Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Brenna laughed along with her while Lock rolled his eyes. Their gazes locked, and he winked. She couldn’t keep the broad grin off her face if she tried.
He might need some help to see it, but he was a lucky man. The chosen family he’d found was overflowing with incredible men and women. Where she’d been fearful of them only days before, Brenna now found herself craving their company. Envy tugged at her. She was far more alone in the world than he was. Liv and any of his club family would go above and beyond for him and his son without question.
What did she have?
An ex who’d tried to trade her like property?
A few cousins scattered across the country?
Friends who mainly were Oliver’s and would never speak to her again?
At least she had one thing going for her.
A brand-new fuck buddy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“LOCK? A WORD?” Curly stuck his head out of his office and called into the clubhouse’s main area.
The hair on the back of Lock’s neck rose. He hadn’t had a one-on-one conversation with his prez since the man came to his home and offered the gravest of ultimatums.
Get clean, or get the fuck out of his club.
Curly hadn’t been quite as blunt, but the meaning came through loud and clear. Luckily, the prez and his ol’ lady were absolute rock stars. They not only helped find a rehab center that was on the edgier and more progressive side while not affiliated with a church, they cared for Caleb the entire time he couldn’t and paid for the whole goddamn thing, a debt Lock would never be able to repay financially.
But one he’d work his ass off to pay back in trade, basically dedicating his life to the club and never fucking up.
The pressure felt suffocating at times.
“Shit,” he muttered as he slid off a bar stood where he’d been chatting with Ty.
Ty squeezed his shoulder. “Nothing to stress about, brother. The big man just wants to check in.”
As VP, Ty would know if Curly had an issue or if Lock had done something to erase the hard work he’d put in over the past few months. His words, which should have provided comfort, fell flat as Lock’s brain churned with anxiety.
“On my way, Prez,” he called back.
“Seriously, Lock, no worries.” Ty winked, grabbed his drink, and meandered outside. Of all his club brothers, Ty was the one Lock knew the least well. The VP tended to keep to himself more than the others. Plus, as the owner of the town’s most profitable tire shop, Ty had a fucking insane work schedule.
“Thanks.” He cracked his neck and then strode toward Curly’s office. Hopefully, the extra swagger in his step made him look like the confident, badass biker the cut proclaimed him to be instead of a panicked kid on his way to the principal’s office. “Hey, Prez,” he said as he rapped his knuckles on the frame of Curly’s door.
Curly glanced up, then gestured toward the empty chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.” He pushed back from his desk and folded his arms across his chest. Thirteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit had given the prez a glare and a steely exterior he’d never shake. That kind of brutal experience changed a man’s DNA and altered their personality permanently. He was a tough motherfucker but also a loyal and fair president who’d lay down his life for his MC family.
“Everything okay, Prez?” he asked, unable to keep the apprehension out of his voice.
Weak.
Curly studied him for a moment without answering the question. The seconds ticked by slower than a fucking prostate exam. Lock became hyperaware of every sensation in the room—the tick of a vintage Harley clock on the wall, the hum of Curly’s computer, and the bead of sweat rolling down the center of his spine.
“Just checking in,” Curly finally said. “Haven’t had a chance to catch up since you were discharged from rehab. You seem damn good, brother. Really fucking good. I love seeing it.”
As though he was a balloon Curly pricked with a pin, the tension hissed out of him until he sagged in the seat. “Shit, Prez,” he said as he rubbed his forehead. “Not gonna lie. Thought you called me in here to rip me a new one.”
Curly tilted his head. “What for? Guilty conscience?”
Huffing a half laugh, Lock said, “Something like that. I’m doing all right. My head’s on straighter than it’s been in a long time, and I haven’t slipped up. I won’t let you down again.”
Curly drew back as though startled by the words. “That what you think you did? Let me down?”
Lock snorted. “You, the club, my sister, my son. Name it.” The list went on and on, unfortunately.
“Hmm.” The prez leaned forward. “Well, that’s a load of horseshit.”