Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Over the years, he grew to feel entitled.
He thought he had a say in what we did or didn’t do, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. He learned just how wrong a few months ago when his girl was killed by a local gang.
They hadn’t just killed her.
They’d done a real number on her, and that was putting it mildly. Beckett was all fucked up about it. He was angry and hungry for revenge, and he expected Preacher to feel the same. He wanted the gang taken care of—even if it meant declaring war.
Preacher refused.
Not because he was cold-hearted.
He knew it was a horrible thing that they did to Amy, but at the end of the day, they’d only been dating for a couple of months. She wasn’t an ol’ lady, and the club had no real ties to her. Preacher tried explaining that to his distraught son, but the kid’s emotions had gotten the best of him, and he couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
Fearing he might do something he’d regret, Preacher sent him to hang with the Washington chapter for a couple of months. Maverick and the boys took him under their wing, and every time we checked in with them, they seemed to think Beckett was doing better. Preacher wanted him home for the holidays, so I agreed to go get him.
When I arrived, it was late, and Beckett had already crashed for the night.
I had a little fun with the cute hang around and crashed as well.
I woke up the following day much later than I had planned.
The long drive and my night with the pretty young lady had taken their toll, and I slept until almost noon. I got up, took a quick shower, and as soon as I was dressed, I went to track Beckett down. I’d barely started down the hall when I spotted Stitch.
He’d been the chapter’s enforcer for as long as I’d known him, and while he had a hell of a replacement, it was strange to find that he had stepped down and was now just another brother. He was about to step out the back door, so I called out, “Yo, Stitch. You seen Beckett?”
“The boys aren’t working today, so they partied a bit last night. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably still in his room.” He motioned his head down the hall. “Third door on your right.”
“Appreciate it.”
He nodded, then continued out the door. Once he was gone, I made my way down to Beckett’s room and knocked on the door. Seconds later, I heard, “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I wasn’t in the mood to be kept waiting, so I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was a fucking mess. There were bags at the door, empty bottles strewn around the room, and dirty towels tossed in the corner. I glanced over to the bed and immediately spotted Beckett’s hair peeking out from the tangled mess of blankets. I tossed them back as I yelled, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”
“Hmmm,” he groaned with a slight stretch.
“Beck!” My tone was gruff and carried a hint of impatience as I pushed, “Get your ass up! It’s fucking noon.”
“Grim?” He cracked one eye open. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“I made it hear early. Now, get up.”
His voice was laced with irritation as Beckett whined, "Ah, man... What’s the fucking rush?”
“I’ve got something you’re gonna wanna see.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe as I watched him start to stir. I liked Beckett. He could be a lot at times, but he was a good kid. I was looking forward to showing him what I’d brought, so I pushed, “Now, stop fucking around and get up!”
With a sigh, Beckett finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed, facing me with a scowl. “Okay, what is it?”
“You’ll see.”
Without any further argument, he got up and put on his clothes. Once he was ready, I led him out of his room and down the hall. When we started outside, he asked, “Where the hell are we going?”
I didn’t answer. I just kept moving forward, and he followed. It wasn’t long before we’d made our way out to Wrath’s workroom. Beckett followed me over to the two-way glass, and his eyes grew wide when he spotted the man in the center of the room. His hands were bound above his head, and it was difficult to see his face. Confused, Beckett asked, “Who the hell is that?”
“Deshawn Michaels.” Before he could ask, I explained, “He’s one of ‘em.”
“Seriously?” His eyes grew wide. “He’s one of the guys who raped and killed Amy?”
“I wish I could’ve brought them all, but he’ll have to do.”
“What are we supposed to do with him?”
“That’s up to you.” I motioned my head to the door. “He’s all yours.”