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)
“Not smokin’,” he replied to Brock.
Brock’s hand paused, as did Cade from where he was getting up from the head of the table. They were the only two brothers—save Lucky—in the club who knew he was sober. Not that it was a secret; he just didn’t go waving his chips like they were a badge of honor.
Because they weren’t.
He wasn’t proud of being sober.
Because it wasn’t an accomplishment.
An accomplishment would’ve been never getting hooked on the shit in the first place. That might’ve saved them.
Might’ve saved him.
But there wasn’t room for mights in his life.
Hence him not spilling his shit to the only family he had left.
An area in his chest burned with the fact that this wasn’t quite true. He ignored it.
But Cade and Brock knew about the addiction. Nothing else though. No way were the words of his true past leaving his lips. It was too fucked up for even his brothers.
“Come again?” Brock asked, screwing up his face. “You’re not smoking? What? You lose a bet with Lucky or something?
Gage shrugged off his hand, pushing up to stand. “Givin’ it up.”
Brock gaped at him. Even Cade’s eyes widened slightly, and the motherfucker had a notorious poker face.
“You’re giving up smoking?” Brock asked in shock. “And taking up what? And don’t say you’re not replacing it with somethin’ else, ’cause if you don’t, I’m thinking you’ll burn the fuckin’ clubhouse to the ground just ’cause you’re in a bad mood. Shit, you’ve done that before.”
Gage gritted his teeth. “Wasn’t our clubhouse, if you’ll remember correctly.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “Different chapter, still Sons.”
Gage shrugged. “They were a piss-poor chapter anyway. Plus no one died. And no one traced it back to me.”
“They never do,” Cade said, eyeing him in that intense way the fucker did. He saw more than most men, but Gage hid more than most men, so he didn’t really see shit. “You good, bro? Somethin’ you want to share with us?” He eyed the door, the room now emptied of brothers who were in a hurry to get to their families, or a bottle, or between the legs of a club whore.
“Stays in here if you do. You know that,” Cade continued.
Gage straightened his shoulders, reaching in for his piece, the weight of it in his hands comforting, calming. He checked the chamber before shoving it back into his shoulder holster. “Got nothin’ to share. Got people to kill.”
And he turned on his heel, planning to do just that.
Hoping—no, fucking praying he would be able to curb his need by ending some lives.
Not his need for the junk.
For her.
Lauren
I would’ve been lying if I didn’t expect the person knocking at my door at eight in the morning on a Sunday to be Gage.
I wasn’t just expecting it.
I was hoping for it.
Though I’d spent the time since he’d left pretending I wasn’t. Convincing myself that the next time I saw him, I’d firmly tell him to leave me alone. Let him know I was so far from the woman for him it was comical.
He was a biker.
Even if he was your run-of-the-mill biker, it wouldn’t work.
But he wasn’t.
He was something so much more than those menacing men who threw society’s rules out the proverbial window and lived hard and fast.
He lived hard and fast. But he also lived dangerous. He also had a kind of emptiness behind his eyes that chilled me to the core.
Then there was the other side of him that made me burn hot. That made me want things I’d pretended I’d never even thought about.
He was a killer. He didn’t hide that from me. Freaking hell, he’d all but admitted it the second time we spoke—when he told me I was his.
And then there was me.
Me.
Who barely had any friends because she didn’t do anything to put herself out there. Who never took risks. Who made sure her life was orderly, simple, safe. Who lived slow and gentle by design. For survival.
Abagail’s reaction on Friday was right on the money. The mere thought of the two of us was comical. Like a mouse and a snake.
So using my precious logic, I should’ve been able to dismiss him, for my survival more than anything else. Because he was the antithesis of everything I’d insulated myself from. All the chaos, danger, and pain in the world wrapped into one man.
One man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
So I both dreaded and awaited opening that door to him.
Only it wasn’t him.
“Okay, she’s alive and has all of her limbs and is cute as a fucking button,” a stunning redheaded woman said into a phone at her ear, her emerald eyes going up and down my body in appraisal.
Usually when another woman looked at you like that—especially a woman who was tall, curvy, stunning with almost waist-length red hair and style that belonged on a runway—it was instinct to shrink back. To let anxiety and all those insecurities rise up and chew away at you, because certain kinds of women had a talent for pinpointing all those insecurities, bringing them to the surface with one look.