Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
But it was improving.
“You find my sled?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it in one piece?”
“Also yeah.”
Sig glanced up at Ozzy. “So, now what?”
“Droppin’ your ass off there to ride it home.”
“That’s gonna suck.”
“Probably not as hard as that Amish snatch you got caught fuckin’ up the ass.”
Sig grunted. It was a fucking shame he’d never get that ass or mouth again. That had been some sweet addictive shit.
He tilted his head as he squinted up at the club’s Secretary. “They didn’t kill ‘er, right?”
“How the fuck would I know? The fuck if I was knockin’ on their door askin’.”
Sig’s lips thinned out. “Yeah.”
“So, anyway, you gotta go. Got this room rented out for tonight. Need to get the housekeeper in here to clean up after your ass. You’re a goddamn pig.”
Sig groaned again as he carefully pushed himself to his feet. “At least I didn’t shit the bed.”
“Good thing, otherwise you woulda been layin’ in it for three damn days.”
“Trip wonderin’ where I’m at?”
“Fuck yeah. He’s got repo jobs lined up and you nowhere to be found. Wonderin’ if you caught any charges. Didn’t tell ‘im you caught a beatin’ instead.”
“So much for them Amish bein’ pacifists,” Sig grumbled.
“Yeah, well, when you’re fuckin’ one of their virgins up the ass, that tends to piss ‘em off. Let’s fuckin’ go. Don’t got all day for your belly achin’.”
“What’d you tell the prez?”
“Didn’t tell him nothin’. You make up a fuckin’ story. Haven’t seen or heard from you. Right now, I’m a deaf and blind motherfucker. That’s your fuckin’ mess, you clean it the fuck up.”
Sig sighed. He had no clue what the fuck he was telling Trip. But his brother wasn’t going to let his VP’s disappearance go ignored. Trip was wound too fucking tight for that.
“How we gettin’ to my sled? Ain’t ridin’ nut to butt with you.”
“Still got Lizzy’s cage.”
Lizzy was one of the sweet butts who showed up one day at The Barn a couple months back, right before Sig did. She was great at sucking and fucking but was too old for Sig’s tastes. She had to be at least thirty.
He liked his snatch fresh and Lizzy was hardly that.
But Ozzy tended to jump on her whenever he could. Which was often.
Lizzy probably hoped Ozzy would claim her as his ol’ lady. He wasn’t, and never would. But that still didn’t mean he didn’t take advantage of what Lizzy offered.
They all did.
Except for Trip. And Shady.
But then Shady was a weird fucking dude. Too goddamn quiet.
And the motherfucker was about to be patched in soon. As well as Dodge, Sparky and Mouse.
The club was growing faster than Trip expected, which made his brother happy. Not that Sig gave a shit about Trip’s happiness. He didn’t.
He used to when they were kids and best friends. But then shit changed.
He pulled on the clean jeans and shirt Ozzy had snuck out of Sig’s apartment. The others had been covered in caked mud. He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and slid on his socks and boots, then shrugged into his cut, grateful Ozzy had Lizzy clean it for him.
“Let’s roll,” Sig said as he forced his way vertical again.
They rolled.
Once Sig was dropped off at his sled, Ozzy headed one direction and Sig the other.
Luckily, there wasn’t any more damage than there was already. His sled wasn’t perfect. In fact, it was a piece of shit.
Cage, as Road Captain, told him he needed to do something about that.
And Sig would. When he fucking felt like it. Not because he was being ordered to by that douchebag motherfucker.
Sparky and Dodge had offered to work on it for him. But Dodge was busy helping run Crazy Pete’s bar with Stella, and Sig figured Trip would be pissed if he pulled Dodge away from that, putting more pressure on Trip’s ol’ lady.
So, it was up to Sparky, and sometimes Mouse, but they could only do it after normal business hours at Dutch’s garage. Because of that, it had been a slow fucking go since Sig had no other wheels. His rust bucket Ford truck had died not long after coming back to Manning Grove a couple of months ago.
He didn’t have enough scratch to fix both.
Not yet, anyway.
He should’ve gotten half the farm from his so-called granddaddy, but his fucking half-brother got it all, instead.
Most likely because ol’ Clyde had been embarrassed that Sig ended up being his grandson and then that unwanted grandson ended up living in and out of prison. More in than out.
Could’ve been the reason.
Even so, Trip owed him half. Which, if he ever got it, he’d sell off and put a shitload of scratch in his pocket.
But Trip’s asshole was too tight, and he was never giving Sig half.
While Sig got a free place to stay, it was a small apartment in The Barn’s bunkhouse and not the goddamn big farmhouse where Trip and Stella lived.