Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
The loyalty and nostalgia in the guy’s voice was touching. Wallstreet was missed—even after all this time. “Sounds like a good deal.”
And nothing like the Club I’ve come from.
“It was. We were tight. Rolling in it. The brothers were the best bastards I knew. But then Wallstreet’s fucking tits on the side decided to get back at him for stepping out with a Club bunny. The feds had wanted him for fucking decades, and they finally managed to slap him with white-collar bullshit.”
We stopped beside a Harley and another biker dressed all in black. The stranger, with sandy-blond hair and a crooked nose, pushed off from the machine, tossing me the keys.
I caught them, tasting the animosity in the air.
Grasshopper sighed. “Don’t mind, Mo.” Turning to me, he muttered, “Mo, real name Tristan Morgan, is just a bit pissed.” Glaring at Mo, he snapped, “Get it together. You’re his master-at-arms. You have to be in for reals, dude, else no room for you in this new outfit. Boss’s orders.”
Mo crossed his arms, his teeth grinding hard. He didn’t say a word.
My fingers clenched around the keys to the whiskey-colored Harley behind him. “Having a hard time ’cause I’m a complete stranger and stepping in to be your president?”
Mo bared his teeth. “No, newbie. My attitude is because I preferred it when we didn’t have a fucking boy who’s probably jerked off more than he’s ever had a pussy. You’re not a man. What the fuck was Wallstreet thinking?”
I straightened my shoulders. “I may be young, but I’m smart and willing to learn.”
Mo laughed. “Takes more than book smarts and a kiss-ass attitude to run a Club.”
I know. I was groomed to be VP somewhere else.
My temper—the fire I’d been able to smother ever since I met Wallstreet—simmered.
“Don’t let them bitch you around, Killian. You’re in charge. You answer to nobody but me.” Wallstreet’s voice jumped into my head. All his lessons and tips—they swam in my brain, completely scrambled. As much as I hated to admit it, Mo was right. I’d gone to prison a fucking virgin. I’d been waiting.
For her.
How could I pretend to be a man when I had so many life experiences to catch up on?
Can’t think that way.
I had to project the power that Wallstreet had instilled in me. Mo was my bitch. The Corrupts were all my bitches. They had to obey or fucking leave. Those were the choices.
Pulling my shoulders back, I whispered, “Doesn’t matter what you think. It doesn’t change the fact that you now belong to me.”
Mo’s eyes widened, his leather jacket creaking over his muscular bulk. “No one fucking owns me, asshole.”
This was it—the first standoff—and I had to show my strength. I had to be dominant—to show them I deserved the right to be at the top of the pecking order.
Pulling my fist back, I smiled with grim satisfaction as it cut through the air and crunched against his nose.
The man collapsed to a knee, holding his gushing bloody face. If his crooked nose wasn’t broken before, it was now. “What the fuck—”
I might not know what pussy felt like, but I’d been in more fights than I could remember. The prison boxing team had been education for my body while Wallstreet tweaked my mind.
Grasshopper stooped and grabbed the guy beneath his armpits. “Leave it, Mo. You were being a dick. Kill is our new Prez. He takes orders from Wallstreet and no one else. If you’re so fucked off at having to obey a dude younger than you, pretend it’s Wallstreet you’re mouthing off to and we’ll see how long that shit will fly.”
Mo glowered, his dark eyes watering. I guessed he was in his early thirties. In my book, an IQ like mine and the body of a tried-and-true fighter would win every time.
“You’ve got some nerve, kid.”
I inspected my knuckles, loving the slow comprehension that I was free. Really, truly free. My life was my own again. And today marked the first day of my retaliation program.
“Name’s not Kid, it’s Kill.” Swiping a hand through the hair that I’d let grow in prison, I muttered, “And if you know my track record, you’ll know I earned that nickname for a reason. Best listen to your mate.”
Eyeing up the bike behind Mo, I said, “Do I get my own or are you riding bitch?”
Grasshopper let his brother go, punching me in the bicep. “You’ve got balls, Kill. I have a feeling you’re going to be the iron fist the Club needs.”
That’s the plan.
“You make them pay for disobeying me. Clean it out. Tear off their patches. Put an end to their fucking nonsense.” Wallstreet’s instructions were clear. The Corrupts were done. It was time for a new name.
“What happened to the guy I’m replacing?” Wallstreet had special plans for him.