Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
As soon as those thoughts started to creep back in, I pulled out fresh vegetables and made a salad. I made a fucking salad, like I was Little Suzy-fucking Homemaker. I was both slightly disgusted and proud as hell of the meal I created and shoved aside thoughts that Charlie would be proud too.
He would be grateful, and that was enough for me.
The sound of breaking glass made my heart race. At least it distracted from thoughts of Charlie as I made my way to the living room to look out the window.
“Son of a bitch!” Two young guys I didn’t recognize wearing leather vests with the familiar Black Jacks patch on the back, ace and king of spades, had tossed beer bottles into the street. Worse though, they were on a determined path up the walk to this house.
The first guy, a blond with a buzzcut and big eyes, took the porch steps two at a time, a wicked smile on his face as he rang the bell like he was a goddamn salesman.
“Hello!” he called into the door.
He rang the bell repeatedly, before he pressed down nonstop while his other hand banged on the door.
On the side of the house, the long-haired brunette knocked hard on the living room window until one pane broke. And then another. And another.
The sound of the security alarm was obnoxious, meant to scare away any intruders, except these fuckers weren’t afraid of anything today. They laughed and howled like fucking animals.
“Yo, Memphis,” one yelled out. “You see anything?”
“Not with these fucking blackout blinds,” his thug of a buddy answered. “What are they made out of, metal?”
He knocked out another window, this one without the added blackout protection. Thankfully, it was too high to look into the house from the ground below.
“Open up, pretty boy! We know you’re in there.” This from the guy called Memphis. He pounded on the door with his fists and kicked it, all while still ringing the bell.
Charlie had told me all about the security system, how effective and high-tech it was, to make sure I didn’t worry. But how could I not when two wild banshees were just outside the door, determined to get in? They didn’t know I was inside, or if they did, they were doing a damn good job at pretending. I knew if they found me, though, it would mean trouble.
Between their loud yells and the loud bullhorn sound of the door alarm and the wailing siren of the window alarms, it was all too much. My heart beat so fast I was sure it was about to leap right out of my chest and drop onto the living room floor. I covered my mouth with both hands to muffle the scream that tried to break free to ease my fear and my stress. I took a step back.
And then another.
And another.
Eventually I found myself upstairs in the guestroom closet where three pairs of pants and four t-shirts swung above me, the total of my wardrobe. I curled into the tightest ball I could manage and buried my head in my lap, rocking gently and hoping the sound would stop.
It was something I’d gotten good at during my time with the Black Jacks, hiding in the closet when a customer got a little too violent over whiskey dick, or because they were too stressed out to come. Or whatever other slight they perceived was my fault. The closet had been my safe place then and now.
A bitter snort escaped and echoed in my lap. Things hadn’t changed so much, after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Charlie
It was early Friday night at the clubhouse. The guys were hanging back laughing; the music was rocking, and instead of enjoying a beer with my fellow Reckless Bastards after a long week, I was sitting by myself at the end of the bar. I was pissed off at my guys, missing my brother and eager to get home to Savannah. What the fuck kind of leader am I?
Cross always made time for the guys, whether it was drinking and shooting the shit, helping them sort out money or relationship bullshit, or teaching them to be better Reckless Bastards. And then there was me, acting like a wounded little bitch because my men questioned my decisions and complained about me running home to spend time with a girl.
A fucking girl.
I was fucked up; I knew that. I couldn’t help myself, though. All I wanted was to get back home to Savannah. Her smart mouth had a way of making me put my shit into perspective, had a way of making me feel better. About everything. It was a dangerous feeling to have. But with the stress of everything piling up, she was about the only damn thing that made me feel good these days.