Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 154(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 154(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“Yeah? It’s the ‘ish’ part that makes my eye twitch. Gimme some ID, sweets.” He ignored the paper and held out his hand. I wanted to intervene, but there was no way I was getting into the discussion if this girl was looking for me. Who the hell would know to send her here and how the hell did she know my name? Because there was no way there were two Maximilian Wagners in this fucking compound.
With a sigh and after much digging through the hideously oversized bag she carried like a purse, she pulled her ID out and handed it over.
“Twenty-two, huh?”
“I said ish.”
“You’re nineteen.”
“Almost twenty!” Her eyebrows narrowed, challenging the big biker, who was easily twice her size.
“You lack two months, sweets. And twenty is not twenty-one.”
“Well, it’s not like this is a public bar. I’m sure there are plenty of people here under twenty-one.”
“Only a couple of the ol’ ladies, and they never drink unless their men are with them. You got a man?”
“Well, yes. I do, actually.” She handed the paper to him once more. “Maximilian Wagner. He’s mine. So, yes. I have a man.”
A couple of things went through my mind at that point. The first thought was, “Yes. Yes, I am.” Immediately on the heels of that thought was, “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? I never want another woman in my life as long as I fuckin’ live!”
“Last Will and Testament?” The prospect studied the document intently for several seconds. “This woman -- Verna Wagner -- left her son, Maximilian Wagner, to you in her will? Like, for real?” He looked up, as bewildered as I was angry. “You know she can’t do that. Right? You can’t leave a person to someone in a will. That’s insane.”
“It’s exactly something my mother would try to do.” My voice was much harsher than it needed to be, but it seemed my mother hadn’t changed a bit. Still trying to control my life. “I’m Maximilian Wagner. How do you know my mother?” It was nothing more than a demand. I did it deliberately, because I knew that particular tone made even the most seasoned bikers think twice about defying me. Or staying in the same room with me.
The girl’s head snapped around the second I spoke, so she looked at me, her eyes wide. As she took in my appearance and countenance, her eyes got even wider, and she paled even more. The closer I got, the more alarmed she grew, and began to back away from me. It ended with her giving a cry as she stumbled backward until she tripped over a chair. She tumbled to the ground, crab-walking backward until she hit the wall.
“Well?” I held my hands out to my sides. “Here I am. Maximilian Wagner in the fucking flesh. What do you want?”
“I-I…” She swallowed, then lifted her chin. Seeming to realize she was on her ass on the floor of the clubhouse, she scrambled to her feet, still staying a good distance away from me. I noticed she wore canvas shoes with more than one hole in them and no socks. Girl looked like a street urchin. Then, with an amazing impression of my mother, she spoke. “Mrs. Wagner told me I should find you and let you know your roaming days are over.” She would have sounded more confident if her voice hadn’t been wavering and her hand shaking as she pointed to the paper the prospect behind the bar held. She also sounded like she was saying something she’d rehearsed over and over. It was probably a script my mother had given her to memorize.
“My roaming days.”
“Yes. I’m to make an honest man of you.” That got a bark of laughter from the prospect before he turned away, clearing his throat to cover it.
“Honest man.” I know I sounded like a parrot, but this was too much to take in.
“Well, yes. She said she was giving you to me. So. You’re mine.”
I shook my head, the whole thing surreal. Not making any sense. “All right. Let’s start over. Who the fuck are you?”
She winced, either at my language or my furious expression. I didn’t know which. Didn’t much care. “My name is Hope.” Immediately she started digging in her bag again. The thing was so big it could have carried an assault rifle and I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Hope… what?”
“Um, well…”
“Girl, I’m losing my patience.”
“Until a week ago, it was Hamilton.” She was still digging in her bag, and I was beginning to think she might be slightly crazy.
I knew better than to ask my next question, but I couldn’t help myself. It slipped out before I could censor it. “What happened a week ago?”
She looked up and smiled brightly. “I got married!”
“Um, OK…” But it wasn’t OK. First, if she was married, where the fuck was her man? No man worth a good Goddamn let his woman walk into a biker compound by herself. Second, if she was married, it meant I couldn’t have her. Which I was relieved about. Really! I was forty-nine years old. I had a twenty-eight-year-old son, for fuck’s sake! What the everlasting fuck would I do with a nineteen-year-old crazy woman? “Where the fuck is your husband?”