Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I finished showering, carefully washing around the one-day-old stitches on my thigh, and slipped on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and black Converse. Then I strode through the yawning space of my sanctuary, the glow of the indirect lighting leading the way to the kitchen area.
The usual chill brushed my skin as I walked the length of the functional, uninviting space. Red brick deadened the walls. Steel beams reinforced the cathedral ceiling. When I’d converted the hundred-year-old church into livable space, I’d left it as one open room, adding only a bed, a couch, kitchen counters and appliances in the corner, and an enclosed bathroom.
I designed it to be spacious enough to hold all sixteen of my motorcycles, if I ever had a need to move them from the basement.
The simple lines and hard surfaces conformed to an industrial aesthetic that said, Don’t sit down. Don’t get comfortable. There’s work to do. But the absence of windows and neighbors was why I chose this structure. Privacy was, in my case, freedom.
Horizontal oak wall panels surrounded the kitchen cabinets. A cosmetic facade. I reached above the refrigerator and punched a button. The panels beside the fridge rolled up like a garage door, revealing the elevator shaft hidden behind it.
I stepped into the lift, tapped the code in the keypad, and descended below ground.
The lift bounced to a stop. As the steel doors opened, the screams of an overworked engine slammed into my chest, the clamor reverberating off the walls of the confined space.
“Benny?” I shouted over the racket and weaved around tables and waist-high piles of junk. Circuit boards, flickering computer monitors, miscellaneous motorcycle parts, and greasy tools cluttered the gymnasium-sized basement. “Benny!”
Where the hell was my scatter-brained engineer? I passed Benny’s gaming area, a gaudy purple couch, and six widescreen TVs on the wall, but no Benny.
The rumble of the motor blasted from the enclosed garage at the far end. Didn’t mean Benny was in there, and I really didn’t want to make the damned walk to find out, the stitches in my leg pulling with every step. But I refused to limp. Refused to show a hint of weakness, even in the privacy of my home.
Heading that way, I grabbed my helmet from the center workbench, the one I always wore during races. As I turned, the toe of my Chucks kicked a— What the hell? Was that a fucking grenade?
I eyed it warily as it skittered over the floor, my heart grinding to a stop. Before the bouncing green shell collided with the wall, I sprinted into the three-bay garage, slammed the steel door behind me, and waited for the world to detonate.
The explosion didn’t come. Not that I would've heard it over the pealing motor enclosed in the room with me. The roar was so goddamned loud it rattled my teeth and stabbed my brain. Good thing the garage was a room within a room, two-stories below ground, constructed with hi-tech soundproofing.
With a finger plugged in one ear and the helmet dangling from the other, I zigzagged through the rows of motorcycles and approached the rear of the revving bike.
The MTT Turbine Streetfighter was a new prototype, one I hadn’t raced yet. Suspended a foot above the floor on a mechanically swaying stand, the tires spun freely and the frame swung side-to-side as if simulating turns. The engine grumbled at peak torque thanks to Benny’s hand on the grip, holding the gas open.
My nostrils burned, and my eyes watered from the fumes. Surely the ventilation system was working?
Benny stood on the bike, bent at the waist, balancing as I had done in the last race, but perhaps with a bit more grace. Her brown creeper boots angled in a pigeon-toed pose on the seat. Sheathed in tight army-green pants, her skinny bird legs were capped with yellow plastic knee guards.
She rocked with the tilt of the frame, hands on the grips and ass in the air. A gun holster fastened around her thigh. Frowning, I leaned down for a closer look.
I blew out a breath. Just a toy pistol, thank Christ. I never knew what to expect. Like the grenade, I might’ve overreacted, but there had been too many explosive, near-death accidents over the years. What I did know was Benny with a loaded firearm would be a face-palm of apocalyptic proportions.
My gaze fell away from the back of her thighs. Wait, were those—? I glanced back and angled my head. Yeah, those were ruffles on the ass of her pants.
I walked around to the front of the bike, scrutinizing the leather jacket I’d never seen before. Clearly tailored to fit me, it draped her small shoulders.
Another prototype engulfed her head—the helmet she’d been tinkering with for several weeks. A rainbow of wires snaked from it, connecting to square patches along the sleeves of the jacket.