Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Right inside the door, Taint was waiting for her and most likely to make sure Rez didn’t come back inside. He did not look at all pleased.
Well, fuck him, he wasn’t the only one not happy.
She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to get warm, but her anger at the biker in charge was doing a better job at heating her up. “You saw it, Saint. He was defending me. Unlike you or your damn prospects. And you dragged him out instead of that damn drunk who jerked me off the stage and twisted my ankle.”
“He’s bein’ takin’ care of, too. Now, get your ass back on stage or get the fuck out and never come back.”
How the hell was she going to finish her routine with her ankle the way it was? It was already becoming tight due to swelling.
“You’re a fuckin’ pain in my fuckin’ ass with your constant bitchin’ and endless goddamn demands.”
She sucked in a breath to tell the club manager off, but then once again remembered she needed this damn job. At least for now. She slowly released her frustration along with the air from her lungs.
Patience, Sapphire, you can’t leave yet. Suck it up and do what you have to do.
As much as she wanted to tell Taint to fuck off, walk out and never see that asshole again, she couldn’t. Not unless she wanted to live out of her damn car.
“Why you just fuckin’ standin’ there? You got a problem?”
Of course she did, but Taint wasn’t going to care about it.
She closed her eyes, swallowed down everything she wanted to spew at him and instead forced out a simple, “No.”
That hurt more than her ankle.
Fists pounding against the back door made her jump. She could hear her name being yelled on the other side, even though it was muffled.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
As she headed to the dressing room to deal with her injury and clean up, she pushed past Taint, saying, “Make sure they don’t let him in the front door, either.”
That decision was the best for both of them, whether Rez agreed or not.
The smug, leather-wearing asshole shot her a smirk she was tempted to wipe off his face.
His time was coming.
But that karma bus couldn’t hit him soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
How he had any teeth left after grinding them, he didn’t know. His blood pressure was still spiked. The veins at his temples still throbbed. His thoughts had turned dangerously dark.
And his patience?
Non-existent.
She fucking stayed at that club. Despite what happened. Despite his insistence she leave.
She was too fucking stubborn and strong-willed for her own good.
On one hand, her independent nature turned him on. On the other, it also pissed him the fuck off.
He was done with her. Totally fucking done.
He was throwing in the towel.
What the hell did she expect? For him to sit on his fucking hands while she was being mauled by another man?
Fuck that.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck the Demons.
And fuck her.
With his jaw set, he strode into his kitchen, grabbed a can of Modelo out of the fridge and put it to his lips. Not to drink from it, but to press it against where it was swollen and split. He winced when the cold metal made contact with his throbbing mouth.
He couldn’t wait until the task force took down those fucking Demons. He would throw a goddamn party.
Glancing at the time on his phone, he saw it was now after eight. If she lasted the rest of her shift, she should be headed home. He then pulled up the string of texts he sent her after she locked him out of The Peach Pit. All had gone unanswered.
He also left three voicemails.
One while he was at a full boil.
One while he was at a rolling boil.
And the last one when he was at a slow simmer.
It took every damn ounce of willpower to keep from returning to the club, busting inside and dragging her out of there for her own good.
But she needed that job.
Just like he needed his.
And if he went back there tonight, they’d both be unemployed. He’d flush his twelve-year career down the toilet.
The shrill ring of his doorbell had his head snapping back, then twisting toward the door.
Who the fuck’s that?
On his way to the door, he set the beer on the counter and grabbed his loaded Glock from where he had placed it on the kitchen table. Seconds later he was pressing an eyeball to the peephole.
He blinked at who he saw.
What the fuck?
He was torn on whether to be angry or relieved.
He flipped the deadbolt and flung the door open.
“Pretty much thought you kicked my ass to the curb.” Little did she know in the past hour or so, he’d kicked her ass to the curb about two dozen times.
But he’d keep that shit to himself.