Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I have a split second to decide if I’m going to pretend to be a dumb blonde that didn’t know any better, or hide, and since discretion is the better part of valor, I jump into my closet and pull the door closed until there's only a tiny crack to peek out through. Immediately I regret my decision. If I thought the smoke smell was bad before, being trapped in a little space with my ruined clothes makes it much, much worse. The acrid stench tears at my nose. Hopefully they just look in, decide it must have been a squirrel and leave.
“Could be squatters.” The second voice is deep, like it's rumbling up from the bottom of a well. “The apartments have been empty for months.”
Debris crunches as heavy footsteps walk through the living room.
Dust tickles my nose. I try to take quiet, shallow breaths, but once that itch starts, it’s hard to ignore. I scratch it, trying to make it stop.
“Who the fuck would squat here with the club right across the street? We have people watching around the clock and working right downstairs. It would be fucking stupid to come in here.” A third voice points out. Dark, with a hard edge. He's right, but I didn’t have a lot of choice.
“These days? The economy is shit and there’s a lot of money in materials. Pipes and fixtures are easy to grab and nobody cares if they smell a little smokey.” Raspy voice again.
“Over there,” says the deep voice. “Shoe marks. Those are fresh.”
It’s the Screaming Eagles. Crap. I can’t say I’m shocked, but I was sort of hoping it would just be construction workers. The bikers might have saved my life, but I’m not stupid. They’re also a lot more dangerous than some carpenters or plumbers.
Do I leave the closet and hope they’ll be understanding? It wouldn’t take a lot to cry. Heck, my eyes are watering just from being trapped in here. But it sounds like there are at least three of them, and I'm just… me. I took a self defense class as my gym elective two years ago, but I'm a journalism student, not a ninja.
Fate, or rather my nose, decides for me. One last tiny speck of dust tips the scales, and before I can stop myself, I sneeze loud enough to alert not just them, but probably the whole freaking building.
Silence. Maybe they didn't hear it.
Yeah, right.
“What the fuck? They’re still here.”
The closet door slams open, and a big fist shoots in, grabbing me by the shirt and hauling me out into the room. I find myself staring up at a big guy in denim and leather. Thick, black hair skims his shoulders, and a day or two's worth of stubble covers his strong jaw. Gold-flecked brown eyes, way too pretty for a guy with a gun in his belt, stare down at me from under suspicious brows. I was ready for big and dangerous, but devastatingly sexy catches me completely off guard.
And I can tell I’m not what he was expecting either, because his grip loosens and I make a run for it, pushing past him. If I'm quick enough, maybe—
Nope. I don’t even make it out of my room before someone grabs me from behind and spins me around, slamming my back into the wall so hard I lose my breath with an embarrassing whoosh and a squeak. I try to wiggle loose, but his grip is like iron. I'm not going anywhere if he doesn't want me to.
2
MILA
“Let go!” I glare up at the man holding me, trying to look confident in spite of being clearly outnumbered and outmatched.
“Like hell I will. Who the fuck are you?” It’s the owner of the raspy voice. He’s built like an athlete, with short blond hair, a close beard and hard blue-green eyes that burrow into me. He’s wearing a leather MC vest and it says ‘Scrapper’ across his right chest.
Just like the man with the long, dark hair, this Scrapper guy seems surprised by what he caught, but he doesn’t give me the same opportunity to run. His eyes rake up and down my body so intensely that I swear I can actually feel them trail over my skin. Full lips curl up into a crooked smirk, like he likes what he sees. My heart thunders, but it's not all terror. It probably should be. He's armed, just like his buddy, and black tattooed cuffs wrap around his muscled biceps on both sides. I wet my lips nervously as I hold my head high and meet his gaze.
The last guy, who is the biggest of the three, crosses powerful arms over his chest, forcing the fabric of his T-shirt to work hard for its money. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing a handy vest to tell me who he is. His hair is clipped close to his skull, but he's got a dense, brown beard to make up for it, and a chest so broad, I could sleep on it comfortably. That said, from the look in those stormy blue orbs, if I was on his chest, I'm not sure we'd be sleeping a whole lot. “Cute for a squatter,” he rumbles.