Tempting Little Thief (Girls of Greyson #1) Read Online Meagan Brandy

Categories Genre: College, Contemporary, Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Girls of Greyson Series by Meagan Brandy
Advertisement1

Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
<<<<234561424>192
Advertisement2


“You don’t.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone you might never see again, no matter what you choose. Three minutes.”

I glare at the guy, trying to make sense of his words, but how the fuck can I? I killed my dad, then shot him in the heart for the fuck of it, in front of who knows how many people, and for some fucked-up reason, I’m not in a jail cell, but in the back of a fucking fancy car with champagne flutes and LED lights on the floorboard.

I’ve never even seen a ride like this in my entire life, let alone sat in the back of one.

This is a trip. Wild as fuck. Some real-life, otherworld-type shit.

A thousand questions are going through my mind, but right now, I only need the answer to two.

One. “It keeps me out of jail?”

“It does.”

Two. “My sister stays out of whatever this is?”

“She does.” He nods, looking to his watch then back to me. “So, what do you say, kid?”

“Don’t call me kid.”

His lips twitch and he cocks his head like a prick. “What should I call you then?”

I think about that a minute, then fall back against the seat, letting go of part of the name I was given and claiming a new one. “Name’s Bishop. Bass Bishop.”

He nods.

I nod.

And then we’re on our fucking way.

Chapter 1

Bass

This motherfucker …

Sighing, I crouch down, my knees bent and pointing toward the dude’s head. “If I knew you were a bleeder, I’d have stolen a car to deal with you.” My words are wasted on him. He can’t hear me, not with his ears ringing the way they should be—a pencil to the eardrum will do that to you.

Eavesdropping on conversations not meant for you will do that to you.

A deep groan pushes past the fuckup’s lips as he rolls onto his back, eyelids twitching before opening and landing on me.

My smirk is slow, and I cock my head to the side. “You conscious or still stuck in the in-between?”

His eyes close again, and my boy Hayze chuckles from behind me.

“He ain’t conscious …” he trails off, his voice coming back quieter. “And we ain’t alone.”

Wiping the blood from my knuckles along the edge of my shirt, I glance over my shoulder to find a sleek and sinful wet fucking dream.

Curves any man would die for—kill for even—and a guaranteed wicked ride.

It’s an Aston Martin, shining a custom candy-blue paint job, with a mean-ass black grill, and it only gets sexier. The doors lift straight up in the air.

You’d expect a ritzy fucker to climb out of it: the tailormade type. A stiff prick who flicks his eyes our way in disgust or disregard, but expectations are for fools, a fact that’s proven a single second later.

The first thing to come into view is a sharp spike in the form of a heel, nearly equal in size to the switchblade in my pocket, the black strap at the back of it latched tightly around a creamy, arched ankle. A pleated skirt is next. Hitting just above the knee, I follow it upward to where it stops at the fullest point of sharply narrowed hips, a tight white long-sleeve top disappearing beneath it. Large golden cuffs cover the girl’s wrists, and the small rings along her fingers gleam in the sun as she reaches up. She pushes a few strands of long, thick blonde hair back, saving them from being caught in the hot-ass pink of her lips, when a gust of wind meets her skin as if she summoned that shit herself, like some kind of fuckin’ wind deity.

“Goddamn.” Hayze groans.

Yup.

A goddess in the flesh, and no doubt, the girl knows it.

Her steps are slow and effortless, the kind stemming from years of practiced perfection.

She looks every bit the prep school princess, but it’s the shade her mouth is painted and the way her tongue slides across that pouty top lip that gives her away.

She’s no princess. She’s a piranha.

Slick, predatory … prone to bite.

Not the petty high school type.

As she heads toward the small building, behind and a little to my right, her eyes float our way, but only her eyes, narrowing on the bulky bastard on the ground at my feet. She can’t possibly spot more than an arm and the string of duct tape hanging from it, maybe a hint of his hair, but no more than that.

I shift, slowly pushing to my full height, and her attention snaps my way, holding as I turn to face her fully, ready to move in if needed. This is when we’d normally witness the freezing of the muscles, the widening of the eyes, and the quick flicker of panic that sends someone scurrying away from the big bad wolves.

If her bravado snaps and she bolts, I’m only six steps away. I’ll chase her, back her up in the corner where Hayze will be waiting, but that doesn’t happen.


Advertisement3

<<<<234561424>192

Advertisement4