Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Likely her ribs.
“I was the one who found you and called the cops,” I told her, holding up my hands, palms out.
“Why?”
“To get you to the hospital?” I asked, brows pinching.
“Why did you find me? You left.”
“And it didn’t sit right with me, so I circled back to put my conscience to rest.”
To that, she sort of snorted out her breath, her head shaking a bit as her gaze fell.
“I should have taken the ride,” she mumbled to herself. “It’s a crazy world when taking a ride with an outlaw biker is the safest route,” she added.
“You alright?” I asked, only realizing what a stupid question it was when she looked up at me, and if her eyes could roll, I was pretty sure they would have.
“Do I look alright?” she asked.
“I meant medically. Any permanent damage?”
“I think I might have broken my ankle,” she said. “Trying to get away,” she added, voice going small. And, somehow, that was making my rage reignite once again. “And my ribs hurt. But I’m waiting on all the scans to come in still. Why are you here?” she asked.
“Dunno,” I admitted. “Wanted to see if you were alright.”
“Are you feeling… guilty?” she asked, brows scrunching as much as they could, given all the swelling.
“Something like that, I guess,” I admitted.
“That’s stupid,” she declared, making my brows shoot up. “I turned you away.”
“Still. Didn’t feel right.”
“What were you going to do? Stalk me?” she asked.
“Waited at least,” I said, shrugging.
“God, is that hero complex hard to carry around? Seems like it would get heavy.”
“Says the chick who dedicates her life to trying to save addicts.”
“Saving their lives sounds condescending. They just need help. And who says I’m not just in it for the money?”
“The busted-ass car you couldn’t drive home,” I shot back. “And the fact that you didn’t get a ride.”
“I could just like walking.”
“Not in that area,” I said.
“Got me there,” she said. “But I absolve you of any guilt. You’re free to go and… drink whiskey and fuck bitches and… I don’t know. Whatever else bikers do.”
For having her ass handed to her, she had a lot of spirit left. I liked that more than I had any right to.
“Russ wanted me to tell you they’re thinking about you. And the old dude said that if I find who did it and don’t kill ‘em myself, to give him the name.”
At that, she tried to smile before the split pulled, making her wince.
“Marshall,” she said. “That’s the old guy. He’s my favorite.”
“He’s pretty fond of you too,” I said. “Did you see who did this?” I asked, waving at her body as a whole.
“In the way that I saw dark hair and shadows and fists barreling toward my face over and over, yes. In the way that I recognized him or could point him out in a lineup? Not so much.”
“What about the car?” I pressed.
To that, she huffed.
“Right. Because me and my piece-of-shit-mobile knows anything about cars. It was dark. A sedan. That’s about all I got. I was a little busy getting the shit kicked out of me,” she added.
“You don’t think you knew ‘em?” I asked.
“I mean… I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. But anything is possible, I guess.”
“It wasn’t Doug,” I told her, watching surprise brighten her eye again. “I checked after Russ and the Marshall guy mentioned him. He was passed out at a bar. Anyone else at the house start shit with you?”
“I mean… I can sometimes be the one cracking down on the rules, so sometimes I’m not people’s favorite. But I don’t think so. Not recently anyway. They’re not bad guys, you know,” she said. “I know people think of addicts like some sketchy people or whatever. But most of them are normal people. Just guys struggling.”
“The ones on parole too?” I asked.
“Asks the literal one-percent biker,” she shot back. “But, I mean, a lot of them were inside on possession charges. It all relates back to the original problem. But we’re there to help everyone, not piss them off.”
“But someone choked you out today.”
“He was drunk and getting kicked out for being drunk. It was fucked, sure, but it all makes sense. Harboring resentment, waiting to find me alone, then attacking me… that doesn’t make sense.”
That was fair enough, I guess.
“And, I mean, it’s not like women are always attacked by people they know.”
“Yeah, only like nine percent,” I said.
“Why do you know that?”
Why did I know that?
But then hearing the fact the first time came flooding back to me. The princesses having a girls night at the club. Talking about their last training session at the self-defense gym. The expert had mentioned something about how twenty-something percent of women were attacked by family, another twenty-something was significant others, and another forty-something percent was another ‘known person’ in their lives. Only nine percent were strangers.