Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“You’re up.” He nods.
Walking around the bar, I move a few things around to make it look like I actually work here. My eyes lift and meet a man across the room. My breath hitches, every nerve in my body awakening. Short-cropped hair gives me full focus to his beautiful face, thick lips, strong jawline, and a body you can tell is defined beneath the clothes he’s wearing. Damn, they do little to hide it. He casts a skeptical eye around the place then back to me as I take the drink from the old man behind the bar and make my way over to him. The closer I get, the more unnerving being this close to the man becomes. I’ve been around good-looking men my whole life. My brother’s club seemed to be a magnet for rough, sexy as hell men. But there was something that set this man apart. His body and gaze was biker but that face belonged on Hollywood billboards.
Placing the drink down, my eyes drop to his cut, and my stomach plummets. “You’re a Bastard,” I breathe out, a wave of nausea stirring my stomach.
“A little too soon to be determining that. That’s usually reserved for after sex.” He smirks, and it’s stunning.
“A Royal Bastard,” I say stupidly, taking too much time to register him implying we’d have sex. Reaching forward, he grabs the shot glass and swallows the entire thing before I can stop him. “You shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, shifting my eyes to the men in the booth next to him. They were brought here today when I was. It’s a trap. Flinching a little, the Bastard’s brow crashes, the drugs working fast into his system. “What the fuck did you give me?” he growls, his hand whipping out toward me, making me shift out of my seat to put distance between us. The men who were sitting beside us begin sliding out their booth. Moving like an agile cat, the Bastard brother jumps up and leaps over the table, a blade in his hand and manic look in his eyes.
Chaos erupts as they rush toward him, attacking. Shouting and smashing vibrates the air all around me. I try to take cover, managing to put a couple tables between me and the mayhem, but I’m too transfixed on the brother’s strength and determination to turn my back and head for the exit. He manages to overpower both men before he starts wavering on his feet. Pulling a gun from his cut, he searches the room, his eyes stopping on me.
Shit.
My heart booms in my ears. I almost pee myself as my hands shoot up in the air. The arm he has outstretched jerks around, then he’s falling. His body hits the floor with a heavy thud, the gun clattering from his grip. I close my eyes for a second to regain my composure, taking deep breaths.
“He was a hard motherfucker,” one of the men declares, out of breath, clutching the knife imbedded in his shoulder.
“Hence why we needed to drug him,” the other one whines, clutching his knee. Acid hits the back of my throat. My insides are coiled like a spring.
Moments later, more of Fisher’s men arrive, scooping up the Royal Bastard brother like he’s a sack of potatoes.
“Where are you taking him?” I murmur, reality sinking in. I just betrayed one of Jameson’s club members.
“What do you care?” the one with the blade in his shoulder bites out, glaring at me. Blood drips down his shirt. His expression is pinched in pain. “You did your part. Go sit and wait for Fisher,” he orders me. Part of me wants to argue, but shock has made my legs feel like jelly.
Taking a seat at the bar, I refuse the shot glass the bartender slides in front of me, a clear liquid inside just like the one I took to the brother. “It’s just vodka.” The old man behind the bar smirks.
“I’m fine,” I offer with a tight smile.
A few minutes later, Fisher pushes through the door, a beaming smile on his face, his eyes scanning the bar. I’m shaking, not knowing what the hell is going on, and fuming that I’m even in this situation in the first place. “You did good,” he tells me, clasping my face in his palms. “Time to go. It’s wet out there. You want to ride on my bike or in the truck?”
I know what it means to ride on the back of a biker’s bike. He would be claiming me as his. “Truck.” I wave a hand at my clothes and shrug.
“Okay. Ripley will bring you.” He jerks his chin to someone behind me. Without turning, I already know it’s the creep from my mother’s house. Great. Fisher must see my reservations because he adds, “You’ll be safe with him. He’s not allowed to fucking touch you.”