Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“You know. New, rookie, tenderfoot.” I shrug.
He laughs, the soft rumble in his throat, rough and masculine. “Did you seriously just say tenderfoot?”
I shrug and then continue, “Why are you not higher ranked?”
“I don't want to be, I am here for Flynn, the president. He is my best friend, family, a brother.”
He huffs and pushes back from his desk to get up, knocking a file folder full of papers off onto the floor in front of me in the process. Papers fly out of the folder, landing around me on the floor. Instinctively I bend over to pick up the mess. He lets out a groan and then walks around the desk, coming up behind me. From the corner of my eye, I see him start to bend down to help but he stops, his eyes go wide, and he mutters, “What the fuck?” Before I can stand up to see what is wrong, I feel him grab my arms. He pushes them together tightly behind my back and picks me up, throwing me over the desk.
“Get the fuck off me!” I seethe. Putting his body on top of mine, he pins me down so I can’t move. My arms are stretched out in front of me on top of the desk, my cheek screaming with pain from being pressed against the hard wood. I feel him grab the gun from my waistband. Then shaking it in front of my face, he growls in my ear, “What the fuck are you doing bringing a gun in here?” His hot breath against my neck makes my skin prickle and my legs tremble. Before I can answer, he lays the gun on the desk then moves back and with one hand placed on my back, he pins me down while his free hand comes down and smacks my ass hard.
“Ow, hey!” I yell. Damn, that stings. Smack. He hits my ass again. “Ow, what are you doing?” I scream. Damn, that really hurts. Smack. He does it again, this time making tears prick the backs of my eyes. “Please stop!” I plead, my voice low and strangled.
Lying back down on top of me with his teeth grazing the side of my ear, he growls, “Answer my question. Why did you bring a gun in here?”
“Are you serious?” I sputter. Not believing he would not know why.
“What do you think?” he answers, pushing down on me harder, making me wince in pain.
“Ahhh.... I'm a girl.... bringing an ounce of marijuana in a motorcycle club.” My voice is strangled from trying to hold back the tears, my legs trembling in fear.
“Do you even know how to use it?” he asks, rising off me a little so I can breathe easier.
“Point and shoot,” I answer hesitantly, not sure if this is a trick question.
Getting off me, he grabs the gun off the desk and barks, “Get up.” I stand up slowly, my whole body trembling in fear as he stands in front of me, staring at me with his lips pursed in anger, my gun in his right hand. I want to punch him in the face, but he’s the one with the weapon now. “Come with me,” he demands, grabbing my arm with his left hand, dragging me toward a leather couch that sits along the right wall of the room.
“Sit!” he orders, letting go of my arm and pointing to the couch.
I sit down on the couch, wincing from my stinging behind. He sits down beside me. “Tear it down,” he orders. Placing the gun on a wooden coffee table that sits in front of us.
“Tear it down?” I question, looking at the gun on the table then back to him.
“Yes, tear it down like you’re going to clean it,” he explains.
“You’re serious?”
He doesn’t respond, he just looks at me with an alpha energy.
Hell, I didn’t even know you could clean it. I get out my phone and swipe the screen to unlock it. “Who are you calling?” he asks, grabbing my hand to stop me.
“No one,” I answer, my voice shaky from the feeling of his hand touching mine.
“Then what are you doing?” he asks not moving his hand.
“Googling how to tear it down,” I answer seriously, looking back at my phone.
“Jesus!” he replies, rubbing his face with his hand, clearly frustrated. He stands up and paces a few steps back toward the desk, muttering something I can't understand. Then he turns around and stomps back toward the couch and shouts, “You will not be getting this back!” Then reaching down, he picks up the gun from the coffee table and puts it in the front waistband of his jeans.
I stand up, putting my hands on my hips, while staring back at him angry that he thinks he can bully me and shout, “You can't take my gun!”