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)
To the left was a large pavilion full of wooden picnic tables. And in the middle of the courtyard was a huge fire pit stacked high with wood pallets. The whole area was surrounded by chain-link fencing, topped with more barbed wire to prevent anyone scaling it, as well as privacy screens to prevent spying by the general public, law enforcement or their enemies.
Along the front fence was a commercial-sized smoker and as soon as the smell from the roasting pig hit his nostrils, his stomach growled. Long folding tables were lined up along the fence, too, to hold what looked like a smorgasbord of food and everything else needed to eat and drink. Blue plastic barrels cut in half were full of ice. Some held beer kegs, the rest held what might be water, pop and bottled beer.
Scanning the crowd, he straightened his spine and raised his head as he slipped back into full biker mode. Someone was already lighting the pallet pyre, a few women were beginning to shred the pig for sandwiches, while a couple more were pouring beers. Fletch assumed the working women were sweet butts, women who basically did whatever members wanted them to do, sexually or otherwise, just to have access to the club and, of course, the bikers.
When he pulled Nova tighter into his side, he murmured, “Did you read up on the sweet butts?” into her ear.
He didn’t miss her breath catch. He was unsure if it was due to the sweet butt question or if she was just as attracted to him as he was to her.
He reminded himself that this was a job and he needed to keep things on a professional level, even though they wouldn’t be acting professional at all.
“Yeah, I know what a fucking sweet butt is and if any of them try sinking their claws into you, the bitch is gonna get punched in the throat.”
He grinned. “Nice. That’s my sharp-clawed Kitten. Wanna keep all this for yourself.”
“Don’t push it,” she warned more quietly.
He chuckled and when he noticed quite a few eyes turned their direction, he pressed his lips to her temple and gave her ass a squeeze.
“Don’t tense, Kitten. We fuck like rabbits, remember?” he murmured into her ear.
“I’m not a fan of rabbits, Ghost.” She sighed, but melted into his side.
That was more like it. He slid his hand from her ass cheek to her hip, giving that a squeeze next. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. But let’s wait ’til the line dies down a little.”
The screech of an amplifier made them both jerk and turn their attention to the stage. Yesterday wasn’t the first time he’d meet Cross’s husband Nash, but this evening would be the first time he heard him sing since he was stepping up to the microphone. From what Cross said, Nash could play the drums, guitar and belt out a song like no other.
Fletch looked forward to hearing some great music tonight.
“When Nash was on the run with us, he was alone,” Nova whispered, leaning into him. “Where’s his husband?”
Fletch adjusted the arm he had hanging around her shoulders. “He ain’t welcome to these things.” Once the music started, it would be hard to speak quietly, so now was the time.
“Why doesn’t he just tell them to fuck off?”
“Supposedly, once Cross hangs up his duty belt, he’ll be welcome. So he says, anyway.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with him being gay, does it?”
“No. Cross said Nash woulda had his colors stripped if it had to do with that. It’s solely based on him bein’ a cop. Or… pig. We need to use that term from now on, too.”
“Great,” she answered dryly.
He shrugged. “Gotta blend in, woman.”
She released another sigh. “When we stopped during the run, the women had acted friendly to me. Maybe not completely welcoming since they worry about their men, but nice enough. Their male counterparts? Not so much.”
“‘Cause we’re the enemy amongst them. They don’t like us bein’ here, Kitten, no matter what the reason. They ain’t ever gonna trust us while we got the capability of arrestin’ them.”
“If they think we care about the pot they’re smoking…” She tipped her head to a few guys sitting on top of a picnic table under the pavilion passing a joint.
“Trust me, it ain’t about the pot. But on that particular note, they’re aware a personal amount ain’t worth the paperwork. Normally, if I find it in someone’s car or on their person, I ignore it. The only time I don’t is if they got enough for an intent to deliver charge.”
“Cop speak,” she reminded him, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Yeah.” He quickly glanced around. “No one’s close by.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to see the federal law changed soon.”
“That’s one reason I don’t bust someone for that petty shit. But again, it ain’t about some pot.”