Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled toward the door, making me flinch. The pounding got louder. Horse rolled me to one side so he could get up and started toward the door, tucking his morning erection into his pants with some effort. Clearly he planned to make the noise go away.
“Horse!” I hissed. He glanced back at me, his expression questioning. “It’s probably the cops. They’re here to arrest you. Should you just open the door like that? Shouldn’t you go out the back or something while I delay them?”
That made him smile and he shook his head, bemused.
“Marie, babe, we’re not on TV,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. “What happened last night was club business. No cop’s ever gonna hear anything about it.”
“You almost killed that guy,” I replied, eyes wide. “People tend to notice stuff like that, club business or not.”
“Not a problem,” he said, shaking his head again. “We handle things like this our own way. If I’d roughed him up for no reason, it would start a shit storm like you can’t imagine. But a fucking hangaround shooting at a Reaper’s woman? Drunk and out of control? He’s lucky I got to him before Boonie. Fucking insult to the Silver Bastards, as much as me. Hell, for all I know, Boonie finished the job after I left. Now run upstairs and put on some clothes. I love that look on you, but your pussy’s flashing me and I don’t feel like sharing. Think we covered that already.”
I blushed and jumped up, having totally forgotten my lack of panties, or even a real skirt. As I ran up the stairs, I heard Horse laughing out loud as he opened the door, and then the clomping of boots as people walked in. I pulled on some jeans and one of my new Harley Davidson tank tops, which actually looked pretty cute and not nearly as slutty as I thought it would. Then I gave my teeth a quick brush and washed my face. The rest of me needed washing too, but I didn’t want to miss anything downstairs so I twisted my hair on top of my head and walked back down.
The living room was empty but I heard voices in the kitchen so I followed them. Horse was pouring freshly brewed coffee for Max and Picnic. All three men looked up as I walked in. Picnic grinned at me. Max stared at me intently, like I was some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. I nodded, uncertain of my position but wanting to hear any news they might have.
“Hear you had some fun last night,” Picnic said, leaning back against the counter. He wore his gray t-shirt, black leather boots and cut casually, but as always, his looks struck me. That grin didn’t help. I couldn’t quite reconcile the man who stood before me casually drinking coffee with the biker who’d held a gun to my brother’s head two days ago.
“Horse tells me you’re worried about him getting in trouble,” Picnic said, smirking. “Thought we might be the cops.”
I nodded, unsure what to say.
“No worries, darlin’. Horse did the right thing, Boonie already called, explained everything,” Picnic said, grimacing. “Damn, this coffee tastes like ass, Horse. So Marie—for what it’s worth, Boonie feels like shit about what happened. And knowing Darcy, he’s gonna catch more shit about it for a long time. Apparently she’s taken a liking to you, wanted to be sure and let you know you can call her any time. Bitch woke me up at seven in the fucking morning to give me the message.”
He shook his head, looking annoyed. Apparently Picnic liked his sleep.
“Don’t let Boonie hear you call his woman a bitch,” Horse said dryly. “Man’s whipped, might take offense. Remember last time?”
The guys all laughed and I felt completely out of my depth.
“I don’t have her number,” I said, deciding to focus on little details—like Darcy’s phone number—rather than the fact that we were calmly discussing Horse almost killing a man with his bare hands last night.
“It’s in your new phone,” Picnic responded, grabbing a large, padded envelope from the counter and tossing it to me. I managed to catch it, awkwardly, and opened it to find my car keys, a cell phone and a section of newspaper folded open and highlighted. I pulled out the paper first. It only took about four short sentences to describe the total destruction of our trailer by fire. Resident Jeff Jensen was uninjured, had been found outside, inebriated. No official cause yet, but the fire appeared to be the result of a pipe left burning on the carpet.
My hands shook as I put it back in the envelope.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” said Picnic, and he actually sounded like he meant it. “But we had to get rid of any evidence. Also part of the message to other clubs. Either your trailer or your brother.”