Lib Novel Page 115
“G, you wanna head home?” Z asks.
“I’ll wait to ride with you and Rock.” He claps his hands together. “Been fifteen or sixteen years since we all rode together.”
“I know, brother.”
Fuck, I feel like a baby next to them now. Rooster and I were still in high school when Grinder went to prison. I slide my gaze Rooster’s way, and he gives me a look like he’s having the same thought.
“All right, let’s go.” Z waves his arm in the air and opens the door.
Z and Grinder step into the hallway.
Rooster tips his head to the side, silently asking me to hang back.
“Yesss?” I ask as dickishly as possible. “What’s up, Prez?”
“Shut the fuck up. That’s not even funny. Christ, you heard Z. They’d been patched into the club for years. Fuck, Grinder was an officer before we had hair on our balls. I ain’t ready to wear the president’s patch.”
I reach down and scratch my crotch. “Speak for yourself. I was born with hair on my balls.”
He closes his eyes and blows out a long, slow, irritated breath. “Keep laughing. You’ll be my VP, and I’ll have all sorts of bitchwork for you.”
“VP? Not SAA?”
He blinks a few times. “Figure I get a two-for-one deal that way, ’cause I know you always have my back.”
“Fuck yeah, I do.” I tilt my head and squint at him. “For someone who said he wouldn’t take the job, you sure have given it a lot of thought.”
Rooster doesn’t have a comeback and that almost unnerves me more than anything else that’s happened on this trip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Margot
If God exists, He watches over the mischievous with affection. At least that’s what I tell myself on these missions. Somehow, I haven’t been caught yet. Maybe it’s because I choose my targets carefully and for just reasons.
No one probably works all that hard to find the killer of child molesters, wife-beaters, and baby killers.
It’s still risky. I could get caught. I could get killed. These are, after all, dangerous men that I hunt. I’m not like Jigsaw and his biker brothers, with their muscles and strength. I have to pick and choose my targets carefully and work out a solid plan.
I check the mirror of my rental car and adjust my short, black wig. Pin-straight, chin-length bob with heavy bangs that end right below my eyebrows. I even put in brown contacts. Tight black leggings and sleek, black high-top sneakers hopefully give me the illusion of a little more height. A padded butt enhancer and thin shoulder pads under my black long-sleeved cropped jacket alter my shape just a little. It’s all about perception and illusion. If anyone remembers seeing a woman at Patrick’s door, none of the characteristics someone might mention to the police have anything to do with me—shy, blonde Margot Cedarwood from Pine Hollow.
Little Lady Death. Jigsaw has no idea how on the nose that nickname is.
Thinking of him brings on a wave of longing. I miss him. He’s sent me a bunch of texts since he left for Tennessee, but I still have no idea when he’ll be back in New York.
I wish I could tell him about my favorite side hobby.
I’ve been watching the Horizon Inn motel for days. Every day since Jigsaw left on his trip to be precise.
Every night around seven p.m. a delivery driver shows up with food. Always a different driver. Sometimes it’s bags of groceries, other times a pizza, or even just a plain brown bag covered in grease stains.
Once I knew his room number, I placed a small camera on the balcony across from his door, so I can monitor him throughout the day. He never leaves the motel room. Never lets a maid in either. Laurel was wrong about the hookers; so far, I’ve only seen food arrive at Patrick’s door. This might be my easiest kill yet.
A car swoops into the parking lot. Music, loud and thumping. The car slows to a crawl as the driver reads the room number signs.
Perfect.
I turn off the dome light in my car and step out.