Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
No, the man had had it out for Travis for the past decade. He’d had it out for the True Outlaws Motorcycle Club, where Travis went by the handle Curly due to his long, curly hair. He also happened to be the MC’s president. Though the detective didn’t have a lick of proof, Curly knew deep in his bones that Lane played a significant role in framing him.
Over his wife’s shoulder, Detective Lane smiled a smug, victorious grin. Travis swallowed down his hatred for the bastard who’d ruined his life. Shackled and in a courtroom, he may not be in a position to exact revenge, but he’d get it. No one fucked with the True Outlaws and lived to talk about it. The arrest of the club’s president for a gruesome crime he damn well didn’t commit wasn’t only an attack on Travis. It was an attack on the entire club. If he knew his club, and he sure as fuck did, the whole police station would go up in flames in a matter of hours.
Bang, bang, bang.
“There will be order in my courtroom, or I will have each of you held in contempt of court,” the judge shouted as she glared over Travis’s shoulder, no doubt at the members of his club still railing against the verdict.
“Get the prisoner out of here.” The judge waved to the armed guards hovering only a few feet away. That dismissive wave irked him more than the damn verdict. Fancy judge treating him as though he were nothing more than an irritating gnat in her courtroom.
A guard hauled him to his feet by his upper arm with as little care as possible. Travis ground his molars together. He didn’t much like being touched, something that would only intensify behind bars, and the instinctive urge to fight whoever put their hands on him flared to life. He’d had decades of resisting those urges and managed to keep from swinging his cuffed hands into the guard’s fat face.
“Let’s go, Curly-q,” the guard said with laughter in his tone. As security tugged Travis out of the room, he focused on his furious brothers. The violence-promising scowl on his VP’s face let him know the club would be in good hands during his absence. His VP, Mutt, nodded once, which Travis returned. Then he shifted his gaze to his former sergeant-at-arms, Prick, and like a sucker punch to the gut, his air whooshed out in a painful exhale.
Prick wore the same self-satisfied smirk as Detective Lane. As though Travis’s conviction was a personal victory.
And then Travis understood. He’d figured out exactly how the police had framed him. Prick had been banging some bitch on the police force for the past year. She was a young cop with a penchant for being fucked hard by biker cock. In exchange, she passed along info, which had kept their club one step ahead of the cop’s bullshit for quite a while.
But then Prick had gone and stuck his dick in Travis’s ol’ lady as well.
That’s right. He’d fucked his president’s ol’ lady. Travis and Jana hadn’t been the stuff of fairytales, but he’d loved her in his way. More importantly, he’d trusted her with his heart and his club’s livelihood. She’d shattered that trust, as did Prick.
It had fucked with his head more than he’d been willing to admit. More than he could think about right then.
After kicking his ol’ lady to the curb, Travis had stripped Prick of his SAE title, and they’d been on the outs ever since. Prick hadn’t been silent about his newly developed hatred of Travis. His attitude had become so toxic for the club, Mutt recently suggested meeting to vote on booting out him from the club altogether.
But it appeared Prick had been quicker to draw blood.The vengeful bastard had helped the cops frame him. The betrayal cut deep into Travis’s flesh.
And then it came. The reaction he’d expected when the jury declared him guilty. White-hot rage flashed through him, taking his anger nuclear. Self-restraint flew out the window. The only two people who existed in the courtroom were him and the soon-to-be lifeless Prick. “You motherfucker,” he shouted as he sprung forward, slipping out of the guard’s grasp.
“Oh, shit.” The guard barked as he dove for Travis, regaining his hold with ease. “What the fuck, Curly?”
“You’re dead!” Travis screamed as he wrenched his body in all directions, trying to shake the guard loose again.
“A little help here. He’s lost his shit.” Another guard rushed over, and together they dragged him backward by his arms toward the exit.
“Fucking dead, you hear me!” Travis screamed.
Prick turned until his gaze met Travis’s. He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers in a cheerful wave.
“Fuck you!” Travis shouted as he thrashed against the guard’s hold. He’d have bruises from their iron grip and the metal abrading his ankles and wrists, but he didn’t give a single fuck. All he wanted was Prick’s blood coating the courtroom floor.