 by Kristen Ashley.jpg)
Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 126840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Hellen Moynihan didn’t have dreams. She had goals. She knew who she was and what she wanted. She also knew what she didn’t. So when her long-term boyfriend didn’t make the grade, she moved on. And when her best friend’s boyfriend showed signs of being a scam artist, Hellen was on the case.
And he wasn’t a white hat type of guy…
Dustin “Hardcore” Cutler didn’t have dreams or goals. A troubled past led Core to do something irredeemable. The only thing he and the men of the Resurrection MC could do was vow to live their lives making up for an unforgiveable act.
And they did.
This duty leads Core to being a part of a covert protection detail, looking after Hellen Moynihan when trouble is coming to town.
At first, Core finds this dynamo of a woman intriguing, but he’s decided she’s off-limits.
Then Hellen and her friend wade into a multi-state swindling scheme.
Suddenly, off-limits for Core is out the window.
He’s got no choice but to get up close and personal.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“Sometimes you need a really crooked road to get your head straight.”
– Unknown
AUTHOR’S CAUTION
In a previous book in the Chaos series, an event occurred that framed who the Resurrection MC is today. All the brothers of that MC are struggling with past actions, specifically this event. These actions might be distressing for some readers. If you have issues around violence against women, I hope you find someone to provide help and support. But if you choose to read this book, I hope you view Core and his brothers with an open mind and an open heart as they work for redemption.
1
COOKIES
Hellen
I heard my front door open.
My first thought was, Maybe the cookies were over the top.
“Babe!” he called. “Cookies! Awesome!”
Or perhaps the cookies were just cruel.
I’d put on his second-favorite blouse (it could be his third, he didn’t rank them, I just paid attention to him, unlike the other way around) and had my makeup two steps down from fuck-me-hard.
So I wasn’t being totally in his face.
But my hair was loose, and although he didn’t have the balls to claim it like he meant it (his tepid tugs were a bit of a turn off, and I’d learned to try to keep his hands out of my hair), still, he loved it down, mostly because I gave great hair.
And my ass in the jeans I was wearing sprung men on a glance.
He loved my cookies, all of them, no matter what variety I baked, because I’d perfected each version to the point most people told me to start my own shop.
Like I was going to waste my time on that.
Not a chance.
“What the…?” I heard him say.
He’d seen the box.
And here we go.
I turned to the doorway.
He wandered into my kitchen.
“Babe—” he began, wearing his remorseful face.
And I was glad.
Because that pissed me off.
And it did because, if he knew to be remorseful, he knew.
He knew.
I launched in.
“You don’t have HBO Max. I have HBO Max. You asked to come—”
“Hell—”
“—over with your buds so you could watch some boxing thing, and I said yes. I was going out with my girls, but I said yes. All you had to do was tidy up after they left. I didn’t ask you to vacuum and scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush. I asked you to tidy up. I came home to you passed out in my bed and beer bottles everywhere, leftover pizza congealing, a stain on my couch—”
“That’s why I’m here now. I was going to—”
I wasn’t listening, yet again, to what he was “going to” do.
“So when I left this morning, I asked you to take care of it before you left. You didn’t. I came home to it. By then, every inch of my apartment smelled like stale beer and pizza.”
“Like I was going to say,” he stated with forced patience. “I’m here now to do it. You just did it before I could get to it.”
I did a lot of things before he could get to them.
“It’s my house, Bryan. And when I say you can hang here, and all I ask is you throw away some fucking bottles and put away some pizza, shove some plates in the dishwasher, toss some napkins in the trash, it’s not a lot to ask. Hell, you’re a grown man. I shouldn’t have to ask. And I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean something to me.”
He was giving me the “whoa” sign with his hand.
“Okay, I fucked up, but—”
“I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.”
He shut his mouth and tried not to let me see his smirk.
But I saw the smirk.
And, oh yeah.
Oh yeah.
Now I was pissed.
“Is something funny?” I asked quietly.
“No.” He sounded choked because he was trying not to laugh, which meant he was lying.
“What’s funny about me slamming my head into the cabinet door you left open over the toilet, even though I’ve asked you to close it probably thirty times, because last night wasn’t the first time I slammed my head into it? Which means, I don’t only want you to close it because cabinet doors should be closed. That’s the reason the cabinet has a fucking door, so you can close it and not see all the crap inside. But also, because, when I slam my head into it, it hurts like fuck.”
Me putting it that way, he looked remorseful again.
“Is it amusing to you to cause me pain?” I asked.
“Babe, I’m sorry. I’d had a few. I wasn’t paying attention.”
I let that go.
For now.
Instead, I pointed across the kitchen.
“Do you see that under-cupboard light that doesn’t work?”
Bryan turned his head that way and made an “oh shit” face.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I mentioned it was out and I was going to email my apartment manager to fix it. You reminded me, if it isn’t an emergency, it takes them a while to do something. You then said you’d do it. I said I thought that was great, if you did it, you could show me how and I wouldn’t have to ask anyone again. That was a month ago. My apartment manager might not jump all over changing a lightbulb, but it’d be done in a few days. I’ve asked you five times. You keep telling me you’re on it. I emailed them today. They’re coming Monday.”