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 men around me spoke with an American looseness. Short, to the point, with a slight drawl. I spoke with a subtle difference… sounding vaguely posh with clipped consonants and drawn-out vowels.
“Get them inside. We’ve got a shitload of work still to do. This damn shipment wasn’t due until tomorrow, and I want them locked up tight before other shit hits the fucking fan.”
The voice came from another man in an identical brown leather jacket. He had black hair, cut short into a slight mohawk. The large emblem stitched onto the back of his jacket depicted an old-fashioned abacus with a skull burning with fire and a waterfall of coins spewing from its mouth. The motto PURE IN THOUGHTS AND VENGEANCE. CORRUPT IN ALL THINGS THAT MATTER. encircled the image.
A motorcycle club.
Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, slipping down my spine like a glacial melt. The fear I’d been missing sprang into being like wintery needles. A headache pressed on my temples as I tried to understand my sudden horror. Why did terror affect me now, but not when I’d woken to being kidnapped?
What could be worse than being stolen and trafficked?
They can.
I waited for a memory—for another snippet of truth. But nothing came.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around my waist. I scanned the garage, searching for him—the green-eyed earthquake who sent my blood rushing and heart to flush.
Something inside me recognized him. He recognized me. Either fiction or reality, I needed to see him again. I needed to question him while staring into his eyes, searching for the truth.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Three men surrounded us, penning the other women closer together. “Move, bitches. Time for your welcome party.” With narrowed gazes, they herded us forward.
Questions ran through my head.
Who were they?
What were we doing here?
What did they plan to do?
Curiosity burned, but I didn’t voice my questions. I remained silent.
“Silence is ammunition, darlin’. Don’t give it up before you’re sure of the facts and know you can win.”
The fleeting memory gave no hint as to who told me that, who they were, and where I’d come from. I felt as if I were still blindfolded—lost to everything, even though my eyes were unhindered.
Leaving the parking garage, I followed the trail of girls through a thick door and down a narrow grey corridor. The men didn’t touch us; they didn’t draw weapons or raise their fists.
There was a calmness about them that transferred to us as their victims. The women trembled, an occasional hitch in their breath as they cried quietly, but no one screamed or did anything to shatter the brittle truce.
The corridor twisted, leading into a large room with a few scattered couches, a large red rug, huge pictures showing an eclectic mix of enlarged magazine covers, and shelving ringing the walls with every liquor and spirit bottle imaginable. The bare floor was worn, satiny wood, with the occasional pockmark from… bullets?
The stylish room was nothing like I envisioned. I thought an MC Club would be strewn with litter, discarded reading material, and other gang-related messiness.
The hygiene of the place was impeccable.
Who are these people?
Two of the men turned to face us, cocking their heads. “Stand in a line.”
The women shuffled, standing behind one another quickly.
“Not like that. Goddammit, a line!” The older of the two with sandy-blond hair grabbed the second woman, hauling her level with the first. Repeating the same with the third and fourth, he arranged the five women until they all stood shoulder to shoulder.
I didn’t wait to be manhandled; I moved to position without being told. But instead of heading to the bottom of the sad little lineup, I squeezed myself into the center.
Straightening my spine, I kept my face blank as the black-haired man raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Good enough, I suppose.”
A chill darted down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I just knew.
He’s here.
Awareness was a woodpecker knocking tiny holes into my soul as I tilted my head, looking over my shoulder.
Walking tall—taller than most of his entourage—he moved with dangerous grace. A mesmerizing war between a fighter’s bulk and a dancer’s elegance.
His black jeans and T-shirt hid the puddle of blood well. He’d zipped up his dark brown jacket, further hiding whatever injury he’d sustained in battle.
Planting himself in front of us, he glowered at each woman. The other men faded behind him, his army of leather-jacketed warriors all beaten up, bruised, bloodied, and war-weary.
What had they been fighting over? What was this place?
The man never looked at me, skipping my awareness as if I were invisible.
My mind was more intrigued by my predicament than the most important question I continued to ignore. I didn’t want it to form because the moment it did, it would itch my brain until it drove me mad.