Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Nah, I don’t want to get anyone castrated. I talked to him, though. Does that count for something? Meet the parameters of the dare?”
Cass blows out steam and shakes her head, but she grins at me anyway. “I guess it does. He was super hot, and you talked to him. Said actual words. I’m proud of you.”
I wish I could say it ended there because that would have been easier, especially where a certain test was concerned, but of course, we all know it didn’t.
No, of course it did not. It. Absolutely. Did. Not.
And forevermore will our lives be changed. (Cue ominous music in the form of dun, dun, dunnnnnn dunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn now.)
CHAPTER 3
Ransom
One life lesson learned the hard way? No matter how much I thought I could drink, I could never hold up or keep up with any of the guys who are part of the bike club that right now is the entire focus of my existence. My mission, my operation, my life study.
When they ambled into the club after the last call, as the place was shutting down—the civilian clientele on their way out, the biker guys on their way in—I knew my regular shift had just extended. While some of the other guys might have wanted to go home to their nice warm beds, maybe even their girlfriends or a cuddly cat or a warm, farty dog to grace their feet, I was eager to stay past my regular three in the morning and serve drinks. Off the clock. Unpaid, of course. It was part of the job. If a bunch of bikers came into their own club and wanted drinks, you bloody well served them, and you kept your mouth shut about that charitable duty unless you wanted to lose your job. It wasn’t a regular occurrence or anything. Bikers normally drank and partied at their own clubhouse.
I viewed it as the perfect opportunity to thread myself into their lives without them ever expecting that I’d been waiting and working here for the past six months just to try and glean the smallest bit of information. I knew drunk men usually talked, so I kept everyone happy and pliant. Unfortunately, for bikers, they seemed to be a group of six fairly decent guys, and they weren’t happy to be served drinks if I wasn’t drinking with them, having a good time, and laughing and talking about normal life shit, like sports and women and whatnot.
Not criminal activities.
Not drugs or moving women or going to war with rival gangs.
Nope. They drank from three until ten, yet not a single word about any of their club activities.
All I got from the night was a wicked hangover when I woke up this morning. Or should I say evening. When my leaden eyes popped open, letting in a sliver of light into my hammer-beaten brain inside my rattling skull, my phone said it was seven. I didn’t have to be back at work tonight since last night was Saturday. The club doesn’t do much business until their industry nights on Wednesdays and Thursdays, then the regular Friday and Saturday grind. They are open for nice, normal meals and other functions, but they have a different bartender who works days and earlier nights for that.
My first thought, as I hastily open a bottle of Ibuprofen and palm four regular strength pills, is that I hope I don’t yak these up as soon as they go down. My stomach is doing the whole rocky battleground thing, and right now, making things stay put is on the losing side.
I swallow the pills with a slug of orange juice, thick with pulp. It’s cold, and the vitamin C it’s packing is probably a good thing for my liver at the moment.
I’d swear that I’d never drink a thing again, but I know the next time those guys drop in, I’m going to have to let them drink me under the table again just to hope they say something, anything, that will help me along in this whole scheme of ours—a scheme that I’m rapidly starting to give up hope on. But then, I don’t have the patience Granny has.
You know what I also don’t have? Tolerance for loud, shrill, piercing noises, at least not at the moment. I realized, after a span of time and a low moan from my throat, that the wretched sound was the doorbell.
Probably my Granny or one of my brothers coming to give me hell about nothing or coming to check in to see if I have information, which I don’t. Or maybe they’re coming just to bust my balls in a good way and shoot the shit, none of which I’m in the mood for at the moment, but I walk toward the door anyway, even if it’s just so I can throw it open and tell my brothers to leave or politely ask Granny to come when I’m not so hung the fuck over.