Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Is he trying to make me hate him?
I’m almost certain he is, because he surely wouldn’t be saying the things he is if he wasn’t trying to send me over the edge with the kind of hate there is no coming back from. His words are crushing, but he knows that. It’s why he’s saying them. Calmly, I straighten myself up, not showing a single ounce of emotion as I smooth down my dress.
He doesn’t move.
As always, he stares at me with those vacant eyes.
I’m so tired of him looking at me like I mean nothing.
“If you want any more of me, then you’re going to give all of yourself, otherwise, from now on, we’re nothing more than business partners.”
I jut my chin out at the end of my sentence and turn, walking out of the shed.
Proud of myself, even just for a moment.
As soon as I’m outside, the cool air hits my skin, and I’m determined to walk out of here with my pride intact. Western might think he has the upper hand, but I’m not going to allow it any longer. I’m getting the hell out of here, and I’m going to try and heal my heart because damned if that biker takes any more from me.
I take two steps towards the group of people when I hear it, the distinct sound of gunfire.
It comes out of nowhere, echoing through the black night with a popping sound. The kind of sound you never think you’ll hear in your life. The kind of sound that makes your skin crawl and your body go into fight or flight, turning into a statue as you try to figure out what the hell is going on.
I can’t seem to move, my feet are firmly planted on the ground, even though I know I should run. Eyes darting, I try to see into the distance, and there are bikers running really fast, barking things I can’t even seem to make out. A woman screams. Another shot rings out.
What the hell is going on?
“Western!” I finally manage to screech.
Without a second to process, I find myself face first on the ground, dirt covering my face as a hard form flattens me out from behind. Coughing and gasping, I struggle, terrified. Western’s low, gravelly voice fills my ears as he growls, “Go in the shed. Lock the door. Do not fuckin’ come out. Gun beside the bed. Use it if you’re in danger.”
Gasping in both shock and fear, I nod as he pushes off me.
Without looking back, I crawl toward the shed just as another shot rings out.
What the hell is going on?
Why is someone shooting at the club?
I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sit there; it could be minutes; it could be hours. My back is pressed against the shed door, my knees are up near my chest, and I’m closing my eyes, trying to drown out the yelling coming from outside. The gunshots stopped, but the chaos hasn’t. All I can hear are bellows of rage, and maybe pain. Is someone hurt? Is Western hurt? It feels as though time is going so slowly, and the panic lodged in my chest is making it hard to concentrate on staying calm.
“Bonnie?”
That’s Mex’s voice.
I quickly scramble to my feet and turn, swinging the shed door open to see Mex, covered in dirt and ... is that blood? He’s looking at me, his eyes full of what would appear to be fear and concern. It’s not the look I was expecting, and I’m terrified to know what it is he’s about to say.
What the hell happened out there tonight?
“Mex?” I say, my voice shaky, my fists clenched into tiny balls. “Please tell me what’s happening?”
“Trader was shot tonight. He didn’t ... he didn’t fuckin’ make it. Night is losing it. Nobody can calm him down. You’re the only option.”
Trader.
I haven’t met him officially, but I know he’s a member of the club. I’ve seen him around, heard of him being spoken about, and know that, regardless, he is family to these guys. My heart breaks and the confusion only deepens.
“Who ... who did this?”
“That doesn’t matter. We got cops swarming, people lingerin’ waitin’ to hear the details, and we’ve got a President who is goin’ to take a match to the clubhouse if he isn’t calmed soon.”
Hesitation fills me, my thoughts swirling.
They want me to calm Western?
Me?
“He ... he won’t let me in, Mex.”
“Please.”
The pain and exhaustion in his voice has me nodding, even though I’m not entirely sure what I’ve gotten myself into. With shaky legs, I follow him toward the chaos. He’s right, flashing blue and red lights alert me to the fact that the police have already made it here, and there are people outside of the clubhouse fence, staring in, some of them reporters. How many men were shot tonight? And by whom?