Witness Read Free

going to die here. That wasn’t the panic talking, it was reality. She was going to die for Tanner Wilcox, because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Because she hadn’t wanted to. She’d been warned that going after Gunner Pierce could get her killed, because he wasn’t a man to fuck with.
    Of all her father’s sermons, the one about doing the right thing was the one that had stuck. No matter how big a jerk Tanner had been, he hadn’t deserved to die, and his killer shouldn’t go unpunished.
    Easy words to say when free. Harder to swallow now.
    Now when all she had was that terrible pain in her shoulder, the sting in her wrist, the aches in her arms, and the endless sea of black staring back at her.
     
    * * * *
     
    Control was something Dash didn’t relinquish. Ever. He’d fought too fucking hard and lost too fucking much to have it taken from him so effortlessly. Especially not at the pleading cries of a girl who was twelve hours past her time of death.
    He couldn’t lose it now.
    Still, that didn’t explain the way his gut tightened every time she twisted against the handcuffs. How he’d had to tamp down his instinctive need to tell Rennie everything would be all right, as though that was his call to make. He’d already fucked up by bringing her here. But everyone else was at the courthouse, watching Gunner’s fate unfold. And he had nowhere else to go.
    The clubhouse had always been his oasis—his place to collect himself, to calm the fuck down—or freak the fuck out, if necessary. His home, the only home that mattered. Now tainted because he’d infected his present with his past.
    The anticipated calm had yet to settle in. He doubted it would. Not while Rennie was in the clubhouse garage. Panicking. Terrified. Defeated. Of course she would be—she’d always been smart. She knew what kind of shit she was in.
    She knew who she’d fucked with.
    She just didn’t know about him.
    Dash stomped to the kitchen. Once there, he paused, overwhelmed, and forced himself to jumpstart his brain and remember why he’d come in here in the first place.
    Towels. Water. First-aid kit.
    Because she was hurt. Hurt when she was supposed to be dead.
    Hurt because he’d rammed his cousin’s Chevy into her Prius. Damn thing hadn’t stood a chance.
    With the supplies gathered, Dash steeled himself and made the return trip to the garage. He had no idea how much time he had before one of the others—Hunter, Butch, Pete, Jax, Sawyer, any of them—returned. Without Rennie at the courthouse to offer her testimony, there was no telling how long the holdup would last.
    How long he had before someone learned Rennie was still alive and kicking.
    Emphasis on kicking.
    Dash edged the garage door open and did his best not to react when his eyes landed on her trembling body. Rennie was just as he’d left her. Her legs scraped, her arms shaking, her otherwise modest skirt hiked to mid-thigh from her struggling, the bandana he’d secured around her eyes still in place, her light brown hair hanging loosely from her ponytail. He knew the second she became aware of him. She inhaled raggedly and pushed back, like she wanted to make herself smaller, and the little throaty whimpers she likely didn’t even realize she made resumed in full force.
    Fuck.
    Rennie Jones. Why did it have to be Rennie Jones?
    Dash steeled himself and pressed forward. It didn’t matter who it was. He had his job. He owed that to Gunner.
    Never mind that in the world according to Gunner, Rennie was supposed to be long dead by now. Dash had yet to figure that one out—how he could do right by the man to whom he owed everything, yet keep his own hands clean.
    Gunner had asked him to do a lot of ugly shit. Murder had never been on the list.
    “Please.”
    Dash stopped short.
    “Please,” Rennie repeated, the sound bleak. She flexed her hands against the cuffs, which drew his attention to the trail of red making its way down her arm. She’d cut