Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Turns out, Stormy isn’t their cook. She just pretends. If anyone is the cook, it’s Bermuda. He knows his way around the kitchen and doesn’t burn, spill, break anything in his path like she does. The girl tries, though.
I like Stormy.
It’s not her fault she’s in love with the VP of a murdering MC. I think of her as someone like me. Victims of our hearts. She’s bubbly and sassy and fearless. Unlike Juicy and some of the other girls back at my old clubhouse, she’s refreshing.
“It’s not that hard,” Bermuda says as he skins a potato. “Just like cutting the flesh off some asshole.”
I curl my lip up and he laughs.
“Bermuda is a softie,” Stormy tattles. “Look at those cheeks. A face only a momma could love.” She tries to pinch his cheeks and he swats her away.
“Do they always make you cook for the barbeques?” I ask, frowning.
“Nah. Prez says we could cater in sides and shit from Rib Crib, but I like cooking. Gibson’s brother Randy makes the best brisket. Nees’s momma will bring desserts because she’s a fucking baking queen. We all pitch in.”
It’s all so…cute.
They’re like a family.
I’m not sure why, but it ruffles my feathers. Irritates me. Makes me nervous.
I throw my attention into my tasks. The three of us make potato salad, pasta salad, a broccoli type salad with crunchy noodles in it, baked beans, and some fluffy fruit nonsense that I can’t seem to keep my fingers out of.
“Randy just pulled up,” Gibson calls out, peeking into the kitchen.
Bermuda flips his ball cap around and gives my bottom a pat on the way out. I frown and shoot a look Stormy’s way.
“These boys are ass grabbers. Get used to it. They’re affectionate in that sense and don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
I scowl as I stick the fluffy fruit bowl back into the fridge so I won’t eat any more of it. “It’s a good way to get their asses kicked.”
She puts her hands on her hips and lifts a brow. “You gonna kick their asses? Bermuda used to play football for OU right out of high school. He’s probably slapped every ass on that team the same way he slapped yours.”
It’s not like he made me suck his dick.
I guess I am being a bitch.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
“Now if Dragon grabs your ass, you gotta watch him. His hand will wander right into your pants.” She shrugs. “I mean, it’s not the worst thing to happen. You’ve seen the guy.”
My thighs clench. Ugh, ignore the hot bad guys. “I’ll cut his hand off if he tries.”
Her eyes flash with worry. “Don’t tell him that.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” She frowns. “You should go home.”
I’m stung by her sudden change of heart toward me. “Why? Because I don’t want Dragon’s hand in my pants?”
“No,” she hisses. “Because you look like you might get off on taunting him and Dragon isn’t one you taunt. I don’t think he’d hurt a girl, but I don’t know. You’d do best going home. Don’t you have a family that’s worried about you?”
“I’m not going home.” I let out a sigh of defeat. “And I won’t taunt the dragon.”
Her shoulders relax. “Good girl. Now let’s go find something to drink. Momma’s thirsty.”
I follow her outside where “A Country Boy Can Survive” by Hank Williams, Jr. plays on the outdoor speakers. People are milling about as several of the guys are setting up outdoor tables. I see a few women chatting it up as Bermuda, Gibson, and some guy who must be Randy unload big metal trays of food from the back of a Tahoe.
It’s all so…easy.
I don’t do easy.
Easy makes me uneasy.
My hackles rise and I search out the threats. What’s hiding behind the false sense of security? Dragon sits in a lawn chair, kicked back and talking to the guy named Katana. They’re both sharpening knives. Definitely the threat in this homey scene.
A little girl with brown pigtails runs over to Dragon and bounces into his lap. He grins at her, dropping his knife into the grass to tickle her.
He may look like an adoring uncle, but I’m not fooled.
Stormy prances over to Filter, who emerges from the garage, grease smeared on his bare chest. I rake my gaze down the golden god’s body, appreciating the view for a moment, before looking for him.
Prez.
Koyn the boyfriend murdering bastard.
As I search through the growing crowd of people, I take note of the property. Trees surround the compound. The house is massive and so is the garage beside it. The back patio is covered and filled with chairs. I walk to the edge of the house and peek around the corner. A giant pool fills the space and to my surprise there are kids already diving in. It must be heated.
What kind of Twilight Zone am I in?