Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
He let her sleep undisturbed in his own damn bed.
He relegated himself to an uncomfortable couch.
He could’ve woken her up and kicked her out.
He hadn’t.
He could’ve told her no when she asked if her band could play, even for only tips.
He hadn’t.
He could’ve said no when she asked to use his shower.
He hadn’t.
She closed her eyes and simply breathed.
In…
Out…
He didn’t have to agree to any of it. But he did. All for her.
Why? She was nobody to him. He probably felt sorry for her. For her situation. A situation he didn’t know anything about.
Living in that damn bus, they weren’t technically homeless, but might as well be. Most times they relied on the generosity of others. Whether it was spare change, expiring food, or even truckers donating their shower credits.
Generous people like him.
Dodge.
The name on the front of his vest he wore last night.
She recognized that type of vest. What it was. What it meant. They’d played in several biker bars in the past.
Those bars had been rough. Even a bit scary.
Crazy Pete’s didn’t hold that same vibe. It seemed to be more of a neighborhood bar. A mix of folks.
But he was a biker. His vest screamed it, even if his look didn’t.
The young guy, the tall skinny one, working the bar with him was one, too. But his bottom rocker identified him as a prospect. His front name patch said “Possum.”
Last night, no one else in that bar wore a “cut.” A term she learned in one of those biker bars when a burly, bearded biker became way too friendly.
Too handsy.
Too demanding.
Rex had taken a fist to the face and Nico ended up with a black eye just to get her the hell out of there.
Another reason she’d never just dump her bandmates. Rex, Nico and Eddie had been the only ones there for her.
If it wasn’t for them…
She continued to stare at Dodge, dead asleep.
She needed to get the hell out of his apartment and needed to do it now. She had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t matter. It was time to go.
She went back to the bed, unplugged her phone from the charger, grabbed her backpack and turned to leave. She only took a few steps before she saw it.
His cut. Hanging over the back of one of the stools at the tiny kitchen counter. The place where he probably ate since the apartment was too small to have a kitchen table set in addition to the two stools at the counter.
His place was basic. A bed. A couch, a galley kitchen, a bathroom. And, of course, a large screen TV. It wasn’t anything fancy, it wasn’t even clean. Or even neat.
But it was his domain.
It held his scent. It held him.
A biker. A bar manager. A man who had a little empathy toward her plight, even though he didn’t even know or understand it all.
She took the few steps needed to get to his cut and trace her fingers over the large embroidered patches on the back.
Just like the large tattoo she had seen on his bare back, the top rocker said Blood Fury. The bottom said Pennsylvania. A small square patch to the side consisted of two letters: MC. The large center patch was a skull and crossbones with blood dripping out of the empty eye sockets and the mouth.
Blood Fury MC.
She chewed on her bottom lip as she stared it for a few more seconds.
Then she got the fuck out of there as quickly and quietly as she could.
Chapter Five
The bus door opened with an ear-splitting, headache-causing creak, making her wince and reminding Syn that they needed a new can of generic brand WD-40. Nico climbed up the steps with a large box in his arms. What peeked out of it looked like food.
Lots of food.
“Where’d that come from?” Rex asked, his brow pulled low.
Syn wanted to know that, too.
Nico tipped his head back toward the open door that was letting in all the cold and the little heat they had out. “I was outside pissing behind a bush and some chick pulled up in a Chevy and dropped off this box.”
Rex squeezed behind him to pull the door shut.
“What?” Syn asked. “Just some random chick?”
Nico shrugged and slid the cardboard box onto the small counter. “No. She said she was instructed to drop it off.”
Their “kitchen” was a hell of a lot smaller than what Dodge had in his apartment. It was a joke to even call it a kitchen. Not with only two feet of counter space, a tiny single sink with a leaking faucet, a microwave that was about thirty years old and a fire hazard, and a dinged-up mini-fridge plastered with magnets from some of the locations they’d played. A set-up similar usually found in a small motorhome. One from like 1978. Just like the rest of the bus.