Gypsy king

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BRYCE

“DASH WILL COME FOR ME.” I clenched my fists, pulling on the duct tape that bound them behind my back.

“I’m counting on it.” The man standing before me, dressed in black, crossed his arms over his chest. “Now shut up.”

I clamped my teeth together—my molars grinding so hard they could have pulverized diamonds. I wasn’t obeying his order. I was freezing cold and wanted to keep them from chattering. My toes and fingers had gone numb hours ago. At least, I think it had been hours. I had no idea what time it was. The sun was up but not high enough to burn the chill that clung to the misty forest air.

Beside me, Genevieve sniffled. Her arm was pressed against mine, trembling. She was shaking head to toe, the body-racking kind of shakes that were pure fear.

Hours ago, I’d been scared too. When I’d been taken from my home and shoved in the trunk of a car, I’d been terrified. I’d cried until there were no more tears.

Then, lying in the dark trunk, my hands and ankles bound, the fear had vanished. I couldn’t afford to be afraid. I had another life counting on me to get my shit together.

My anger was keeping me alive. It kept my blood from turning to ice, fueling the fire in my heart. Because I had to hang on. To fight. I was finally getting a piece of the future I’d hoped for, a child I would love unconditionally. This asshole wasn’t going to take that away from me.

Fuck this guy. He was the same man who’d broken into the Tin Gypsy clubhouse. I assumed as much based on his clothing. He wore black jeans and a black long-sleeved thermal. His ski mask covered his hair and his face. Black leather gloves stretched tight across his hands. And he wore a cut with the outdated Warrior logo on the back.

His eyes were covered with sunglasses, even in the dim light, the lenses and frames black. He showed no skin except for plain lips poking through the mask.

He was of average build, meaning even if we managed to get out of this situation—unlikely—there’d be no providing the police any identifying information. His dedication to keeping himself hidden actually gave me hope. If he was just going to kill us, why hide?

Maybe I was grasping for hope.

Around us, the forest was shadowed and eerie. The smell of pine and earth was heavy. This place he’d brought us to was so thick with evergreens, I doubted it ever got bright.

It was creepy as hell, but the low light might work to our advantage if we could figure out an escape. Maybe we could hide under some bushes or something. I grimaced at the thought of curling up with decaying leaves and needles.

Behind us, there was an old cabin tucked into the trees. I’d spotted it when he’d pulled us out of the trunk. It was menacing and the windows were blacked out like someone had boarded it up a decade ago and forgotten it existed. It was straight out of a horror movie, the type of place where human bodies were butchered in the basement. If I did get free, I’d be heading in the opposite direction of that cabin.

A phone chimed in the man’s pocket. He turned away from Genevieve and me, disappearing deeper into the trees where we couldn’t see him anymore.

But he was there. Waiting. Watching.

“What’s he going to do to us?” Genevieve asked through chattering teeth.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But just hang tight.”

Dash would find us. This guy had set it up that way. He wanted Dash to find me. But why? And why Genevieve? How had he known about her? Why was she here?

After the man had taken me from my house, he’d loaded me in the trunk, and I’d been jostled around as he took turn after turn, probably navigating through town. Then the whirl of tires against the asphalt became high-pitched as he sped down a smooth stretch of road.

Exhausted and emotionally wrecked, I fell asleep. Maybe for ten minutes, maybe an hour, I wasn’t sure. I jolted awake when we stopped. I waited, barely breathing as his car door slammed, but he didn’t come for me.

I waited, my heart hammering in my chest, until finally, the trunk opened. I squinted against the parking lot light above the car, adjusting my vision just in time to see the man heft another struggling body into the trunk.

Genevieve, gagged and bound, took one look at my face and stilled. We had only enough time to recognize each other before he slammed the trunk closed and the light was gone. We were sandwiched in tight with no room to move even though the trunk was larger than that of any car I’d owned.

With the gags, neither of us could talk. Instead, we both cried silent tears for hours until the car slowed and we were bounced around on a road so bumpy it couldn’t have been paved.

It was still dark when he hauled us both from the car, threatening to slit our throats if we tried to run. With the enormous knife sheathed on his belt, I believed him.

Then he made us walk uphill for what felt like a mile, bringing us to this spot and shoving me to my knees. He untied Genevieve and put a gun in her hand, promising it was unloaded so she shouldn’t try anything. Then he pushed her into position so the gun touched my temple in her shaky grip.

Her gag was stripped. The tape was removed from her wrists and ankles. And he told her to hold still. Stop fucking crying.

After all, Genevieve was supposed to look like my murderer.

He took a few pictures, then taped her up again, setting us both next to this tree. Thankfully, he pulled off my gag too. It wasn’t like we needed them. Out here, no one would hear us if we screamed.

He disappeared for a while, but I knew he hadn’t gone far. If we tried to run for it, he’d see. If we tried to get our hands free, he’d see.

So we sat, both of us in shock, until he returned and stood over us, watching silently.

I kept my head down, not wanting to provoke him. Every minute, we got colder. I was in flip-flops from di

Her feet were practically raw from the long walk through the forest.

She sniffled. “Why is this happening?”

I leaned toward her, letting my temple rest on top of her head. It was the best hug I could give her at the moment. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Her body tensed even as she trembled.

“When I came to Denver, you told me something. You said your mom always called your father Prez. Well, that nickname was familiar and I . . . well, I sort of figured out who your father is.”

Her head pulled away from mine. Her eyes got impossibly wide. “You did? Who?”

“Before I tell you, please keep an open mind. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’m begging you to trust me.”

She gave me a slight nod. “Tell me.”

I took a deep breath, then blurted, “Draven Slater did not kill your mother. I’m sure of it. I don’t have proof, but from the bottom of my soul, I think he genuinely cared for your mother and would not have harmed her.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The police have evidence. He killed her. He lured her to that motel and stabbed her to death.”

“She asked him to come to the motel because she had something to tell him. He’s your fa—”