Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
That woman somehow got under my skin. As much as I’d like to say that I could never do the things she did to protect this Alani person, I know that’s a lie.
I did those things to fucking protect her, didn’t I?
Angel pulls up to the front door of one of the nicer hotels in Monterrey.
“How do you know they’re here?” I ask, leaning forward so I can look up the side of the building as if by chance she may be standing in one of the windows for all the world to see.
“Fox told me.”
He’d mentioned some of the other guys being there for my rescue. I figured Fox would be the last one willing to tag along, considering the man’s claim on always working alone.
“How the fuck do I find them in this massive hotel?”
“Follow the scent of fucking leather,” he says in a serious tone. “Let me know if that bitch isn’t here, and I’ll personally escort you to New Mexico.”
I look at him. The man is making it very clear that he’s not her biggest fan, despite the explanations I’ve tried to provide.
“Here,” he says when I open the passenger side door.
I look from the wad of cash in his hand to his eyes. I don’t fucking want it. It feels too much like a goddamned favor.
“I’ll take it out of your next job.”
I scoop the money out of his hand, not telling him that I doubt I’ll take another job he arranges.
Angel doesn’t hesitate to drive off the second I close the truck door. I’m left standing on the curb outside of this swanky ass hotel, in borrowed clothes, covered in bruises and scars.
I don’t acknowledge anyone as I walk inside, shoving the money in the front pocket of my jeans. I spot one of those leather-clad motherfuckers smiling and chatting with one of the front desk clerks, like he’s lining up where he’s going to stick his cock when her shift ends.
Without hesitation, I approach him.
“I want to see that woman,” I snap when he notices me, positioning his body between me and the woman behind the desk.
His fucking hero complex is coming off him in waves. The name tag identifying him as UGLY on his chest has to mean something else, because the man, on anyone’s standards, isn’t a bad-looking guy.
“No,” he says, his white teeth flashing when he sneers at me.
I might’ve been able to take this asshole to the ground if I were in fit form, but Angel was right. I’m nowhere near that right now.
“Then you’ll take me to see Kincaid,” I say, shifting gears, although I’m not certain it will keep him from knocking my lights out.
Chapter 19
Ayla
It’s day two, and although the people who have identified themselves as the Cerberus motorcycle club have fed me and left me alone, I don’t feel like any less of a captive than I felt yesterday.
I didn’t sleep well, even having a door that locks between me and them. I didn’t lock it out of fear of what trouble that may cause me. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep well again. I got too accustomed to keeping such strange hours, I could feel the emptiness of the living room from inside this room in the early morning hours. When I did try to sleep, they were active, each noise they created making me jump because it’s normal for people to be awake at fucking noon.
The high-end looking digital clock on the bedside table tells me it’s midafternoon, but I’m still sitting on the bed, watching the door.
I’m a reasonable person. I know I can get up and look out the window. I know I can go take another shower in the en suite bathroom if I want to. It hasn’t helped me get out of the bed and do any of those things. I can’t help but think they’re just another group waiting for some fucking buyer to come pick me up, that they’re waiting for funds to clear or something. They don’t have to be hurtful individual monsters to sell me to the highest bidder. People can still lack morals and not be a rapist. They can still bear witness to atrocities and do nothing to stop them.
Just like it did whenever someone walked past my doorless room, my heart rate triples when someone knocks on the door. I regret immediately not locking it, no matter that they’re knocking rather than just shoving it open.
“Y-yes?” I manage.
The woman everyone calls Slick steps into the room, leaving the door open at her back as if she thinks it will make me feel any less trapped.
“Why do they call you Slick?” I ask, desperate to know if it’s for the reason I pictured it was.
She’s pretty enough, and regardless of the wedding rings several of the men are wearing, I have no doubt she’s spreading her legs for each of them.