Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
He leads the way through the common room, and it’s the first time I’ve been in a place like this since I was a kid, but even back then it was only once in a while, and never when everyone was around. Which I’m suddenly really grateful for. It’s like coming into a combined night club, bar, and strip club, all at once, but without all the pesky rules. Like a frat house that grew up on the wrong side of the tracks.
Loud guitar rock lays down a layer of sound over a scene of rough, powerful men in jeans and leather hanging out and drinking. They look up from their seats at the stools in front of the bar, or lounging in the couches in front of a gigantic TV at the far end. Along one side, a few play cards at diner-style booths. In the middle is a pool table, and someone breaks, the sudden crack so close to a gunshot that it nearly sends me to the floor in panic.
Dad reacts quickly, putting his arm around me. “It’s fine, you’re safe.”
I wish I could believe either of those, but I take a deep breath and nod.
The walls are black, but covered in pictures, posters and old motorcycle memorabilia. On the far wall is the Screaming Eagles MC logo, painted in gold and silver with the good old Stars and Stripes on each side. The colors are bright and fresh like it was just recently done.
Weaving sinuously and confidently between the guys are the club sluts, wearing the usual booty shorts, miniskirts and barely enough to keep from getting written up for public indecency. If they’re already with someone, they press into their guys like cats seeking attention, and if not, they’re definitely on the prowl. In the back, at least a couple of them are even less dressed and busy with—oh. I quickly look away.
Dad glances to where I was looking, and rushes me past and towards stairs up to the second floor.
A couple of the girls shoot me curious glances, like they’re sizing up competition. The idea of them snuggling up to Alpha, Ripper and Blade makes me feel way more possessive than I have any right to be.
When I was just a kid, I saw the club sluts a lot, but never like this. Mostly, they treated me nice, and I liked them. They wore pretty makeup, and sometimes they gave me candy, or played with me. A couple of the friendlier ones would babysit while Mom was out doing errands and Dad was busy with club business. I didn’t really understand their place, and it’s funny how perspective changes as you get older.
In theory I don’t judge—if it works for them, it’s none of my business, right? But if I come out and find a girl sticking her tits in Ripper’s face, I’ll… I don’t know, but it won’t be pretty.
Dad grunts. “It’s busier than usual right now. Everyone’s been on edge since we got word about your shop.”
I nod.
Dad’s quarters are an apartment on the second floor. At the Pit Vipers, he had a room in the compound, but our house was a few minutes away. It occurs to me that I don’t even know if he has one now. It’s obvious this is where he spends most of his time, so maybe this is it. When he closes the door, the noise from downstairs drops to almost nothing.
Dad pops the fridge to reach for a beer, then changes his mind and starts the coffee maker instead. He gestures awkwardly at the fridge. “Help yourself, or wait for coffee.”
I grab a soda and curl my legs up underneath me on the big couch in his living room. Dad pulls up one of the chairs to the other side of the coffee table. We stare at each other like strangers who aren’t sure what to say. He’s my father, but this life he’s built for himself? I’ve never been a part of it. Neither of us quite know what to do with the other.
“I have the tape,” I offer finally.
He lets out a sigh and nods. “Good. And you’re okay? Nobody hurt you?”
“I don’t really know how to answer that,” I say honestly. “My life is a disaster, but if you mean did anyone shoot or assault me, no. Nothing that time and a shitload of therapy won’t help.”
Dad snorts, then runs his hands over his face and I see how tired he is. “I’m really fucking sorry, baby.”
“I watched the tape.”
However tired he looked a second ago, my words age him another ten years. He looks like he just bit into a lemon, but he leans back in the chair and nods. “Ask your questions.”
“I just want you to make it make sense. Explain how my father isn’t a murderer. You know what happened to us. Were you ever any better? Are you the reason we were attacked in the first place?” The words burn like acid as they come out, and I’m glad, because I need them to hurt so I don’t cry.