from her blow.
While I walk over, her eyes are cast down, and the almost empty bottle of cheap as fuck whiskey sways precariously in her hand as she walks—or tries to walk. She grumbles something unintelligible and keeps on going. I sidestep and block her path again.
“Fucking hell, mister. Move,” she slurs.
I want to chuckle at her words. They’re so funny coming from something that looks so sweet she couldn’t hurt a fly.
“Such nasty words for such a small bird,” I tell her, and her head whips up, and her blurry, red eyes find mine.
“You,” she seethes, lifting her bottle. She attempts to hit me with it, but I step to the side, and all it makes contact with is the air around her. She falls forward with the motion, and I grab the bottle from her. I watch, and as if in slow motion, she lands on her face.
Well, shit.
That probably hurt.
Sucks to be her.