Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“Come on in, Frost,” Curly said, seeming to sense Frost was at the door seeing as he never lifted his head or glanced away from his phone. “Have a seat.”
As he dropped down, a bolt of nerves shot through his stomach. Was this about Rachel? Was he about to get his head ripped off?
“First off, thanks for looking out for Rachel. I’d hoped to spend a little more time with her tonight, but an issue cropped up. Appreciate you looking out for her.”
Well, shit. “Of course. No problem.”
It wasn’t a problem to devour her either, Prez.
Thankfully, his brain worked enough to keep that confession behind sealed lips.
“All right.” Curly leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath. “Got a situation I’d like you to help with if you’re up for it.”
Frost nodded. As if he’d say no to a request from his president, especially when he already had guilt scratching at his conscience for sucking face with the man’s sister. “Anything.”
“Got word that there is a group of bikers, four I think, drinking at Bone Claw.”
It was a local bar frequented by bikers and a generally rough crowd.
“The owner gave me a call. Said they’re wearing colors.”
Frost grunted. The bar was squarely in Handlers’ territory, which according to one-percenter culture, meant they were the only bikers allowed to display club insignia. At least not without the blessing of the club whose territory they tread on.
“You worried?” Frost asked.
“Eh, not sure yet.” Curly pushed a button on the side of his phone and looked Frost in the eye. “I’d like you to ride over there and check it out. Make your presence known. Maybe they’re just dumb fucks who didn’t realize they stumbled onto our turf.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And if they’re not?”
“Then you let them know where they are.” The seriousness was implied.
“Hmm…” Frost frowned. “Why me? Shouldn’t you be talking to Spec?” As club enforcer, this seemed right up Spec’s alley. In fact, he’d assumed Spec would fight him for the opportunity to flex some muscle. It’d been a hot minute since the club had any altercations. The bloodthirsty guy had to be climbing the walls.
“I’m not looking for you to go in and start busting skulls, and if I send Spec…”
They both laughed. “Yeah, I got it.”
“I just want them to know they’re on our turf, and they better not cause any shit. I’d also like to know where they’re staying and for how long, if that’s possible without starting shit.”
“You got it, Prez.” Frost stood. “Call you in a bit.”
“Hey, prospect,” Curly called as Frost reached the door.
“Yeah?” He turned.
“Any whiff of trouble you call for backup, you hear?”
He nodded.
“Don’t be a fucking hero. Can’t prospect if you’re six feet under.”
Can’t see where things go with Rachel either.
He blinked. Where the hell had that thought come from? Never, not once in his life, had a woman factored into his decision-making. The past few years had been a grueling struggle to simply survive. Relationships were the furthest thing from his mind. And before that? Shit, he’d been a young idiot happy to get his dick wet and move on.
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
After one last nod, Frost was on his way.
The ride to the bar took about ten minutes and felt amazing. The temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties, which was chilly enough to make the ride exhilarating but not cold enough to hurt. Frost loved December in Florida.
He parked his bike and strode into the bar like he owned the place. He might not be patched yet, but he still had the Handlers’ logo on his cut, so he owned the turf alongside the men he hoped to call brother.
The second he stepped into the bar, tension smacked him in the face.
Shit.
Something wasn’t right.
All eyes turned to him, but the ones he latched onto were those of the stressed-out bartender silently begging for help. The bar lined the left wall of the room which was longer than it was wide. A handful of patrons, maybe ten maximum, sat in various booths along the right wall. Then there at the bar sat three guys in cuts boasting their club, Devil Riders, from fucking Arkansas.
A fourth biker sat at a booth opposite two twenty-somethings who looked ready to bolt but were afraid to leave and be followed by the man.
Fucking great. It would have been helpful if the owner told Curly the out-of-towners were not only huge but mean-as-fuck looking. With eyes on him, he couldn’t whip out his phone and call Spec for backup. Maybe he’d get lucky enough to shoot off a text, but even that was risky. Most likely, one of these guys would start some shit.
So he had to play it cool.
“Hey, Brody,” he called to the bartender. He thought it was the guy’s name but could have been mistaken.