Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
It looks older. And a lot simpler.
So that’s the one. With my sleeves, I wipe the tears from my face—then toss away the dog tag engraved with Stone’s number. I don’t need to contact him again. He’s not the good man I believed he was. So I’m not apologizing for shit. And as for what I’ve stolen…
I’m done with paying him back.
27
Stone
Unlike the executive board meetings, there’s no alcohol allowed at the monthly club meetings. Afterwards, yeah. Pretty traditional to get trashed. And that’s all I’m looking forward to while sitting and listening to Old Timer give a rundown of the club’s finances. Just filling up this giant fucking hole with something else. Can’t be my girl. Can’t be any other woman. I don’t even know if I give a fuck about Papa anymore.
There’s just nothing left. Except getting real drunk. Drunk enough that having nothing won’t hurt so bad.
“What the fuck you doing, prospect?”
Gunner’s rifle crack of a question cuts through the fog of misery in my head. Bottlecap’s standing at the back of the room. Where he shouldn’t be. Prospects aren’t allowed to sit in on club meetings. Instead they were all assigned to security. Now fifty patchholders are staring him down.
The boy’s looking real uneasy but lifts his hands, like there ain’t no help for it. “Thought Blowback should know that Stone’s girl is stealing his ride.”
Holy fucking hell. I surge to my feet and start for the exit but no one else moves a muscle, except for fifty heads swiveling toward where Saxon is standing up front. The prez pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a headache.
“All right,” he says. “Ten minute break.”
Then I’m fighting my way through all the assholes trying to get to the door. Even at the front of the pack, I’m too damn late. The sound of an engine roaring to life greets me as I tear outside. Christ, she’s all the way across the lot. Looking so fucking tiny on Blowback’s vintage Sportster. My heart’s up in my throat when she throttles it too high before popping into gear. The front tire rears up at the same time the back tire peels out. For a second it looks as if she’ll eat asphalt right there, and I don’t fucking breathe again until both wheels are down and the bike stops fishtailing.
Then she’s nothing but a taillight heading down the driveway. A bunch of fuckers behind me break into cheers, laughing it up. Because, hell. It ain’t their ride. It ain’t their girl. And that was a sweet display of gumption and a near-miss that any biker could appreciate.
“She wasn’t wearing a helmet,” Bull says beside me, frowning after her. “It’s illegal in this state to be riding around on a stolen bike without one.”
Maybe I’ll laugh at that when I catch up to her—and if her fool skull’s not cracked open. She’s not going too fast yet, though. I can hear the engine whining hard in first gear before she manages to punch it into second.
Heading for my ride, I shout to Bottlecap, “Is that gate closed?”
It is. An answer that might have eased the tightness around my chest if I were more certain that she knew how to use the brakes better than she did a clutch.
Ain’t no fishtailing here. I pull out smooth and fast, with Gunner falling in right behind me. I hear a few more engines fire up but all my focus is fixed ahead. I’m real familiar with this stretch. She isn’t, and it’s dark, and there’s a million fucking deer just waiting to slam into her.
My headlight catches a bike lying on its side up ahead. Right in front of the gate. My chest hollows out until I realize that she isn’t on the ground with it. Must have slowed down and bailed.
And climbed over. She’s just a shadow racing ahead. I’m not waiting for the prospects in the security room to pull their heads out of their asses. I skid to a stop, leave my bike on the kickstand, and haul ass over the gate.
Then it’s just a foot race. She’s quick and had a small head start, but I’ve got longer legs and more staying power. My boots are also loud as fuck. As I start closing in, she looks behind and screams out a hysterical denial, putting on a burst of speed—while that sound she made nearly trips me over my feet.
Like she was really, really afraid. Of me. Though she never has been before. Not in all this time.
But she is. As soon as I catch up, get my hands on her, she starts screaming. And fighting. Really fucking fighting. Not sexy fighting. But desperately, crying and kicking at me, making me snag her wrists so she stops scratching and then pinning her to the ground when she goes for my balls. And she still keeps fighting, keeps sobbing.