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)
“What the fuck do you care? Tell me you’re not sweet on him, Kitty. For fuck’s sake. I’m not dealing with you shacking up with my brothers in my club,” Callan grumbles, scratching at his chin. Cutter is eyeballing her like he can project his thoughts directly into her skull.
“He’s not a brother yet.” She offers Callan a middle finger. “And what the hell did you think was going to happen? I was raised by a biker, around bikers, in a biker club. Of course, I’m going to end up with one.” She scoffs. I edge forward aware they haven’t noticed me yet.
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Pulling a knife from a hilt on his boot, he stabs it into the table. Cutter flinches, his eyes focusing on the knife standing in blatant warning.
Kitty flings her arms up. “Guess what? You don’t have anything to do with it. It’s my life, my pussy, my choice—so shut the fuck up, and back off.” Callan’s eyes finally lift to find mine, and he exhales a heavy breath.
Kitty is a badass bitch, and I stand with her on this one. “I’m going to get a drink.” I point toward the bar and slink away, knowing Callan will follow, giving Kitty time with Cutter, who is peeling the label from his bottle of beer as if it offended him. “Where is everyone?” I ask Ray. He dries and hangs a glass.
“We closed an hour ago, gorgeous. The boys sometimes stay for some peace.” He winks, uncorking a bottle of red and pouring me a glass. “On the house.” It’s funny hearing him call a man of Callan’s stature a boy.
Callan is by my side within the next second. “My sister drives me crazy. How are you feeling? Kit said you’ve been sick.”
“I’m fine, and your sister is strong-willed and knows her own mind—it’s a good thing. Know what battles to pick,” I tell him, trying to find something to concentrate on so I don’t fall victim to his eyes, smile, or smirk dammit.
“Have you been avoiding me?” His scent washes over me as he draws closer. I want to bottle it and soak my pillows with it.
“No.” I cover my lie with the wine glass, taking a gulp.
“Liar.” He smirks, tugging on a strand of my hair. “You want to come for a ride?” My stomach somersaults. A prickle of heat zaps up my spine. His thumb brushes against my jawline, and goosebumps scatter along my skin. It’s a big fucking deal to be offered a ride on a club member’s bike.
“Callan, bring us drinks,” Kitty barks. His jaw tightens, irritation flashing in his eyes.
“Sisters,” he groans.
The ever-present ache throbs in my chest. His brow pinches, watching me. He grips my upper arm, sensing the pain emanating from me. My lips part as tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”
Fuck, saying that rips a piece of my heart out.
Callan’s face hardens, his attention swaying from me to someone coming through the door. Gripping my arm tighter, he shoves me toward Kitty. She grabs me and pulls me into the booth as Cutter jumps to his feet. My heart roars in my ears, adrenaline spiking, making my hands shake.
“Nobody fucking move,” a guy wearing a balaclava shouts, gripping a sawed-off shotgun. There’s another guy behind him, dressed all in black, holding a pistol out toward Cutter.
“Wrong establishment. I suggest you leave.” Callan stands there, casual as shit, his large frame intimidating. His glare alone is enough to make anyone piss their pants.
“Shut the fuck up and back off.” The guy in front waves around his shotgun, his movements jerky. “You,” he barks to Ray, “empty the cash register and show us where you keep the safe.” The other guy nervously surveys the room with wide eyes.
“I don’t have a safe.” Ray backs away, his hands up in surrender.
“Bullshit!” the guy snarls, jerking the shotgun forward.
“Winslow, they’re Kings of Sin. Let’s get out of here, man. It was supposed to be empty,” the guy with the pistol says with a rattle in his voice as he paces.
“Why’d you use my name? And fuck them. I ain’t leaving without the money.”
Ray lowers himself, flitting his gaze to Callan.
“Listen to your friend, Winslow,” Callan warns, his eyes tracking the guy’s every movement.
“Don’t say my fucking name,” he thunders through the still space. There’s no music, no movement, just breathing and malice.
The guy with the pistol stills while watching the interaction nervously. He begins lowering his weapon as his friend takes a step toward Callan, his shotgun pointed at Callan’s chest.
“I will kill you,” he warns, his finger jittery as it hovers over the trigger. Darkness creeps into my vision. Bees swarm inside my head. Would I care if Callan dies? Isn’t that what I want in the long run—for all of them to pay the price for Harley? A tsunami of sadness swarms over me at the thought of him dying. I almost choke on it.