Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
So up cranked the music.
Then we went ahead and opened the doors for parties, giving ourselves dozens of people who could attest to being in the house, and not hearing or seeing a thing. Just in case the body would be found. When we were done with it.
It worked because we were banking on the fear-factor connected to a biker club, believing that no one in their right mind would call the cops on us for a noise complaint.
And she hadn't.
But I kind of felt like a dick that she hadn't been able to work now that I knew.
I hadn't given that any thought. I hadn't even considered the fact that our neighbor would probably need some uninterrupted sleep every now and again.
Well, now I knew.
I would try to keep it down on occasion. The blasting music had just been easier. Now, I would check on shit, make sure there were times when the music wasn't blasting.
Especially since the woman clearly had some issues. My sister who'd worked in the medical field, always used to say that the crazies got a little crazier when they didn't get enough sleep.
We'd find a way to give the woman a break here and there. Just in the interest of not being assholes. Sometimes doing shit just because you could get away with it wasn't the right move.
"What was that?" Che, my Road Captain, asked, nodding toward the front window. Tall, fit, with dark hair, dark eyes, and his olive toned skin from his Cuban heritage, he'd once been a street racer, then one of my right-hand men when I'd started chopping cars years back. Before we'd decided to make the small leap to becoming an actual MC.
"Meeting the new neighbor," I said.
"The guy with the spiked mohawk, or the girl with the blue hair?" he asked.
She'd moved in about two weeks before, but no one had ever gotten a look at her. She was never coming and going from the house. In fact, she didn't even have a car, even though we lived in an area where you needed one. I guess I now knew why.
"With the blue hair," I told him.
"Looks young," he said, getting up when I walked over to turn down the music slightly.
"I dunno. Mid-to-late-twenties. Something like that."
"Who's in their mid-twenties?" McCoy, my vice president, asked, coming up from the basement. Not covered in blood for a change. I guess he'd been feeding the man down there. He had to eat if we were going to keep him alive for more questioning.
McCoy was dark-skinned with long, loc'd hair, dark eyes, and had a more solid build than the leaner Che.
"New neighbor," Che supplied.
"Yeah, she's pretty," I admitted. Because it was the truth.
When I'd first seen the scuffle going on, all I caught was some long blue hair flying around. And by the time I'd finished dealing with the man trying to force her in the car, she was starting to snap herself out of her fit—or whatever it was—drawing my attention down to her.
I hadn't exactly been starved of hot women. That was one of the things that came naturally to running an MC. Booze, fights, respect, and lots of T&A.
But she still managed to have an impact.
Because she was that kind of pretty.
Make you stop on the sidewalk kind of pretty.
The blue hair made her porcelain skin look even paler. With her strong jaw, high cheekbones, generous lips, and blue eyes, she was a kick-to-the-gut kind of beautiful.
Add in her thick thighs and killer ass, and you had one of the prettiest women I'd seen in months, maybe years.
It was a shame all that pretty seemed to stay stuck in the house all the time.
"What was going on with the guy?" Che asked.
"Her brother. Trying to force her to go out with him. Guess she's got some car phobia or some shit. She was not having it. She had a request though. An hour of quiet at eight in the morning, so she can work."
"Who only works for an hour in the morning?" McCoy wondered, brows squinting.
"Don't know. Maybe she finger-fucks herself on camera for a bunch of under-fucked husbands," I said, shrugging. "Who cares. But in the interest of being neighborly and shit, we are going to keep it down from seven to ten in the morning. Give her some peace and quiet."
"We can manage that," McCoy agreed. "He's not making much noise at all these days anyway. Think we're trying to get blood out of a stone at this point."
He wasn't wrong.
We'd managed to snag this guy on his way out of his mistress's apartment. It was rare to catch one of the Chechen mafia guys. Normally, we wouldn't fuck with organized crime. But they'd fucked with us first. We had the scars to prove it. Besides, the Chechens weren't anywhere near as powerful as La Cosa Nostra or the Bratva. Hell, they weren't even close to the Irish or the Triad, at least not in this part of the United States.