Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
In the biker world, if you got challenged, you handled your business swiftly and firmly. That could mean getting into an actual physical fight.
The word “fuck” was considered a noun, verb and adjective. The wardrobe was simple, the makeup not as much and the more tattoos the better.
While the women of the Russo family worried more about what designer’s tag was on their clothing, the women in MCs tended to wear bold statements across their chests, whether on camisoles, tank tops, T-shirts or even inked directly onto their skin.
Personally, Nova preferred the second group. At least for now. That might change after living among them.
She wasn’t into expensive or excessive makeup, clothes or jewelry. She also didn’t like having to watch everything she said. Peppering the word “fuck” into her conversations wouldn’t take much of an effort at all.
The only time she tempered her own cursing was when she was around colleagues she knew would have a problem with it. Even then, she sometimes slipped.
Nova yanked the keys from the ignition and grimaced when she pushed open the driver’s door and it squealed like the hinges hadn’t been greased since it came off the factory line.
She sighed. She had been hoping to be assigned some really cool car, not one a decade past being sent to the junkyard.
Someone must have gotten their information wrong since she couldn’t imagine the ol’ ladies of the DAMC drove around in such pieces of shit. In fact, some of the surveillance footage that landed in her hot little hands had shown otherwise.
None of the club members seemed to be hurting financially.
Opening the Durango’s rear hatch, she pulled out her large suitcase and two duffel bags. She had to buy some clothes to make sure she fit in with the MC. She actually went to a consignment shop to buy a large selection of tops, jeans and boots so they wouldn’t look brand new.
Nothing said a “plant” more than brand-new blue jeans, unworn tops and leather boots not broken in.
Before leaving her condo in Cranberry Township, about twenty miles north of Pittsburgh, she had pulled on a pair of shredded blue jeans snug enough to look painted on, black leather knee-high boots, a black bandana for a belt and a black off-the-shoulder top with a sugar skull on the front and a deep V neckline that emphasized her lack of cleavage.
She had it, it was just difficult to find. To bolster her boobs, she made sure to pack every push-up bra she purchased prior to going undercover with the Russos.
She had been surprised when Frank Sr. turned his attention to her since his type was normally extremely curvy with pouty lips, big eyes, teased hair and even bigger tits.
All of which she didn’t have and couldn’t fake.
She sighed and dropped the strap of one heavy duffel bag across her body, and then grabbed the suitcase and other bag in each hand. She was determined to get her shit upstairs in only one trip. Similar to when she went grocery shopping since she lived in a second floor condo.
She made her way awkwardly up the metal staircase, her rolling suitcase clunking up and over each step. The weight of her duffel bags almost pulled her backwards a few times, making her heart catch in her throat.
Falling down the steps would take her out of the game before she even got a chance to play.
At the top of the landing she dropped one of the heavy duffels and pounded on the door. As she waited for Fletch to answer, she turned and scanned the pawn shop’s parking lot and what she could see of the road out front to make sure nothing and no one looked suspicious.
Since the pawn shop closed at nine, she made sure to arrive at nine-thirty and after dark so no one would witness her “moving in.”
Just as she turned to pound on the door again, it jerked opened and the man himself stood in the doorway, only wearing a pair of very worn blue jeans and a grin.
No shirt. No shoes. No…
“Is that fake?” she asked, jerking her chin toward the large biomechanical tattoo that completely covered his right shoulder and extended all the way over his right pec.
“Wanna rub it and see, woman?” he asked, his voice gruffer than she remembered. His grin returned when she frowned at him calling her “woman.”
“Just a simple yes or no would work.” Admittedly, the tattoo was cool and well-done, real or otherwise.
“No, it ain’t fuckin’ fake.”
She stared at him, then shook her head at the way he was talking before rolling her suitcase over the threshold and past him. She left it by the door along with one duffel bag before going back out and grabbing the second one. She tossed it inside and if he hadn’t quickly stepped back, it would have landed on his bare toes.