Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Part of me doesn’t even want to know. Most of me, really.
I’m no stranger to the dark side of biker life. When Mom finally decided she’d had enough, I was eleven. I still remember her rushing me into a cab in the middle of the night and driving away, leaving Dad behind. At the time I thought it was exciting. Like a movie. It took a while before I understood that it was for good.
It took even longer before I realized it was for the best.
With a heavy heart, I pick up the old jacket and sniff, expecting to get a whiff of the cologne I remember him wearing, but it’s just dusty leather. If someone had asked me to draw out all the different patches from memory, I would’ve blanked, but sitting here with it in my hands, I remember each and every one.
My feelings are all mixed up, because I loved my father with all of my tiny heart, but he was an officer in the club that nearly killed us. I never thought of him as one of the bad ones. Gruff, able to hold his own in a fight, sure, but not bad. All us kids knew who to stay away from when the club was open to family, and even if we didn’t, I remember Mom and the other old ladies always keeping one eye open.
It wasn’t scary. It was just life.
Most of the guys ignored us, some of them were fun uncles, and others lived up to the Viper name, ready to strike with little warning.
I should’ve given them the tape right away. Gotten it out of here and moved on with my life. Better yet, I should’ve recognized that the box didn’t have a normal delivery label on it and been more cautious, but my life has been so normal for so long.
There’s something stuck in the inside pocket of the jacket. Curious, I stick my fingers in there and pull it out. It’s a tiny pink vest.
My heart lurches in my chest. I snatch Ollie off the bed and put his legs through the arm holes. Oh my God. I forgot this even existed. This was why Dad bought him for me in the first place. I haven’t seen it since we left. How long did Dad carry this around with him?
Something slams downstairs.
I jackknife off the bed. Someone’s here! In a hurry, I shove everything back into the box before pushing it under my bed. I grab the gun off the nightstand next, then slowly, carefully slip my feet into my bunny slippers and pad silently across the floor. I’ve lived here for four years, and until the other night, never touched my gun aside from periodically taking it to the range to practice and make sure it was still in good condition.
If that’s the guys breaking in again, I’m going to be pissed.
Another thump, followed by swearing.
Someone’s definitely here. Voices. Just like last time. My heart jumps into my throat, and my ears start to buzz. I swallow my fear and make my way to the top of the stairs.
It’s just Alpha, Ripper and Blade.
Alpha, Ripper and Blade.
I’m going to let them have it if they’ve freaked me out again for no reason, but something keeps me from yelling their names. It doesn’t feel right. They have my number now. They know I’m home.
Conversation. Definitely more than one guy down there. The voices are indistinct, but neither has Alpha’s rumble or Blade’s deep rasp.
Are these the same guys who shot at us?
The bottom stair creaks as someone heavy puts their weight on it.
Crap, crap, crap.
I back away from the hall, taking cover behind my couch. With the barrel aimed right at the door, I count as I inhale and exhale to keep from hyperventilating. I don’t want to shoot anyone. I’ve never shot anyone. I wouldn’t even have this pistol if Dad didn’t insist on it, but it does make me feel a little safer. Just not much.
The door that separates my home from the store rattles as someone tries to open it. “Fuck,” someone growls.
“I’ve got a gun!” I yell. “I’ve already called the police!”
Bullshit, but they don’t know that.
They’re not impressed. Heavy weight bangs against the door, the sudden sound making me jump so hard I nearly pull the trigger. On the fourth hit, when the door nearly comes off the hinges, I do pull the trigger, aiming high enough that I doubt it would hit anyone but it might scare them into thinking I mean business.
It doesn’t.
A second later, the door slams open and a long-haired guy in denim and leather rolls in, low to the floor.
I get off another shot, but it goes wide and then he’s on top of me, his big hand wrapped around my wrists and pinning them down. It hurts.