Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“Jesus fuck, woman,” he murmured, scared she had some sort of mental break.
Had he drove her to it? Was this his fault? Had he pushed her too hard?
It was never his intent to hurt her.
For fuck’s sake, if he caused this...
“I can’t do it anymore,” she cried. “I can’t.”
“Hey—”
“I can’t take anymore. I can’t.”
“Stella—”
She wasn’t hearing him.
“I can’t. I have nothing left.”
She wasn’t seeing him.
“I’m empty. I’m empty. I have nothing left.”
She rolled to her side in the narrow space between the front and back bar. Pulling her knees into her chest, she pressed her face to them and wrapped her arms around her head.
“I have... nothing left,” came on a broken sob and it fucking pierced his heart.
He scooped her curled up body into his arms, her fingers automatically burrowing into his shirt under his cut.
“Nothing,” she repeated, her voice thin as she clung to him.
He strode to the door leading to the storage area behind the bar and kicked it open. Without missing a stride, he carried her through the dark but clearly empty area which should be full. With boxes of liquor. Empty kegs. Cases of beer. Cases of snack foods. The things needed to run a successful bar. There was none of it.
He’d deal with that problem later.
But now he was dealing with the woman in his arms.
Right now she was his priority.
He carried her up the back steps to the apartment above the bar. He didn’t want to kick the door in and break the lock, so he hoped it was unsecured.
It was.
By shifting her in his arms, he managed to both hang onto her and open the door, using his boot to slam it shut behind him.
A light over the stove was the only light in the dark apartment until he spotted a switch by the door. He flipped it and muttered, “Jesus fuck,” under his breath.
The apartment was a complete shithole.
The furniture, the décor, the wallpaper and carpet from the early ‘80s, if that.
The place was like an efficiency. There was no separate bedroom. Everything was in one open space and not a big one at that.
A bed was in one corner, in another an outdated galley kitchen with the old almond-colored appliances, and next to that was what looked like a door to a bathroom, which hung crookedly on its hinges.
That was it.
It was neat and orderly, but everything was old, worn and outdated.
He moved to the bed, wondering how old the mattress and box spring were, but the only other choice was to put her on the old plaid couch, and he figured her sheets were cleaner than that.
He gently placed her on the bed and she once again curled up into a ball, no longer sobbing, but trying to hide her quiet crying.
With a little wrangling, he got her knee-high leather boots unzipped and one at a time, he tugged them off, tossing them to the floor. Then he shrugged out of his cut, placing it on a rickety wooden chair next to the bed. He was too scared to sit in it to remove his own boots, so he sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced them, tugging them off. The whole time his eyes stayed glued on her.
He couldn’t see her face because it was tucked in her arms, but it sounded as if her crying stopped, though her breathing was still unsteady and her body curled tight.
He didn’t bother to pull back what looked like a hand-quilted bedspread, probably one from the local Amish and also the nicest thing in the apartment. The rest of it could be burned without a great loss.
He spooned her, his chest to her back, and snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. He nuzzled his nose into her hair and breathed deeply.
He didn’t know what had happened and wasn’t going to ask. He figured most of it was from her bone-deep exhaustion and being overwhelmed by a failing business.
He promised her silently that would change.
She had hit bottom, so there was no place left to go but up.
She didn’t want his help, but at this point, he wouldn’t give her the choice not to accept it. Otherwise, she was right. She’d have nothing left.
Right now, she still owned half a bar and she had him.
And with him came the club.
Eventually, her tense body relaxed into his, but he didn’t loosen his hold. Even when he suspected she’d fallen asleep.
He remained there, holding tight, wanting to protect her, even though that might be the last thing she wanted.
When they were kids, the club was supposed to be family. It ended up being anything but.
Brothers became enemies. Kids became strangers.
He had witnessed the tight-knit family that the Dirty Angels were and he wanted that. Craved that. He needed that sense of family, of belonging, of having loyal brothers at his back.