Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“They can try. My knife is bigger.”
Dad laughs, and the sound is rich and deep, a little bit rusty too.
“It’s not about the size. It’s about being faster and more skilled than the other guy.” A lesson that’s been drilled into me enough that it’s practically a mantra.
“There’s nobody faster than me. Trust that. Talk soon, Dad.”
“Yep. Call your mother. Love you, son.”
As usual, Dad ends the call before I can say anything else, on the off chance I might say some emotional shit back to him, like, love you too, old man.
I shrug before paying for gas and grabbing enough snacks that I can drive straight through and arrive in Yuma before the sun goes down.
Nomads aren’t common in motorcycle clubs. Usually, they have a specific goal, expanding the MC’s territory, and that’s not what I do.
Not exactly.
Charlie isn’t the same kind of leader as Cross or any of the other bikers I’ve come across over the past few years on the road.
Charlie is interested in connections and favors, getting what the club needs in order to do business without increasing their risk. We are bikers and criminals in every sense of the word, but lately, that hasn’t been enough.
I need to be my own man. To stand on my own, however I can. To step away from the shadow of being ‘Lasso’s kid’ or ‘Dallas Junior’, and step into the light as Coop.
Just Coop.
Yuma is a smallish town with less than one hundred thousand people. Posters and shit about the town’s prison history is plastered on storefronts and billboards, reminding me that this is a town of criminals.
I’ll fit right in.
The Kings of Topaz clubhouse is an exact replica of an Old West saloon, complete with swinging doors and a sign proclaiming it Topaz Saloon. The place is dark and smoky, crowded with what looks like the after-work crowd.
A cute redhead with dimples saunters over to me and unleashes a sultry smile.
“Hiya, cutie. Shot of whiskey and an ice-cold beer?” she asks with a sexy wink.
I nod and flash a smile of my own. “I’m looking for Cannon. He around?”
The redhead motions for me to follow her toward the bar, and I do, my gaze tracking the swing of her hips with every step. She moves easily, like a dancer, before she sets a tall shot glass in front of me while she wipes down my beer bottle and pops the top.
“I’ll go get Cannon for ya.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
One brow arches in question, and I smile.
“Already your sweetheart? How’d I get so lucky?”
I shrug. “You must have been a very good girl this year.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “All right, Romeo. I’ll be back.” She turns away, and my words stop her.
“Not Romeo. Coop. Call me Coop.”
“Be back soon. Coop.”
Exactly what I like to hear. Obedience.
The sexy redhead’s hips swing in a slow R&B rhythm as she walks away, almost as if she feels my eyes on her.
Tonight, I’ll have my body on her. Guaranteed.
Eventually, she fades from view, and I turn my attention toward the whiskey first, then the beer before I turn to face the saloon.
Even in the dark, I can make out the old-timers playing cards at a table filled with empty beer bottles and glasses. The bikers at the end of the bar, plotting something. The happy hour tables filled with women in casual business wear, looking to drink a little too much and maybe get felt up in a dark alley before going home to their dissatisfying lives.
A few suits are hanging around, looking for a chance to shoot the shit with the happy hour crowd.
Same shit, different location.
“You Coop?”
I turn at the deep, slightly accented voice and flash a smile at the tall man with brown skin and a tribal tattoo above his right eyebrow.
“I am. You Cannon?”
“That’s me.” We shake hands like old friends. “President of Sons of Topaz. Thanks for coming man.”
“No worries.” I live to help other clubs maintain their territory and scare the fuck out of their enemies.
“Want a drink?”
I shake my head and reach behind me for the half-empty beer. “Cute redhead already took care of me. Thanks.”
Cannon nods, the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. I wait him out because I know it’s hard as fuck asking another man to help save what you built with your own hands.
“It’s the fucking Sanchez Brothers. They work for the Sinaloa Cartel, and they think that means they can do whatever the fuck they want. Including, steal my girls to traffic them and fuck with my drug shipments.”
Shit. “That’s rough, Cannon. I’m here to help.”
He snorts and shakes his head, the look of a man close to giving up, or worse, doing something stupid. “Yeah, thanks, but what can you do?”
I smile and finish my beer. “I have my ways.”