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)
“Then you’ll keep your shit together.”
Trip gave him a single nod. “No other choice.”
Judge gave him a single nod back. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“You never landed anywhere, at least.”
The monster of a man simply tilted his head and grumbled, “Just never got caught.”
“Guess that’s the key.”
“That’s the fuckin’ key.”
“Speaking of keys. For now, the barn and bunkhouse won’t be locked. But there’s individual locks on all the rooms. The key to your apartment’s up there on the counter. The keys to the rooms downstairs are in each individual room. Like I said, he can pick whichever room he wants since he’s the first one movin’ in.”
“Apartment ready?”
“Just needs another coat of paint. Doin’ that this week.”
“Good fuckin’ deal. Tellin’ the landlord I’m out at the end of the month. As soon as the paint’s dry I’m movin’ in. It’ll save me a shitload of scratch. And the dogs will love it out here.”
“TV and internet are scheduled for next week, too.”
Judge grinned. “Sounds like a fuckin’ palace.”
“If a little cable and Wi-Fi’s gonna make it a palace, then you’re gonna feel like a fuckin’ king.”
They clasped hands and bumped shoulders.
“Glad your ass is on board.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” Judge threw over his shoulder as he jogged down the porch steps and cut across the grass to a waiting pickup truck with some furniture and a big screen TV in the back.
Seeing the new cut on Judge’s back gave Trip a sense of satisfaction and also one of coming home.
The Originals might have made a fucked-up family, but it was a family even so. Trip wanted to not only build on that but make it better.
He saw the mistakes made. They just needed to avoid those same mistakes. Though, that might be easier said than done.
Deacon flicked a cigarette out the truck’s window and shot him a two-finger flick in greeting. Trip returned it and shut the door, making sure to lock it, just in case.
When he turned, he realized why Judge hadn’t said anything to Stella as he left.
She was gone.
The loud rattle of her Jeep as it made its way down his long lane came through the open windows. He rushed to the front door—the door he never used—and saw it was unlocked.
She had snuck out the front.
Son of a bitch.
He opened it just in time to see the Cherokee turn right onto the paved road. He slammed the door and locked it, a weight pressing heavily on his chest.
He turned slowly, his eyes immediately landing on his grandfather’s roll-top desk.
Just what he expected. The checkbook binder and the pile of bills were gone.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growled, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, which was suddenly pounding.
His temperature was spiking, and he needed to cool off. He needed to get it under control before it swallowed him whole.
Because once it did that, there was no telling what he’d do.
Her chin rested in her palm as she frowned at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on the chipped plate in front of her. Two bites were missing from one corner, but that was it.
She couldn’t stomach eating anymore. It churned with what happened earlier. With the knowledge if she hadn’t escaped when she had, she would have let Trip do whatever he wanted to her.
And she would have welcomed it then. But regretted it later.
She had no choice when it came to Trip and the club being involved in the bar. That choice had been taken from her.
However, she did have a choice about landing in his bed. Or his kitchen table.
Or the bar’s back counter.
She had been grateful Judge had showed up when he did. It gave her a chance to escape undetected, though the club’s new Sergeant at Arms saw what she was doing and didn’t tip off Trip.
Thank fuck.
She owed Judge a beer or two on the house.
He probably wouldn’t accept it because, when he came in, he always over tipped her, knowing she desperately needed the money.
Like she was nothing but a fucking charity case.
She had come back to Manning Grove in an effort to get her life in order. To start fresh. But all it did was bog her down more. It took the monkey on her back and turned it into King Kong. The weight becoming unbearable.
Trip had asked her what happened to the eleven-year old determined bitch.
She still existed. Stella just needed to drag her back out and dust her off.
A loud pounding at the rear door downstairs not only jerked her out of her thoughts but made her jump. It sounded like the police were using a battering ram.
With her heart racing, she slipped off the stool at the counter and made her way to the window to glance down at the parking spots behind the bar.