Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“All of that’s a lot to compartmentalize, Georgiana,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, well, it’s my job. I know journalists who’ve been at it far longer than me and they don’t act like harridans, raving about freaking carry-ons because they met a douchebag who was all down to make a kid, and even more down to walk away from her.”
Yup.
He shouldn’t have asked if she was okay, because he sure as shit did not need to like this woman.
His brother was dating her sister, for one.
And even if there was a reason behind it, she absolutely did not make a good first impression. No man (or woman, undoubtedly) wanted to be someone’s punching bag on a consistent basis when that someone was in a bad mood.
Then, of course, there was her bullshit about bikers.
He knew she was looking at him when she asked, “Did I blow your afternoon?”
“My plans got sidetracked so I was free,” he told her.
“What were your plans?”
“Seems we share a theme,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ve been recruited to try to help reach a kid at King’s Shelter who’s fucking up his life.”
“King’s Shelter? You?”
And there it was.
A reason why he wasn’t going to be able to like this woman.
“Yeah, bikers do more than get drunk, bang biker bunnies, start bar fights and get arrested,” he said sarcastically.
“It’s not that—”
He cut her off.
“You ever heard of BACA?”
“Sorry?”
“BACA. Bikers Against Child Abuse.”
“Yes, I have. They do good work.”
“Well, essentially, they’re an MC. An MC that does good work. Not all bikers are Hells Angels and the Bandido Nation. That’s the fuckin’ point of the term ‘one-percenter.’ Ninety-nine percent of bikers are just bikers. One percent are outlaws. Chaos is not a one-percenter.”
“You were, though,” she said softly, not an accusation, a fact.
And she was right.
That was a fact.
The operative word being was.
“We’re not anymore.”
The cab fell silent.
She broke it.
“Who’s this kid you got recruited to help?”
“Listen, I’m sorry you had a shit trip, but maybe we should—”
“Dutch, you haven’t asked me where I live.”
He felt his brows go up because he hadn’t.
“Did Carolyn tell you?” she asked.
“No,” he grunted.
“So, where are you taking me?”
And now her words were threaded with humor, which was almost prettier than hearing her say his name for the first time.
“On autopilot,” he muttered.
“Because I came off the plane and acted like a bitch? Or because your work with this kid somehow got sidetracked?”
He wasn’t going to answer that.
“You’re headed in the right direction anyway. I live in Governor’s Park,” she told him.
“Great,” he mumbled.
“It’s the kid,” she decreed.
She wanted it?
He’d give it to her.
“Yeah. Seventeen. One-hundred-and-forty-nine IQ, and he’s been tested, so that’s not a guess. Scholarships lined up to top schools. And I mean top. Top in terms of MIT. His dad gets murdered, the cops can’t find who did it, he’s so pissed at the world, he wants off the grid. And he’s headed that way.”
“Your dad,” she whispered, correctly ascertaining why he’d been recruited.
It could be Jag shared with Carolyn and Carolyn shared with Georgiana.
But it definitely was Blood, Guts and Brotherhood.
Graham Black, his father’s story was out there.
Everyone knew.
Or at least everyone who’d seen that film.
What everyone didn’t know was right then, in the cab of his truck, sitting next to a gorgeous but paradoxical woman, he was wearing the leather cut his father was wearing when he’d had his throat slit.
“Yup,” he grunted.
“How did this kid’s dad get murdered?” she asked.
“They live in a duplex. Him, that being Carlyle, his little sister, mom, dad, and it’s the middle of the night, and the dad hears a racket coming from the other side. The mom calls the cops, but the noises aren’t good, so the dad grabs a baseball bat and heads over. Busts in. Tears up to the bedroom. He’s shot dead interrupting an attempted rape.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed in horror.
“That about sums it up,” he agreed.
“A boyfriend? An ex? A hookup?”
“What?” he asked.
“Did the woman who was being raped also get—”
“No, she survived.”
“So, it’s a stranger? A break-in? Did the dad hear the breaking-in part?”
“That’s the rub,” Dutch told her. “They heard the fight, not the break-in, and there was no evidence of a break-in, outside what Carlyle’s dad did to get in. But the woman contends it was a stranger. She’d never seen him, had no idea where he came from. She was sleeping and then he was there. There was hope in the beginning, they thought. The woman, their neighbor, she was cagey. They think she knows more than she’s letting on. And Carlyle, his mom, and his younger sister said there were folks who visited her that they weren’t real hip on, and the dad flat-out did not like having around. They just don’t know who they were.”
“And she’s not talking.”
“No.”
“Or she’s lying.”
“Yeah.”
“And this kid ran away from home because his dad died next door and he probably heard the gunshot that killed him.”