LUCAS
The highway flies by in a blur of white lines and endless pine forests as I grip the steering wheel tightly with one hand, the other holding a cigarette I shouldn't be having. I quit smoking a long time ago, but the past forty-eight hours have been hell.
I didn't get to see Ava for a couple days after flying out when I got the news that our scout was murdered, his body hanging between the Blackwood and Westwood territories. I don't even know what Ava thought of my note taped to her dining table, explaining that I'd be back as soon as I could.
Is she grateful I'm not there? Or is she missing me?
My cell phone is pressed between my ear and shoulder while I shout into it in between puffs of the cancer-causing burn stick I've been craving for the past twenty miles.
"I don't give a flying fuck, Kellan," I growl, cutting off his protest. "I'm not leaving Washington for the next three days, so don't even fucking think about calling me back there."
