Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Oh, okay. Why?” The newcomer asks, her curiosity evident.
“We’re friends, and I realized we never got around to the small detail of his real name. It’s necessary for the visitor’s list,” I explain, somewhat embarrassed. I’ve been dwelling on this for days, and it suddenly hit me that no one ever refers to Tank by his real name. “Can you help?” I wonder if they might be in the dark about his real name, too.
Both women eye me skeptically, as though I’m some crazed groupie, which strikes me as odd considering Tank is in jail, not on a tour bus. The woman in the black pants offers a sympathetic smile, but it’s clear she won’t provide the information I need.
The pregnant woman folds her arms, wearing a haughty sneer on her face. “If he didn’t give you his name, then he probably didn’t want you to have it. It means you must not be good friends at all.”
It’s a valid point, I admit to myself, but her bitchy attitude feels undeserved. The urge to respond with some snarky comment hovers on the tip of my tongue, but it won’t get me any closer to the information I want, so I keep the snark to myself.
I glare at both women, and with a curt nod, I shift my car into reverse and pull out of the parking lot without saying another word.
The urge to cry is so strong it damn near overwhelms me on the drive home, but I refuse to let some territorial biker bitches bring me to tears. I’m stronger than that.
The pregnant bitchy woman might have a point. And her pregnancy hormones might be the reason for her attitude. Not that that’s an excuse, because it isn’t.
Tank had every opportunity to tell me his real name, and he didn’t, so maybe this wasn’t anything more than two consenting adults scratching an itch and nothing more.
That’s a depressing thought, and I mull it over for a few miles, alone and lost in my thoughts on the freeway. Am I really so wrong about Tank?
The idea that everything I’m feeling—or was feeling—for Tank is just my mind playing tricks on me makes me sad. It’s heartbreaking, really.
I’m drifting in my thoughts when I snap back to reality.
A quick look in the rearview mirror makes my blood run cold. A car is barreling up behind me, its brights blinding me. I’m not moving fast enough to get away.
I flick my blinker and change lanes, hoping to let it pass. But to my horror, it follows me over. My heart pounds wildly. What’s going on?
I switch back to the slow lane. The car mirrors me again. Panic rises in my throat.
The car pulls up dangerously close. I can’t even see its headlights anymore. “What the hell?” I yell, slowing up on the gas so they can pass me.
But the car keeps pace, right on my bumper. I have no clue who’s driving or what they want, but I’m freaking the fuck out. I push the pedal down, accelerating to dangerous speeds. Still, the car stays glued behind me.
I blow past my exit, too scared to get off anywhere near home. This creep could find out where I live. No way. I drive like a maniac, eyes glued to the road, my thoughts racing wildly.
Is this about Tank and the Reckless Souls? An angry ex-boyfriend? Just road rage?
“Fuck you!” I shout, flooring it again. I pull ahead briefly before the car closes the gap.
Up ahead, I have two choices—spin out or take an exit. No way am I wiping out at this speed. I yank the wheel a hard right and hit the brakes, fishtailing onto the offramp in a cloud of dust.
The car zooms past, windows too dark to see inside. I watch it speed away, no license plate, no stickers. “Dammit,” I curse.
It takes minutes for my pounding heart and ringing ears to subside. My hands shake as I continue down the offramp. “Fucking psychos,” I mutter, pushing away thoughts of who that was and why they wanted to terrify me.
Was it those biker girls? Shit. Did I start something? No, it can’t be. I work for Nova. Why would they be after me?
Oh. Shit. Realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
I work for Nova.
CHAPTER TEN
Tank
Goddamn, but the days in lockup blur one into the next until I don’t even know what the fuck day it is. Time doesn’t mean shit in here because you’re on the guard’s time. When you eat breakfast, take a piss, talk to your lawyer, all of it is up to the asshole guards, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Day after fucking day, it’s the same shit.
Head count.
Chowtime.
Rec time.
Chowtime.
Lights out.
Being here is getting to me more than I thought. Last time I was here, I promised myself that I’d seen the last of life behind bars. I walked out of the door so fucking cocky and sure that my ass was the last anyone would ever see of me in here, and yet, here I am.