Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
We all looked at her.
“Oh, seriously?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “You girls live in a fucking motorcycle gang. You really think you should judge me?”
“Club,” Em said. “It’s a motorcycle club. Being part of a club isn’t a crime, you know.”
“Whatever,” Kimber replied, waving her hand. “I own my body. It’s totally mine, and what I do with it is my business. I danced for guys, I touched them sometimes, and they gave me lots of money. How many women get groped every day by strangers? At least I got paid up front for it. I’d do it again, and I think Sophie should, too, if she really wants to provide for Noah.”
“No way,” I said, shaking my head.
“Working at The Line isn’t a bad idea,” Maggs said, surprising me. “I tended bar there and did pretty well. That’s how I met Bolt.”
“And did anyone bother you?” I asked. She shook her head.
“It’s a controlled environment,” she said. “Nobody gets in without security knowing. They keep an eye on everything. Even in the VIP rooms, security’s always right outside the door. I was probably safer there than I am at home.”
“Did you … I can’t think of a better way to ask this, so I guess I’ll just spit it out. Did you have to walk around naked?”
“No,” she said, smirking. “Servers at The Line are like furniture from IKEA. Okay to look at, but not what you want to draw attention to. I wore a black bustier, a short black skirt, and dark tights. Blended right in.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said. Marie scowled and shook her head, but Maggs grinned at me.
“I’ll introduce you to the manager tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll be at the party. And you’re coming—no negotiation. If you don’t figure things out with Ruger, maybe you’ll come home with a job.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
RUGER
“Huge fuckin’ mistake,” Deke declared. He stood in the center of the Armory’s second-story game room, surrounded by officers from almost every Reapers charter. Usually they had church downstairs, but there wasn’t enough space for all the visiting brothers below. This group included both national and local chapter officers, and whatever decisions they made would be binding on the whole club.
“We can’t trust them, we all know that,” Deke continued. “What kind of dumbfuck sticks his head in a noose? We do this, we deserve everything we get.”
Picnic sighed and shook his head. Ruger leaned against the wall behind him, wondering how much longer they’d be going over the same points. He wanted this over with, because he’d been wound up tighter than hell since yesterday morning.
Sophie tied him in fuckin’ knots.
Not even a blow job from one of the club whores had helped. She’d barely gotten his pants open when he’d started thinking about Sophie and Noah, and it was all over. Last night he’d been surrounded by thirty of his best friends and brothers, more booze than he could drink, and free pussy on tap, and he was still fuckin’ bored. All he really wanted was to go home, read Noah a bedtime story, and then fuck Sophie’s brains out.
Picnic shifted, the sound of his chair scraping pulling Ruger out of his thoughts.
They’d been at it for nearly two hours, and so far nobody had changed their positions on the truce. Most of the men wanted to give it a shot. Ruger agreed. He thought the Jacks were walking, talking bags of shit, but at least they were a known quantity. They understood the lifestyle, and all other issues aside, they were still bikers. He wasn’t ready to throw down for a Devil’s Jack, but backing off for the duration? That made sense.
Deke disagreed.
Strongly.
“Anyone else want to talk?” asked Shade. The big man with spiky blond hair and a nasty scar across his face was the national president, a position he’d held for less than a year. Ruger didn’t know him well, but what he’d heard was good. Shade lived in Boise, although he’d made noises about moving farther north.
“I got somethin’ to say,” Duck announced, boosting his big body up off the couch. In his late sixties, Duck was the oldest member in Coeur d’Alene. One of the oldest members in the entire club, actually. He wasn’t an officer, but nobody was stupid enough to tell him he couldn’t talk. Ruger knew whatever he said could be the tipping point.
“I hate the Jacks. They’re cocksuckers and assholes, we all know it. That’s why it hurts me so much to admit this, but I think we should give the truce a shot.”
Ruger cocked his head—hadn’t seen that coming. A Vietnam vet and fighter from day one, Duck had never been the voice of peace.
“Here’s the thing,” Duck continued. “That little prick Hunter is onto something. We’re the same kind of men where it counts. We know what life is really about, and that’s the freedom to ride and live on our own terms. We joined this club because we don’t give a shit about citizens and their rules. I’ve always taken what I wanted when I wanted it, no apologies. I live free. Any laws broken along the way are just collateral.”