Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
“Don’t get your meat wrench fully torqued,” Jigsaw warns. “Hope likes you in the same way most kind-hearted ladies like stray puppies is all he meant.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
“I think you remind her of Murphy.” Teller laughs. “He’s her favorite son.”
Jigsaw squints at him. “Nah, I think that’s you.”
I assume this is some weird MC brother inside joke but I like Murphy, so I’m not insulted by the comparison. “Well, if she’s willing to do it, I’d appreciate it.”
Teller picks up his phone and taps his thumbs over the screen. “I’ll talk to her and text you a list of what she needs you to bring.”
It’ll be a relief to get this off my list of things I have to do. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” He slides his chair away from the table and stands. “Thanks for dinner. We gotta hit the road.”
Jigsaw stares up at Teller with wide, sad eyes. “I wanted dessert.”
“I’ll bag up some chocolate chip cookies to go.” Remy slides out of the booth.
“He doesn’t need any cookies,” Teller grumbles, shaking his head.
“Shut your mouth.” Jigsaw stands and slaps Teller’s arm.
“They’re homemade!” Remy shouts.
Jigsaw grips the back of his chair and leans over it, getting way too close to my face. “Did he make them?”
I lift my shoulders but don’t back away. “Doubt it. Lynette probably baked them today.”
Jigsaw nods and releases the chair.
Still shaking his head, Teller walks over to the bar, pulls his wallet from his pocket, plucks a few bills out, and tucks them under the corner of the register.
Jigsaw follows his lead and adds a few dollars.
I pretend to see nothing.
Remy returns with two small white paper bags and hands them to the guys.
“Thanks.” Teller lifts his bag and nods at Remy, then me. “See you two Sunday.”
The way he says it sounds more like an order than an invitation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Griff
Sunday evening, Remy and I ride deep into the hills of Empire County to the Lost Kings MC clubhouse. If we hadn’t already been here before, I doubt we’d be able to find the place. As it is, we miss the unmarked turnoff and have to find somewhere on the narrow country road to turn our bikes around.
We stop at the tall iron gate and wait for someone to open it and let us through. We back our bikes into spots at the bottom of the long driveway and walk to the clubhouse—which looks more like a luxury log cabin.
“You ever heard of a motorcycle club with property like this?” I say to Remy in a low voice.
“Place used to be some sort of Buddhist yoga retreat center or something.”
I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Explains the big Buddha statue down there.”
“They bought it for back taxes or something.” He elbows me. “Like we bought The Castle.”
“This is in infinitely better shape.”
“Yeah, but we’re landowners too—that’s all I’m saying.”
I guess that’s true in the same way that Great Danes and toy poodles are both canines.
Bright security lights illuminate the entire area around the clubhouse. We follow the curved driveway to what I guess is technically the “front” of the building. It’s full of neatly parked motorcycles, SUVs, and lifted trucks. Two huge garages stand adjacent to the main clubhouse. Farther back, I glimpse what looks like another house and a playground to rival what the richest school districts might have. Deep woods stand across from the clubhouse but through the trees, I catch glimpses of lights.
“I think most of the officers have built houses for their families back there,” Remy whispers.
“So, definitely stay out of their woods.”
“If we want to live, yeah.”
The front door’s open. But there’s no music or smoke pouring out like there has been the few times we’ve been here for MC parties. Instead, it’s all loud, rumbling male voices, women’s laughter, and children’s high-pitched squeals.
“Family night, indeed,” Remy says, pulling the screen door open. The place is a huge, log-cabin sort of building. High ceilings, exposed beams. A large staircase to our left is lined with framed photos. A generous leather sectional takes up the entire back wall and corner. The room’s full of bikers and their families.
Murphy notices us stepping inside first. The burly lumberjack-looking VP of the club grins and opens his arms wide. “Welcome.”
Murphy’s greeting draws everyone’s attention to us. We face a lot of steely-eyed biker glares. Didn’t Teller mention we were invited?
MCs are known for all their strict protocols and any perceived slight can get your ass kicked—or worse. While I try to be mindful and respectful of their rules, Remy approaches these gatherings with a whatever the fuck attitude that’ll probably get us killed one day.
Rock, the president of this charter, approaches us first, hand outstretched. “Thanks for joining us.” He shakes Remy’s hand, then mine.
“Appreciate the invite, sir,” I answer.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Rock is fine.” He turns toward the large open living room. “I think you two know pretty much everyone here.”