Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
The engines growl to life, and Sully’s friend, Monster, glances up. He’s rugged. Like a biker should be. His eyes meet mine in a small show of solidarity as if he’s thanking me for looking after his friend, but I did nothing of the sort. It was, in fact, Sully who looked after me. And even though I don’t know if it’s even his real name, I know who he is.
As they pull away, a small salute comes my way, and then I watch the dust kick up behind the wheels of the bikes as they pull out onto the road. Once more, I’m left to my sadness. The depression I fought for so long threatens to choke me when the rumble of engines is no longer within hearing distance.
I head back inside and up to my room. When I get there, I race to the window, but the storm of red sand has long since settled, and it’s all quiet again. As if he never existed, Sully is gone, and with him, my heart.
EIGHT
CLOVER
Two Months Later
The lights dim as I twist the switch. Even though the bar is known to be a shithole, out of the way stop for bikers and truckers, I know it’s also a haven. I look after it. When my uncle offered me a job, I thought he was going to have me waitress in some café, or end up in an office in a high-rise, but this is perfect for me. It’s a place I can be myself.
It’s kept me busy, but I still think about Sully and wonder just where he is and what he’s doing. I could go to him, but there are things I can’t tell him. The truth is, I’m bad for him. He may call me Lucky Clover, but I’m far from it.
And then there’s Rogan. He hasn’t found me yet, and I’m thankful that my luck has held out. But I have a feeling this is the calm, right before my life comes crashing down. Sully will learn who I am. Not just a stranger in rehab, confessing her innermost demons to him.
I thought it would be easier than this to forget him, though. He’s so close, within touching distance, but I can’t bring myself to go to him.
As I flick the lights of the back bar off, I smile in the mirror that shows my tired expression. Nobody can take this from me. When I think back to how I ended up with Rogan, how I fell into his arms because I craved the safety, I admonish myself. My father left me a legacy when he died, and I threw it away for a man. One who hurt me.
The rumble of an engine startles me as a bike pulling up to the front breaks the silence. The headlight streams white through the windows. Surely, he can see we’re shut. Everything has been turned off, and the closed sign is hanging in the door. It has been there for at least an hour. I take my time cleaning up after a long night. Saves me having to do it in the morning.
A knock on the door forces me to stop wiping down the counter. If I ignore it, he’ll leave. I don’t really want to have to open up for someone who can’t read. Irritation skitters down my spine when another knock comes. This time it’s louder and more urgent than the first. I’m almost certain he can’t see me inside—the windows are darkened by the blinds.
But when a voice calls out, “Hello!” I know the bastard isn’t giving up so easily. And I also realize, it’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. It’s a voice I recognize.
Sighing, I round the bar and head to the front door. Lifting the blind, I come face-to-face with a man in a hoodie and a leather cut over the dark material. Half of his face is obscured, but from what I can tell, he’s ruggedly handsome. But I knew that already. I know the dangerous-looking man at my door.
His angular jaw is dark with the start of a beard, which if he left it for a few more days would be full. A shiver of desire trickles through me, but I shake it off quickly. His full lips glint with wetness under the weak yellow glow of the porch light.
“What do you want?” I call out, not wanting to open the door to him yet.
I’ve never been afraid since moving here, but the moment I’m face-to-face with him, trepidation courses through my veins. The Royal Bastards are good guys, I know this, because the previous owner of the pub told me they’re always willing to help out in the community. But right now, I’m unsure of what he wants. I can’t see a patch on his cut, but I do know he’s one of them. It has to be him. I’m sure of it.