Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“I did look into it,” Beth says.
“And?” Em asks, turning a little in her seat so she can converse easier with Beth.
“It’s all scientific. The recipes have to be tested to ensure safety.”
Em frowns. “We aren’t scientists. How do we—”
“No,” Beth says. “There are safe, tested recipes, and if you don’t follow them to the letter, then we could end up killing people with botulism.”
Em’s frown grows bigger.
“Is this about canning again?” Kincaid asks from the driver’s seat.
“Doesn’t sound like we’ll be doing it,” Em mutters.
“I bet there might be someone at the shelter who has some experience. It’s a dying art, not a completely lost one,” Kincaid assures his wife, patting her thigh with his hand at the stop sign before putting both hands back on the wheel and accelerating the vehicle.
Safety, especially when the club members’ loved ones are involved, has always been paramount for the club.
I wasn’t with Cerberus yet when Harley lost his first wife Lana to a drunk driver, but I can only imagine how deeply it affected the club. The women no longer leave the clubhouse without being escorted. It’s not only those on the road who could cause an accident, but there’s no end to the list of people who aren’t happy with the club. Some of them are willing to hurt the ones we care about in retaliation to whatever our connection to them might be—either shutting down an operation they were a part of or we weren’t able to save a loved one they hired us to rescue.
The girls continue to chatter when Kincaid climbs out of the SUV at the postal office. He carries a package inside to be mailed, and I stand outside of the car, the guys in the second SUV with us today piling out and keeping an eye on things.
I know if it were left up to the majority of the men in the club, they’d insist that their loved ones stay on Cerberus property and stay safe at all times, but they also understand how isolating that is. Folks like Em, Misty, and Khloe don’t leave the clubhouse often. They make trips with us like they did earlier in the week for the toy run, and they also go to the shelter at least once a week, but for the most part, they’d rather stay at home.
I try my best not to get distracted at the way Beth is smiling in the backseat of the SUV as she continues her conversation with Em. Those two are getting along very well. Yesterday, Beth was the first out of the room because she was helping Em with some sort of project. She hasn’t been too keen on helping with the actual kids, and I think that has more to do with her inexperience than anything else. She did quickly agree to put together the elements the kids will need for a Thanksgiving craft they’re planning on doing.
“You going to send that overnight or go the cheapest route?”
I look over to see Hemlock glaring down at some guy I’ve never seen before.
The guy doesn’t stammer or cower which normally happens to anyone faced off with Hemlock because the man is positively massive. To tell the truth, even I’m a little scared of the guy. His eyes are empty and soulless. He’s one of those necessary evils the club requires when someone has information we need in a hurry and they aren’t very willing to give it up. He’s a negotiator of sorts, but the people on the other end always end up a little traumatized and wishing they would’ve just spoken up before he was called in. He was instrumental in Lindell after the shooting in finding out where the guy who abducted Devyn might be, after speaking with one of the guys who came to hurt the town.
“Get out of my way, asshole,” the guy growls.
The door to the delivery place opens, and once Kincaid steps out of the building, Hemlock steps to the side.
“Stupid fuck,” the guy mutters as he walks toward the building with his package in his hands.
“Problem?” Kincaid asks, his eyes darting toward the SUV to make sure Em is okay.
“I didn’t like the way he sneered at us,” Hemlock growls, his fist clenched at his side as if he’s still debating on whether he needs to teach the guy a lesson.
“Probably just worried there might be a long line,” Kincaid offers, always one to give most people the benefit of the doubt. “Let’s get to the shelter.”
I climb into the vehicle after Kincaid is settled behind the wheel, and he waits to pull away from the small strip center until the guys in the other SUV are ready to go.
“It looks like a house,” Beth whispers when Kincaid puts the vehicle in park right outside of the shelter.