Before I can change my mind and make an even bigger mess of tonight, I launch forward and get the hell out of there. If these guys are protecting her — helping her — then she needs to be with them. I might be bordering on insanity, but one fact is clear: I’m the toxic one in this scenario, and I refuse to continue contaminating her.
I need to get my shit together.
For the first time since I started getting that weird feeling in my gut — the one undoubtedly trying to tell me about Porter all along — I know removing myself from her life is the right thing to do.
I will carry on alone, making Lance Industries thrive, moving forward with the plans to put these boys in their place and keep her free and clear of that drama like Dad always wanted. Whether she would admit to it or not, Remi is drawn to the lifestyle like a moth to a flame. By making a name for myself in the area, it assures my influence should keep her removed — just like Dad intended.
Damn, I was a fucking idiot to go along with Porter’s plan to bring her into the fold.
He will no longer work with my family or our business.
Most importantly, he will never again touch Remi.
That is a damn guarantee.
CHAPTER FOUR
*Remi*
As soon as Jude is out of sight, I tug myself out of Hayes’s grip, rush up to Porter, and squat to his level. With the amount of blood puddling on and staining the concrete, it’s a miracle he was even able to speak a moment ago. Right now, his head lolls to the side, chest heaves, forehead is covered in sweat, and his eyelids are heavy.
I swing a glance over my shoulder and lock eyes with the first guy I see — Trenton. “Grab the shell casing and come help me!” I yell. The three men shift uncomfortably, but Trenton finds the shell, shoves it into his pocket, and jogs over after only a heartbeat of hesitation. Crow and Hayes share a look then jog up behind him, refusing to let Trenton come alone. I get that this is not their scene, and the more involved it becomes the more their uncertainty grows; they might street race, but none of them are warmongers.
Neither am I, but the lingering memory of that night at the LA Port is enough experience for me to understand the implications of Jude’s emotional reaction. In a panicked rush, I explain: “Hold him down. I… I need to remove the bullet. Porter likely won’t throw us under the bus to the authorities in order to save his own ass from incrimination, but… but… We can’t leave any evidence just in case.”
I’ve never done anything like this. I need to save Jude. Save myself. I refuse to give Porter more influence than he already has; the bullet is proof — yet another thing he can use as blackmail.
Trenton takes his shoulders, wedging his already bound hands between the concrete and his lower back. Crow restrains his feet. I grip his jaw, flinging his head upright and bringing us nose to nose. “Embezzlement across states and rape — those are at least two of the wrongs you’ve done that I can think of right off the line. I am sure there are more, and I intend on doing whatever I can to pin you with everything.” His dazed eyes blink rapidly, but he still manages to fix me with an indignant glower.
When I let go of his jaw, his head lolls to the side again. I swallow hard and work my knees between his. The guys remain silently detached while I attempt to tear Porter’s jeans at the spot where the bullet hit. My breathing turns choppy and manic and my arms weaken, refusing me the strength to tear the thick fabric. Panic and uncertainty bleeds into my whimper of budding defeat: “I-I don’t know what I’m doing.”
A hand lands gently on my shoulder and squeezes. “There are too many factors for you to know if this will work or not. If the bullet is in deep, you will need tools. There are too many ways this could go wrong and be fatal.” The advice comes from Hayes as he reaches down and rips the fabric for me. Again, a memory of a similar scene tries to pervade my thoughts and strip me from the present, but blaring sirens echoing across the bay kick me back into gear.
“If something does go wrong and he dies on the spot, would that be so terrible?”
My hand launches to my mouth to cover the barrel from which those words were projected.
Oh my God, what am I saying?
“If you’re going to do something, do it now. We really need to get out of here,” Trenton grinds out, darting a glance through the black windows of the warehouse.
The tips of my fingers and thumb are damp and sticky against my skin; Porter’s blood streaks against my cheeks as I slowly uncup my mouth and drop my hand back to his thigh. I give Hayes puppy-dog eyes, my confidence teetering on the edge. He bobs his head in a single, firm nod. I will my breathing to even out with a deep inhale and exhale then push my finger into the bullet hole.
Porter comes to life, every part of him seeming to animate at once: his eyes pop wide, voice screeches, and limbs thrash. Hayes slams his hand over Porter’s mouth, preventing the harrowing wail from ringing through the steel structure. Trenton and Crow tighten their grips.
The squish and meaty warmth clenching around the tip of my finger has my breathing returning to erratic and eyes slamming shut. But a small lump snaps me back into focus; I fling my eyes open, suck in a gasp of determination, press my lips together, and curve my finger inward to loop the pad of my index under the lump and wiggle it gently in an upward motion.
Well… gently is entirely subjective, I imagine; Porter might disagree. Our gazes lock. His eyes bug, he blinks, and a tear pops free. The bullet tinks against the concrete, echoing through the suddenly overly-quiet warehouse. Porter’s glazed attention bounces from my face down toward the bullet and back again. Then, everything stops: his muffled wail, the attempted thrashing, the tension in his muscles.
He passes out cold.
My breathing chugs like a train in my ears.
Muffled voices surround me.
Fingers grip.
Hands tug.
I fall back and am lifted at the whim of whoever is collecting me.
The surrounding din of port activity, the blazing overhead lights, the dead silence from Porter, and the sharp aroma of blood and still-lingering acrid smoke slams back into me — and they all blend with the piercing sound of sirens and red-blue flash of lights.
* * *
“D-did I kill him? Is… is he dead?” I whisper, staring at my blood-soaked hands. Fear, dread, euphoria, relief, sadness, mania — every emotion humans experience amalgamates, twisting my psyche, maddening me to the point where I can scarcely see straight.
The Bimmer drifts hard, and I tip over into…
Blinking repeatedly, I try to make sense of what’s happening around me. I had gone so deep in my mind that reality kept fading in and out.
My head tilts back, shoulder smushing into a warm body. Crow. Crow is who I now find myself pressed against. He is worrying at his lip ring, eyes locked on the windshield while Hayes drives. His mind is preoccupied, too — processing the turn of events tonight much like mine keeps doing on repeat. But it doesn’t take him long to recognize the contact — that always inappropriate buzz of recognition hums between our bodies.
The worrying of his teeth against his bottom lip turns into a dampening of his tongue as his chrome gaze drops slowly to mine, eyes crazy and wild… similar to the moment before he took me on the hood of his car.