Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
I won’t.
CHAPTER 8
IT’S ALL FUN AND GAMES…
I wake in a puddle of sweat, my lungs seizing. I squeeze my fist into the bedsheet. Images of death, pain, and suffering linger from the nightmare that plays on repeat every damn night. My phone buzzes on the dresser, and I welcome the distraction. I will the function to return to my legs and I make my way over to it.
I smile as I read the message. Thanks, Tim.
Unknown: Want to come and keep me company at a charity thing this Saturday? It’s Kitty btw.
I type out a reply and add her name to my contacts.
Me: Erm…
Kitty: It will be shit, but we can go to the clubhouse after and get drunk.
Grinning, I type back.
Me: Should have led with that.
Tim is outside, honking his horn a few hours later. “I could have driven myself,” I tell him, rushing to pull a sweater on.
“Kitty said you’ll be too drunk to drive later.” He shrugs.
I make sure I have everything I need in my purse and turn to him. “Well, thank you.”
“You’re the only person who thanks me. You know that?” There’s no pity in his tone, just surprise. It’s sad.
“Fuck everyone else. They’ll be up your ass once you have your patch.” I want to tell him not to let his patch define him, but that’s exactly what it does. Your patch is everything. It’s your brotherhood, your club. It’s all that matters. A sense of belonging can be everything when you have nothing else.
We sit in a comfortable silence until we arrive at our destination, driving up a gravel path and over a field. There’s a makeshift parking lot with a mix of cars and bikes.
“Kitty is by the food truck.” Tim jabs a finger toward said food truck parked at the end of the lot.
“Thanks again for the ride. Are you sticking around?”
“Yeah, we all have to,” he grunts, unimpressed.
Creepy carnival music whistles through the air. The overly sweet scent of sugar carries on the slight breeze. I creep up to Kitty, who is paying for a stick covered in cotton candy, and say, “Charity, really?” I look around at the carnival rides and sea of bikers milling with the town folk. Kids run around with balloons, laughing. Chatter buzzes. It’s like I stumbled into the pages of a picture book with dirty boots on.
She waves an exaggerated hand down her front. “Do I not look like the type?” She has on black leather pants and a ripped tee showing more boob than appropriate with F*CK THIS SHIT splashed across it. Her blue hair matches the blue eyeshadow and eyeliner drawn into wings at each corner of her eyes.
“No. Fuck no, you don’t,” I say, unconvinced. Screams of delight pierce the sky as kids spin in circles on swings that lift into the air. My heart lights up with Kitty’s laughter.
“That’s fair.” She shoves a handful of cotton candy into her mouth. Clouds of pink fluff stick to her cheek and lips. “Our club puts on a few events a year as a way to give back.”
“You mean to stop them bitching about the town being run by bikers?” I correct her. Our club does the same thing, only it’s not quite to this scale and the Devils never attend the event.
“Exactly.” Kitty beams. “They do have a beer tent, though. Silver lining.” She drags me toward a giant white tent loaded with kegs and red cups and hands me a drink.
“Fancy.” I waggle my brows.
“It just needs to get you drunk, Princess. Don’t be a snob.” We clank cups, sloshing beer everywhere, then down the contents. Throwing her cup in the trashcan, she bellows, “Another!” like she’s in a Thor movie.
The sun takes its time burning off the clouds, making being outside bearable. It’s hard to think men capable of putting on carnivals for kids can also be capable of doing what was done to Harley. Facades. That’s all this is. A giant facade.
“Kit, you want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?” a guy asks, winking over at us, his cut sporting a member patch.
“We’re not in the fucking Notebook, Percy. Fuck off.”
I spit out the mouthful of beer I just chugged back. “What’s the notebook?” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes at her.
My heart skips seeing Callan coming up behind him flanked by the blond guy who couldn’t take his attention from Kitty last night. His patch reads Cutter, Sgt at Arms. He’s their Bear.
“You’re well out of your depth. Now, fuck off before I make you,” Cutter mutters to Percy. He scampers off without looking back. I prefer Bear.
“When are you going to stop breaking hearts?” Callan throws his arm around Kitty’s shoulder, not once looking in my direction. My gut knots.
“Don’t gaslight me. It’s not my fault I have a pussy and your brothers sniff it out at any given opportunity, expecting me to fall on their dicks like it’s their given right.” Cutter stiffens, brow crashing.