Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Until—don’t think of him.
The officer who’d taken my call assured me they’d get someone out as soon as possible to tow my car and retrieve my belongings.
Above and beyond the call of local law enforcement, but that was how things were done here. Especially since the local police had less crime to fight now that the Sons of Templar had gone legitimate. Well, they hadn’t exactly fought it in the past, thanks to an uneasy agreement between Bill—the previous sheriff—and the club. The agreement that was shredded when Luke made sheriff. He had been determined to take the club down, but after a fair amount of drama, they were still standing and Luke wasn’t the sheriff anymore. Now he was part of the biker family.
“Lauren!” Niles demanded, as I’d obviously not answered his first cried word.
I jumped, the movement sending shoots of agony down my aching body. In addition to the head wound, every single part of me screamed in pain. It was normal with a car accident, my doctor told me. I had known that already, since the trauma a body went through even in a minor car accident was enough to cause considerable pain for up to a month.
I merely had to grit my teeth through it.
Likely the medication I’d thrown out would’ve taken the edge off, but I didn’t do anything to take the edge off.
I dealt. I was used to being cut from the hard edges of life.
“It’s nothing.” I waved in dismissal before the entire office crowded around me.
They were already staring, and I wasn’t used to that.
I continued to stride to my desk, sinking down to hide while Niles followed and continued to gape at me.
“Nothing? You’ve got a gash on your head and a bruised eye. That’s not nothing. Who did this to you? I’ll kill them,” he hissed.
I suppressed a laugh. My balding, fifty-year-old, tweed vest–wearing, spectacled editor was going to kill someone? The man had fight when it came to words and stories, but strictly on paper. Never in real life.
“Well my car is already pretty dead, so you don’t have to kill it,” I assured him, tapping at my screen and navigating to my email so I could inform my insurance company of my car’s untimely death. Driver error was covered in my policy, which was comprehensive. Sensible.
I hoped they’d get it sorted quickly. I could technically walk from my apartment to the office—as I’d done after a lightning-quick shower to wash the hospital grime off me that morning—but I needed a car. We were downsizing at the paper, which meant I had to cover stories, which weren’t always located within the town limits.
“You crashed?” Niles exclaimed, shock painting his face. “You?”
I smiled. He knew me well since I’d been working there almost straight out of college. Well, after my break from college, and reality.
Niles knew my thoughts about safety. He’d driven in a car with me once and told me that his “dead grandmother would not only drive faster, but she’d thank you for how safe you’re keeping her grandson, since it’s impossible to crash at fifteen miles per hour.”
I nodded. “Me.”
He leaned on my desk, taking his glasses off to clean them on the bottom of his shirt. “Well, who was the idiot who crashed into you?” he demanded. “Were they drunk? Are they paying for repairs? I hope the police brought them in.”
I could see the wheels turning in his head as his cheeks reddened and he prepared for one of his famous rants.
He hated injustice, and he made it his mission to get loud and borderline hysterical in order to right it.
I smiled once more. “The idiot happens to be me and my aversion for killing canines,” I told him.
He squinted at me through his newly cleaned glasses, pausing his temper tantrum.
“I swerved for a dog,” I explained, sighing. “Not something you’re meant to do, but I also couldn’t handle killing a dog. I figured on that patch of road, going my ‘dead grandmother speed,’ my injuries wouldn’t be serious.” I shrugged, failing to hide my flinch at the pain that came with the motion. “And they’re not. Serious, that is.” I screwed up my nose. “Though I would like to find that dog.”
I’d been worrying about it all night. Mostly in an effort to distract myself from being left bleeding at the curb by my not-so-shining knight in leather.
It had hurt more than I liked to admit.
And I was thinking about my body pressed to his more than I would like to admit, as well.
Hence distracting myself with worry for the dog.
It was too far out of town for it to have wandered off a property, and it had looked skinny in the small flash of my headlights before I swerved.
A stray that some careless owner had likely dropped on the side of the road when they realized what a responsibility dogs were.