Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
And just like that, apparently, I found my own particular fetish.
Because the second I looked at him, I felt my body warming.
I’d never once considered subscribing to a content creator on the site.
But I couldn’t seem to stop my finger from sliding to the button, agreeing to pay for the most expensive tier he had available.
The one that allowed me to have access to a personal chat with the creator.
Then, well, there was no going back.
CHAPTER THREE
Alaric
“Yo, Coast, focus,” I called as the man in question kept glancing back toward the clubhouse like he could even see it from this far away, where the outdoor range was set up.
From a distance, we could hear the thump of the bass as Levee, York, and Velle got shit ready for the fifth night in a row of partying.
Clearly, Coast’s head was on the festivities and not the task at hand.
I wasn’t a taskmaster by nature. I didn’t give a fuck who did or didn’t do target practice. The only reason I was there was because, as the club’s best shot, Huck put me in charge of making sure everyone who needed to, worked on their skills. And those who didn’t need to expand their skills, kept them sharp.
Coast had been with the club for a few months now, but I’d yet to be able to even assess his skills yet.
Clearly, the man had lethal skills in some capacity. Word in the club was that the Roman numerals tattooed on the side of his face were a kill count.
Thirteen in total.
That said, I honestly hadn’t spent enough time with the guy to know if those kills were from guns, knives, or his damn bare hands.
Out of all the guys in the club, Coast looked the most like he belonged in an outlaw biker club.
He was tall and somewhat thin, but with a complete set of washboard abs, lots of ink, including children’s blocks that spelled out Fuck You on his collarbone. His hair was somewhere between brown and blond, and he had piercing light blue eyes.
“You’re fucking with my free time, man,” Coast said, shaking his head.
“Your whole life is free time,” I reminded him.
Sure, we worked. But honestly not that much. Especially since teaming up with the Shady Valley chapter, who had two brothers who dropped by to unload a shit-ton of guns to us, cutting down on the actual work we used to have to do to track down ‘clean’ guns to resell to our contacts who wanted to buy them.
“But the parties are only—“
“Every single day for like twelve hours straight,” I cut him off, getting a chuckle out of him.
“Fair enough,” he agreed, reaching for the gun I had set up on the table, stabbing the magazine into it, then holding out his arm, and shooting like an amateur primetime television mobster. Gun cocked to the side. Posture casual. Barely even looking at his targets.
And still… the fuck was more accurate than he had any right to be.
“Happy?” he asked, giving me a raised brow look that said he knew this was a waste of his time.
“For now,” I agreed. “But Huck will be on my ass about you practicing like everyone else does.”
“Catch me earlier in the day then, man,” he said, placing the gun back down on the table before walking away.
“I feel that sigh,” another voice said a second later, making me turn to see Velle standing there. “Coast can be…”
“A pain in the ass?” I filled in.
“I was going to say… difficult,” Velle said.
“Same thing,” I said, shrugging.
Velle was about as opposite from Coast as you can get. Both in looks and personality.
Where Coast was more fair, Velle had black hair and a black beard, and dark eyes. He, like Coast, had a lot of ink. And he was also sporting gauged ears and a nose ring.
As for who he was as a person, Velle was quieter. He was someone who was more likely to be standing on the sidelines, paying attention to the goings-on or having some sort of deep conversation with someone.
Velle had been chosen for the club for his knack for getting people to spill all their secrets to him. And I guess if I were Huck, I would definitely see that as an asset.
As a fellow club member, one who was harboring some shit he didn’t want to talk about, though, I found his ability for reading people off-putting.
“You here to practice?” I asked, waving toward the table with the gun still sitting there.
“I’ve been told I can use it,” he admitted, making his way toward the gun.
“You overthink it,” I told him as he checked the magazine.
“Kind of a personality quirk, I guess,” he admitted, nodding.
Velle had grown up in a club. Albeit a casual, road warrior type club. Not one like ours. It wasn’t until he did a bid for grand theft auto that he seemed to pick up his current set of overthinking skills, thanks to bunking with a disgraced shrink for a few years. Apparently, he learned a lot of shit from the doctor that he found was applicable to conversations with people that allowed him to ask the right questions to get the information out of them that he was seeking.