Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Stilettos,” she said.
“Right on the other side of the couch. There’s a hoop too on the table there that I thought might go with the pumps.”
Her hand went to her ear.
“Oh, right, thanks,” she said, giving me a tentative smile.
“Here,” I said after she got her shoes on and slipped in her earring. Walking across the room, I handed her a sports drink. “Make sure you rehydrate,” I said as her car pulled up out front.
“Thank you,” she said, smile going warmer, more comfortable.
I watched her go, thinking that I would be okay with this being my little role in their world.
Being with Detroit.
Cleaning up after the parties.
Making sure the girls got on their way with all their belongings and with some electrolytes so they didn’t have too bad of a hangover.
I was happy with that arrangement.
“My favorite girl!” Raff declared, coming into the kitchen with his hair in about eight different directions, his blue plaid pajama pants low on his hips, and no shirt on.
Were those bite marks on his shoulder?
I forced my gaze away.
“You say that to all the girls,” I said, smirking at him.
“That’s not untrue,” he agreed as he made a beeline for the coffee maker.
“How about some water first?” I suggested, waving toward where I had several set up alongside different flavors of electrolytes.
“Look at you, looking out for me. If you weren’t Detroit’s girl, I’d snatch you up and make you mine,” he said, snagging a bottle of the orange flavor, but still making his way right to the coffee machine.
If you weren’t Detroit’s girl…
I knew I probably should have corrected him.
I wasn’t Detroit’s girl.
But, God, did it feel good to hear that, to have other people think that.
“Is Detroit, ah, working today?” I asked as Raff put an ungodly amount of sugar and cream in his coffee before taking a long sip and letting out a groan.
“Working? No. Not that I know of,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe he went to the gym,” he said.
Oh, right.
The gym.
I’d almost forgotten the place existed.
That was crazy, of course. I mean I went there almost every day of my life for the past several years. I spent more time there than I did anywhere else but my bed.
But a few days away and… it was like I’d Etch-A-Sketched the place right out of my head.
Maybe that was some sort of, you know, trauma response, given what had happened the last time I’d been there.
I’d somehow managed to avoid the memories almost since I’d arrived at the clubhouse. Now, though, they all came flooding back.
It was like I was right there again.
In the gym, getting handcuffed and read my rights. Being pushed into the back of a cruiser. Being booked and stuck in a cell. Being questioned about drugs. Being transferred to jail. The fear, uncertainty, lack of sleep, hunger, and bone-deep confusion about how my life had taken this big of a turn.
“You alright, pretty girl?” Raff asked, head dipped to the side, watching me with red eyes. “You look a little… sick,” he said.
“What? Oh. Ah, yeah. I’m feeling a little off,” I admitted. “Maybe I just need some fresh air,” I decided, thinking maybe a walk around the yard might clear my head, let me think clearly again.
“Ev,” another voice said, coming into the kitchen, looking a little less wrecked than his brother, but not by much. “Didn’t mean to overstep,” he said, moving toward me. “But your phone was ringing over and over,” he said, waving it at me. “So I went in your room to grab it for you.”
“Oh! Thank you,” I said.
Honestly, I was shocked it was still charged. I’d barely even glanced at it recently.
My finger swiped across my screen to wake it up, wondering if it had been Simon who’d been calling so frantically, if he had some sort of break in the case.
But it wasn’t Simon in my call log.
It was my mom.
Oh, God.
Had she heard the news? Did things like my arrest make the news? I hadn’t even considered that.
“You okay?” Riff asked, watching me with his brows drawn together.
“What? Yeah. Sorry. It’s my mom,” I said. “I have to call her back,” I added, moving toward the front of the house, stealing whoever’s jacket was hanging there, and moving outside.
There was a bite to the air, even though the sun was up and doing its best to warm the world, only to find it was just too far away to really manage the task.
I walked toward the back of the house, hyper-aware that I wasn’t supposed to be caught at the biker clubhouse. As far as the world was concerned, I was supposed to be sitting in my apartment, waiting for my trial.
As soon as I rounded the building, several of Morgaine’s chickens came running toward me, letting out little clucks that I found oddly comforting as they looked up at me, expectant, wanting treats.