Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
That might sound like some random horror story that might never happen. But it had happened to me already. Twice. And the second guy had been actively trying with his free hand to pull my door open or push my window down.
So when the ride-share pulled up, I hopped in the front, hoping that everyone was too excited to question my appearance.
The clubhouse wasn’t what I was used to, what anyone could have expected.
From my experience, they were all small, low, mostly windowless buildings. Old bars or defunct steakhouses, that kind of thing.
This clubhouse was a damn warehouse. Three enormous floors of space.
Whoever these bikers were, whatever they were involved with, they had money.
And where there was money, there was protection.
Maybe this plan wasn’t as absurd as I’d been trying to convince myself.
We all walked in a crowd up to the front doors as one of the bikers—the tall tank of a man with the military posture named Colt—warned us about the club cat named—unimaginatively—Cat, who hated women. And, if we weren’t careful, would try to scratch at us as we passed.
The inside of the clubhouse was nothing like I’d imagined. Sure, it had some of the hallmarks of a biker clubhouse: a full bar, big TV, stereo, pool table, even darts. But everything was upscale. And the warehouse itself had been fully updated.
It was industrial yet warm and inviting.
The floor plan was open, with a living room area to the right, the gaming tables and such to the left, and a massive kitchen toward the back.
Beside that was a hall with a few doors and an actual freight elevator.
“What’s everyone drinking?” the biker who was covered in tattoos asked, waving over toward the stocked bar.
There was a chorus of requests for mixed drinks as I made my way toward the kitchen, going for the coffee machine. They had one of those fancy ones that looked like it belonged behind the counter at a coffee shop.
I found the mugs, milk, and the espresso. But then I had no idea what the hell to do. I was more of a drip coffee kind of girl. “Need a hand?”
Turning, I was surprised to find the biker with the P.O. problem standing a few feet off, head tipped to the side as he watched me, but kept his distance.
“I don’t even know where to put this,” I said, shaking the bag of espresso grounds.
He moved toward me, taking the bag, then loading up the machine. “You want any flavor in this? The girls keep just about every flavor here,” he said, tapping the cabinet above the coffee machine.
I didn’t usually order any extras. There was never any money for that. But if he was offering, I was taking him up on it. Especially when I saw they had caramel. The syrup, not the sugar-free stuff that I thought tasted a bit like medicine.
I handed him the syrup and watched with a small smile as he poured a whole lot of it in my mug.
“So, you got a name, babe?”
“Tessa.”
“Tessa. I’m Rook.”
“Rook. Is that a real name or road name?”
To that, his brow went up. “Know a thing or two about bikers?”
This was a tricky part.
Did I lie to him about everything?
Or just about the one thing?
Lies had a way of compounding. And each new one made it harder to keep them all straight.
“I was raised in a club,” I told him. “Well, not in a club exactly. My mom was a club girl.”
“Was your father a biker?” Rook asked.
“That’s a complicated question.”
“How so?”
“Well, I imagine my father was a biker. But my mom was always a little too high to remember to use birth control. Or recall which biker she slept with or when. I had suspicions, but they weren’t exactly the kind of men willing to get a cheek swab, let alone be willing to pay child support. So…”
Rook nodded as he frothed the milk. “Was it a club in California?”
“New Mexico,” I said.
“Club life wasn’t for you?”
“As it turned out, no. I mean, not that club anyway.”
“This one looking better for you?”
“Well, the clubhouse is definitely an improvement.” I barely managed to tamp down the memory of mice crawling out from under the stove and fridge, and the occasional infestations of roaches that made it impossible to keep any food around.
“Second floor is swanky as fuck. Looking forward to having a room there…”
“Why don’t you stay here now?”
“I’m on parole,” he admitted as he passed me my finished drink. “My P.O. can’t know I’m associated with the club, for obvious reasons. But they keep a room for me here.”
“Where are you living now? In town?”
“Above the karate place that doubles as my gainful employment,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t actually do any work there.
“I’m assuming it’s not as nice as here.”