Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1)

Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book: Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Layla Wolfe
bet they’ve never seen the likes of you. Move. I need to lock the door.”
    “Do you know what that whackjob’s sermon is going to be next Sunday? I saw it on a flier. ‘I Know Who Has TV!’ You fucking heard right, man. He’s going to point fingers and list some scorecard he keeps on who the fuck’s got a satellite dish.”
    “Truly and utterly whacked,” I agreed. I did agree. Who wouldn’t? A man’s right to watch football and boob movies was one of his unalienable rights.
    “It’s like having the Taliban right down the street. You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you?”
    “Yup.”
    “You must hate the Taliban.”
    “Sure do. They killed some friends of mine.”
    I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t see the Church of Good Fortune quite on the same level as the Taliban, yet. I nodded at the disheveled, dusty kid who cowered behind an old phone booth. He was rooting through a plastic bag of some garbage or other, and his dark chestnut eyes dilated when he realized he’d been caught. He wore one of those nylon windbreakers in brightly colored blocks that were popular about twenty years ago—like this town.
    “Hey, who was that lady following you down the street? Inside the gates, I mean.”
    Abruptly I stopped thinking about the starving kid. “Lady?”
    “Yeah. She was dressed different from the rest, if you can call a thousand gunnysack dresses different. Hers was red.”
    Mahalia! I stopped walking. “What the fuck, Breakiron? You mean when we got there and were fighting?”
    “No, later. I rode away, but parked behind some cray-cray bookmaking business—”
    I frowned. “They gamble?”
    “No, I mean serious bookmaking, like, churning out books to read. Only, they were all religious.”
    “Go on.” I continued walking, as though I could care less, but my heart had seized up. Mahalia had followed me back downstairs after my meeting the day before. Why?
    “Well, you were on the phone, probably talking to Chelsea, am I right?”
    I neither confirmed nor denied. “What did the lady do?”
    “She came out of the main double doors and seemed sort of frantic, like she was looking for someone. She saw you and went over, but I guess you didn’t see her.”
    “And?” I knew what “and.” And she turned around and left. Because I never saw her. She never talked to me. Although she could have.
    “She turned around and went back inside.”
    Fuck! I nearly punched Breakiron for being the bearer of such bad news. She saw me, but made no effort to talk to me? That must’ve been because she’d overheard me declaring my undying love to poor Chelsea! Why this struck such a lance of despair through my chest, I had no idea. Maybe because I’d been busted being a fucking sap, leaving a lovelorn message for a girl I could never have. A girl, as far as I knew, who didn’t even want me. “How far away was she? How far was she standing?”
    Breakiron shrugged his stupid shoulders. “I dunno. About here to that front door.”
    We went in the front door, my mood soured with Breakiron’s stupid news. The place was dark, the decades’ worth of sandstone dust on the front windows not helping any. Stale smoke clung to the walls and three guys were playing pool at the only table in the back, eerily lit like a spaceship landing by an overhead Harley Davidson sign.
    I could tell Breakiron was thinking the same thing I was—and believe you me, the idea we were thinking the same thing was depressing. But those three guys wearing leather vests were just riding club members, not one percenters like we were. One guy had a patch on his back that said “Motor Psycho.” Another patch on another guy said, “Take It Out and Play with It” over a picture of a bike. As outlaws, Breakiron and I knew we wouldn’t be caught dead with patches like that. I was glad I’d worn my cut today. I hadn’t worn it inside the gates of Cornucopia, for obvious reasons. No point in advertising the transaction.
    We sat our
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