Total pages in book: 190
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Would I want the warm companionship Brooks spoke of? Yes. I’d probably have to be patient in my attempts to get it, though. “Any more cons?”
“Yes. You’ll have to accept that he won’t change in how he deals with issues. The cops failed him when he was growing up. He couldn’t rely on the justice system, so he had to seek justice himself. He’s used to handling … personal matters, and doing it swiftly and cruelly.”
“You mean he’s more likely to beat someone to a pulp than call the sheriff and attempt to have them arrested.” I already knew that.
“You have to be able to take him as he is.”
“I’d be a hypocrite if I held it against him. My dad is just as bad for disregarding the law when it suits him.”
“That’s true enough.” Brooks poked his tongue into the inside of his cheek. “Do you mind if I call Dax and talk to him? I’d like to feel him out; be sure he knows what he’s doing. Or would you rather he wasn’t aware you called me?”
“As long as you don’t go into specifics about our talk, I have no issues with you letting him know I called you.”
He laid a hand over his heart. “I won’t repeat any of what you said, just as I won’t relay to you any of what he says when I talk to him.” He paused. “You know, to help balance things out, I have a pro that isn’t on your list.”
I felt my brows lift. “You do?”
“Yes, and I’m surprised you haven’t already thought of it. Unless you aren’t aware …?”
“Aware of what?”
“Dax owns a publishing company. Anyone who married him could probably get their hands on some free books.”
The addictive reader in me perked up. “He does? How awesome.” And definitely worth writing down.
Brooks tipped his head to the side. “Why do I get the feeling that appeals to you more than pretty much anything on that pro list of yours other than kids?”
I gave an innocent shrug. “No idea. Why do you?”
He only smiled.
∞∞∞
Parking in the lot outside Chrome Canvas Bar a few days later, I turned off the engine. Often frequented by bikers due to it being attached to CCC—or Chrome Canvas Cycles, to be precise, which manufactured custom motorcycles—it wasn’t an obvious place to meet for coffee. But it was considered a “gem” by those caffeine-lovers who discovered it, because it couldn’t be denied that they made real good coffee. As such, it wasn’t a huge surprise that Ollie asked me to meet him here when he texted me last night.
He first came upon the bar after buying a motorcycle from CCC. Yeah, though he worked for our dad’s massive company, o-Verve, Ollie wasn’t stuffy like many of his colleagues. He didn’t dress in suits and shiny shoes outside of work. He was more a dark tee, jeans, and boots kind of guy.
Having hopped out of my car, I locked it with the key fob and began striding toward the bar, highly curious as to why Ollie had requested we meet—he’d been exceptionally vague in his texts. A few people stood outside CCC’s rolled-up bay door, so I couldn’t see much of the interior. But I did make out a couple of bikes set on raised lifts.
Customers allegedly came from all over. Three generations of Armstrongs—close friends of the Mercier family—worked there. I knew the name of the youngest Armstrong, Maverick, purely because he was often photographed with Drey. Maverick’s aunt, Sarah, apparently ran the bar these days.
Despite the Armstrongs’ link to Dax, I doubted I’d bump into him here. I hadn’t seen, heard from, or contacted him since our talk at his office. I’d almost emailed him a time or two, whenever a question popped into my head that I wished I’d asked. But I didn’t want to hear from Mr. Persuasive—he could too easily influence my decisions; could too easily sway me to his way of thinking. Whether or not I stood at an altar with him needed to be my decision. At the moment, I still wasn’t sure what to do.
Reaching the bar, I pushed open the door. The scents of coffee, wood, beer, and spicy food washed over me as I entered. Two very pretty and clearly related brunettes—one older, one younger—stood behind the bar. A “BEER” sign hung over it, a bright neon-blue.
The redbrick walls sported pictures of framed photos of bikes. Said walls were also lined with shelves on which bike parts, helmets, and accessories sat, all for sale. It was only then that I remembered the bar doubled as a store.
The lighting was dim due to the tinted windows, but I easily spotted Ollie. Other patrons were scattered around—some sat at barstools, others at heavy tables. A few played pool while another cursed at a gambling machine.