Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Was he mad?”
“No. Just surprised.” I glance around at the line of classic cars rolling down the street, searching for places to park. “Speaking of surprises, there seem to be way more cars tonight than I anticipated.”
His gaze follows mine, and he nods. “Seems that way. That’s a good thing, though, right?” He gestures to the shops lined along either side of the street. “More business for the locals?”
“Yes. More variety in vehicles too.”
The corners of his mouth lift. “You thirsty? I could use a drink.”
“A little.” I point to the diner. “Their lemonade is really good.”
“I’ll grab it.” He lifts his chin to the line of cars in front of us. “While I’m gone, make a plan for what other cars you want to see.” He circles one finger in the air, his relaxed smile making it clear he’s game for whatever I choose.
“That’s easy. All of them.”
Jigsaw
Laughing, I hurry into the diner. Of course she wants to see all of them. I do too, honestly. It’s fun listening to her get so animated about cars.
I don’t want to leave her alone for too long, so I don’t bother checking out the menu and just order two lemonades.
The gray-haired man behind the counter nods to my cut. “What’d you roll in with tonight, sir?”
“Nothing.” I swipe my card through the reader without looking at the total. “My girlfriend’s got a yellow Thunderbird.”
What the fuck just came out of my mouth?
It was just easier to say girlfriend, instead of friend who’s a girl. That’s it. Nothing more.
The man frowns. “Yellow Thunderbird? Are you talking about little Margot Cedarwood?”
I narrow my eyes and pull my shoulders back. “Yeah, why?” My tone hovers between keep her name out of your mouth and fuck off.
“No reason. Didn’t know she was seeing someone. That’s all. You two have a good time.” He passes me the two cups of lemonade.
Shit. Does he know Margot’s dad? That’ll be fun if it gets back to the old man that she’s “dating” some sketchy, scarred biker.
Fuck it. What’s the old man going to do about it?
I grab two straws from the counter and head outside, scanning the area for Margot.
A flash of pink sweater and blonde hair grabs my attention. There she is. Across the street, near a 1980s silver Corvette, deep in conversation with an older, pot-bellied man in a goofy hat, too-small T-shirt, shorts, sandals, and ankle socks. Even from where I’m standing, his posture and the way he leans in close to her sends a possessive fiery streak through my veins.
For someone who seems so shy at times, she sure talks to a lot of people.
Margot’s too sweet to realize this old creep’s coming on to her. Like that guy Noah, earlier. I could tell he was debating whether he should ask for her number by the way he kept checking me out. At least he didn’t seem like a perv.
But this guy? It’s almost painful to watch her talk to the empty potato sack who’s so obviously attempting to flirt with her. He leers and smiles too wide. Laughs too loud. Keeps trying to touch her upper arm so he can graze his thumb against the side of her breast.
Satan take the wheel.
Eyes on Margot, I march across the street. Just as I called it earlier, he leans down and practically shoves his chin in her cleavage to “read” her pins.
Please curse this fool with the urge to fuck a blender.
Time to put an end to this.
I shift both cups into one hand, walk up behind Margot, and rest my free—but cold—hand on the small of her back. She startles, then leans into me, as if she knows I’m here to put a boot up this guy’s ass. She turns and stares up at me with wide, surprised eyes.
“Hey, darlin’, everything okay?” I hand her one of the lemonades and ignore the man who’s suddenly standing telephone pole straight and staring anywhere but at Margot’s tits.
“Yes, thank you.” She waves one hand in the air. “This is Glen. Glen, this is my friend, Jensen.”
Friend.
I guess introducing me as her “sex tutor” would’ve required a few minutes of uncomfortable explanation. But “friend” doesn’t sit right with me.
Glen slides his slimy gaze over my cut. His head swivels back and forth, as if he’s trying to figure out how the hell the biker and the poodle-skirted princess met each other.
“Lost Kings…I know Bricks. He’s done some work on my bike,” Glen says. “Good guy.”
At least he’s not dropping names just to hear himself talk. If he really is a customer at Rock’s custom bike shop, I don’t want to be a total dick. “Yeah, he is,” I agree. “You ride?”
“Nothing like the miles you put on your bikes.” He laughs and sweeps his hand toward the car parked next to the Corvette—a black-and-gold eighties Trans Am. “My first love.”