Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“No, Evelina,” he says, his voice gruff. “Not that it’s your business.”
“She makes it my business,” I point out. “She’s always running around, throwing it in my face. She’s horrible, I don’t know why you’d want to marry her, or reproduce with her.”
“Evelina,” Mom scoffs. “Your brother is a smart man and doesn’t need your opinions.”
“Mom,” I say, throwing my hands up. “As if you like her. You called her a snake in heels the other day.”
Mom goes red and looks to Giorgio, who gives her a hard look. “It wasn’t exactly that ...”
Stefano snorts and Dom smothers a grin.
“When are you going to stop being so silly and grow up, Eve?” Giorgio asks, giving me a hard look. “At least I’ve got myself someone—you’re declaring war with a bunch of bikers instead of settling down and getting married.”
“Married,” I scrunch up my nose. “Why would I want to get married?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
“So?” I argue. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need to get married. I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need a man.”
“Well, that’s a good thing because none would have you with an attitude like that,” he growls.
“That’s rude,” I say, giving him a hurt look. “Just because I don’t want to settle down and get married yet doesn’t mean I can’t, or won’t ...”
“You act like a fucking teenager. Grow up, Evelina, and you might have a chance.”
“I’m done here,” I say, putting my fork down and standing up. “I don’t need you to judge me, Giorgio. I’ve managed to make that business on my own and run it on my own and make a name for myself on my own. I am who I am, I’m sorry that’s not good enough for you.”
I leave the house, frustrated and angry, with my mother following me and telling me he didn’t mean it. That’s the thing, though. He did mean it. He always means it. He’s so serious and so well put together that he thinks everyone should be the same as him. What he doesn’t understand, is that everyone doesn’t want to be like him. Especially me. I want to be exactly who I am, and I’m tired of him making me feel ashamed of that.
I say goodbye to Mom and head back to my apartment, calling Ramona right away. She comes over, and the second I see her, a tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t cry a lot, hell, I pride myself on being strong enough not to have to cry every time something goes wrong, but when my brother judges me, it makes me feel useless. I don’t like feeling useless.
“Fuck him,” Ramona says, hugging me tightly. “He’s a dick. A real piece of shit.”
I laugh and pull back, swiping my eyes. “That’s a little harsh, but mostly true.”
“Look what you’ve done for yourself, honey. You don’t need him making you question yourself. Wildflowers is yours, and it’s something you worked super hard for. Don’t let him bring you down. You’re frustrated right now because you can’t work, so let’s go and have some fun.”
“It’s eight at night, where will we go?” I ask.
“It’s not where we’ll go, it’s what we’ll do. When was the last time you relaxed?”
I narrow my eyes. I know exactly what Ramona means when she says ‘relax’ and it isn’t a day at the spa, it’s rolling a joint and smoking it. Which, I’m not going to lie, is very appealing right now. Especially considering I can’t work for a few days.
“Where will we even get hold of that at this time of the night?” I ask.
She looks next door, where, yet again, another party is raging. “I bet they have some.”
“Riggs won’t give me some of that, he can’t stand me.”
“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? He can only kick us out.”
I exhale, and then shrug. “Fine, but I need some liquid courage before facing that beast.”
She laughs and we make ourselves some drinks. When we’re feeling happy, light and giggly, we head over next door. As always people are filling the area surrounding the clubhouse, but they never come far enough out to the garage, so it really does seem like they’re not bothering anyone. Only me. I’m the only one who seems upset by their presence here.
We go to walk inside and are stopped by Hank and Beckett. The two of them step in front of us, crossing their big arms.
“I didn’t know biker clubs had security guards, I thought your nickname was Captain,” I say to Beckett, when he glares down at me.
“You’re not allowed in here.”
“Oh, come on, we’re not here to cause trouble,” I protest. “We just want ... something.”
“What?” Hank asks.
I glance from side to side. “We are looking for some bud, a bit of the ganga, we want to smoke the green pipe, we want to roll a doobie ...”