Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Melissa's face flashes behind my eyes—those blue eyes, the way they looked when she replayed how he forced her and Millie into the car. My chest tightens. If this goes south, if I can't find him before he circles back to her...
No. I adjust my grip on the cue. I'll rip his spine out through his throat. Feel each vertebra separate in my hands. The thought settles something violent and necessary in my gut. He won't get near her again. I'll make sure his last breath tastes like his own blood.
Bull chimes in from the side, scratching at his beard with a manic glint in his eye. “Got a chick I used to bang in Auckland. Lawyer. Real sharp, specializes in corporate law. She's digging through Melissa's contract now, looking for a way to gut this deal. Problem is, she's pricey as fuck.”
I turn my head, locking eyes with him. “Money ain't a problem, brother. Send me the bill. I don't give a shit what it costs, get it done.”
Bull nods, a twisted smirk curling his lips, and I look back at the table, lining up a shot I don't even care about. My mind's racing, clawing at the thought of Richard scheming. What's his next move? How close is he to her right now? Fuck.
I slam the cue forward, the crack from the balls splitting rips through the air like a gunshot, but it doesn’t ease the storm in my chest one damn bit.
Ripper blows out a cloud of smoke. “What's up with the sister?”
I set the cue stick against the table, the wood clicking against the varnished edge. My fingers drum once against the felt before I straighten. Here we go. The question I knew was coming but hoped wouldn't.
“Fuck knows. She was a nun, though. Straight as fucking shit.”
“Hot as fuck though,” Ripper adds, and I catch the way his eyes glaze over, already picturing her in ways that make my jaw tighten.
A laugh rips from my throat, harsh and dismissive. The sound tastes bitter. “She wouldn't touch a man in cut, that much I know.”
Ripper's eyebrows shoot up, his pool cue pausing mid-chalk. “How do you know that?”
The challenge in his voice has me rolling my shoulders, working out the tension that's taken residence there. Jesus. Does this possessive shit extend to her sister?
I lean back against the table, arms crossed, making sure my next words land with finality.
“Because Melissa told me, there's no way she would ever go near any of us.” I pause, letting that sink in before delivering the kill shot. “Plus she's a fucking virgin, Rip.” My lip curls at the thought. “Fuck that.”
He shrugs. “Blood turns me on.”
I run my tongue over lip. “She's a fucking virgin, Ripper,” I repeat, accentuating virgin, hoping that would cut through his brain, and it ain’t nothing about the blood.
No such luck; his eyes are glued to the door that leads out to the kitchen.
Beast shakes his head, his hand resting on Ripper's shoulder. “Melissa will fucking eat your ass for breakfast.”
Ripper's eyes snap to him, his frown carving deeper grooves into his face.
The laugh rips out of me before I can stop it, my head tipping back. “I don't think my girl is real fond of protein.”
Bull's phone snaps shut. His head jerks toward the back, that familiar wildness bleeding into his eyes. “Got word from the lawyer. She's sendin' over some shit we need to see. Now.” The words scrape out of him. But there's an urgency that has my spine straightening, my focus sharpening. When Hannibal catches a scent, you move. The club's Lumberjack doesn't waste time on bullshit, and when he says jump, we're already airborne.
We file out back into the Chapel. Beast grabs the papers from an old fax machine, thick fingers crinkling the edges before his eyes flick between me and the piece of paper.
He passes it to me.
I lean against the table. “Got names,” I drawl, slow and cocky, letting the words roll off my tongue. “Three fuckers that’ll be joining his little friend buried already. Danny fuckin' Kirk. Ray Olsen. Jason McUle.” My grin vanishes when I hit the fourth name.
My fingers curl into fists, the paper crumpling.
That fourth name. “And Eddy fucking Woolbrock who now goes by, Richard fucking Donovan.”
I slam my fist into his face again, and again, until blood rains over my face. Ain't no trace of that pale skin or those angry blue eyes left, just a mess of crimson clinging to the ruins of his features. Bone gives under my knuckles, a dull crack that settles somewhere behind my teeth. My hand throbs, but the ache is clean. Honest.
I chuckle, pushing on my gloves, smearing red over worn leather as I peel them off and slide them back on. Reset. Like I didn’t just turn his face into mush.