Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Reality came roaring back in.
“Let’s get you out of here, my friend,” Preacher said, pulling me away from the crowd towards my ride. “Me and Doc will handle the Renegades. Better if you aren’t here for that part.”
I nodded and did as he said without protest. I knew no one would call the cops. This was an outlaw bar and an outlaw issue. Our kind liked to handle this sort of shit ourselves.
“Make sure the girl is okay.”
“Yeah, we will.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Think nothing of it. Now, git.”
I rode back to the clubhouse like a bat out of hell. Doc wasn’t there, obviously, never mind that he was technically in another club. We all shared Doc and Preacher, as well Law, and a couple of other guys with highly specialized skills.
That meant whoever was handy and not completely wasted had to stitch me up. I knew without looking in the mirror that I was going to have a scar.
When I closed my eyes, I could still hear the girl’s screams.
CHAPTER ONE
Vice
“We got a live one,” Trace muttered as Cain called the meeting to attention. The fucker actually sat up straight in his seat for once, instead of lounging like a gamer who’d been glued to his computer since birth like usual. He was probably responding to the urgency in Cain’s face as he closed the door and took a seat in the sterile conference room, his military training showing clearly in his ramrod straight posture.
Trace and I exchanged a look. Cain shutting the door was unusual. After all, we were the only ones here today. No clients. None of the guys who did leg work for us. None of the secondary security team. It was just us.
And still, he closed the door.
Which meant, something big was up.
“This is highly sensitive,” Cain said as he looked us each in the eyes. I leaned forward, not quite as straight as Cain but never quite as slouchy as Trace either. I had extensive military and combat training myself, but I knew how to put it down when off-duty. In this particular group of dudes, I was kind of Goldilocks.
Jusssst right.
Except when it came to being a complete fucking degenerate, anyway. In the case of wine, women, and song, I was way ahead of either of them. Cain, because he had been made of stone before Kelly, and after… well, let’s just say he was devoted, even obsessed with his young and pretty wife. Trace wasn’t a saint by any means, but he was too interested in the latest conspiracy theory or gadget to enjoy partying, rock and roll, and scoring with the ladies to the extent that I did.
Not that I’d been feeling it lately. In fact, having the club girls throw themselves at me had become tiresome in the last year or so. A man needed to hunt. The sweetbutts made it too damned easy.
The drinking and drugs on the other hand… well, shit. We were doing just fine and dandy in that department. When I was off-duty of course. Cain held us to a high standard as part of his club, but an almost impossibly high standard as his two core employees for his private security firm. He knew I threw down after I clocked out. But I threw down at work, too. Another reason I was a core member of the Untouchables and Cain’s private security agency.
“This is a tough one,” Cain said, looking surprisingly ruffled. “I usually wouldn’t touch a case like this. But this girl…” he sighed and pushed a folder across the table at me. “I emailed you,” he added as an afterthought. Trace didn’t do hard copy. I hated computers. It was a match made in hell, or so the saying went. We made it work, somehow.
“Sheeeeee-eeet,” Trace breathed, staring at his phone. I had to agree with him. I was staring, dumbfounded, at the open folder in front of me.
A girl of heartbreaking beauty sat alone by the edge of a rocky shoreline, staring into space. It was fairly obvious she had no idea she was being photographed. Despite the sweetness of her face, there was a sadness about her.
“How old?” I choked out, afraid to ask. I was hoping to hell she wasn’t underaged. I would move heaven and earth to help her either fucking way, but the sensations filling me as I looked through her photos were much deeper than an instinct to protect. I wanted to protect her, yes. But I wanted to ravage her, too.
Ravage. Protect. Keep. Own.
Not that I would dare. She was an angel fallen to earth. Beyond beautiful. It almost hurt to look at her.
She was that perfect.
A pale, heart shaped face with bee sting lips and huge hazel eyes stared into the camera in another photo. She was even younger there, dressed up and forced to sit for the portrait, with her hands crossed neatly on her lap. She did not smile. Her raven dark hair was smooth and straight, with the barest hint of a wave. It framed her classically beautiful face in a way that made me suck in my breath.