Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
He’s an outlaw biker: carefree, reckless, wholly unserious, and the biggest flirt she’s ever met. She’s the accountant who cooks the books for the mob. Lula likes order. Spreadsheets. Five-year plans.
Then one mistake destroys everything she’d worked so hard for.
Desperate to fix it, she sets out to find the man who ruined it all. Which means accepting help from the one man she’d been telling herself she doesn’t want but might just be exactly what she needs
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Raff
Look.
I didn’t mean to start the bar brawl.
Sometimes, shit just happens.
Did shit happen a lot around me? Yeah. Sure. Especially since I started doing the lion’s share of the trips through the South to procure weapons for the club by myself. I liked being on the road. The others weren’t as big a fan.
I’d been laid up for a long time with a knife wound to my thigh. I had some extra steam to blow off.
Besides, could I even be blamed for this one?
The woman climbed up on the bar herself.
She spread the line of salt between her tits, set the tequila shot glass on her bellybutton, and the lime between her teeth.
Was I really supposed to not lick, sip, and bite?
How was I supposed to know her boyfriend would walk in and get all butt hurt about it? It wasn’t like she was branded with his name.
Fine.
She was.
But it was a tramp stamp.
How was I supposed to see it until she climbed off the bar?
By then, I had a fist the size of a fucking catcher’s mitt in my face.
And, hey, it’s hard to apologize when you have a mouth full of your own blood, y’know?
The problem was, the dude came with a whole group of his friends. And his friends got into it with my friends. Bones were breaking. Blood was flying. The distant sound of sirens was drawing closer.
“We gotta go. We gotta go,” York said, snagging my wrist and dragging me up off the floor and pulling me toward the door.
Velle and Dixon followed us out the door, the Florida heat slapping us in the face as soon as we stepped outside, the humidity making sweat bead up on my brows and scalp as we ran toward the bikes parked in the lot. Mine was borrowed since I came to Florida with an old beater sedan that was outfitted to hide the guns I purchased from various shows or private sellers.
Our engines roared to life, and we pulled out of the lot and down the street just as the cops made their way into the bar parking lot, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing.
My face was throbbing in time with my heartbeat as we drove through the swampy backroads on our way back toward the clubhouse in Golden Glades.
I swallowed back more of my blood and ran my tongue across the gash on the inside of my lip where the punch made my teeth bite into the sensitive flesh.
“The fuck happened?” Huck, the president of the club, asked as we pulled into the driveway and parked.
“Bar fight,” York admitted.
Huck’s gaze slid right to me. “What’d you do?”
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, smiling with blood in my teeth.
“Because Coast and Remy are retired from the bar life,” Huck said.
“You gonna tell on me to Daddy Slash?” I asked, meaning my club chapter president.
“Pretty sure he can see it for himself when you make your ass back to California,” Huck said, shaking his head at me. “I was looking for you,” he added.
“What for?”
“I got a call from Zayn. He wanted me to put in an order.”
Zayn was an international arms dealer connected to the Golden Glades club. But because his clients wanted more weapons than Huck and his club could feasibly supply on their own, I picked up extra guns on my travels to sell to Huck, who unloaded them to Zayn.
“I just gave you half of what I had.” Slash would not be happy if I came back to Shady Valley with an empty car. Which either meant I dealt with his anger… or I extended my trip and picked up more guns on my way back.
“No, this is for a specialty gun. Specially built, if you know what I mean.”
I knew what he meant.
One of my club brothers, Sway, was with a woman who was a weapons designer. But she made all the shit herself. Which meant it wasn’t cheap.
“That’s gonna cost,” I warned.
“Trust me, this client can pay.”
“Alright. I’ll talk to Murphy as soon as I get back to Shady Valley. Put her in touch with you, and you can figure it out from there.”
“Good. Appreciate it. Now go ice that eye before it swells so much that you can’t drive your troublemaking ass out of here tomorrow.”
It might not have sounded like it, but Huck loved my trouble-making ass. He was a president who found reckless behavior more amusing than frustrating. It probably reminded him of his early life before he settled down and started a family.
I made my way inside the clubhouse, snatching a frozen bag of peas out of the air as it was thrown at me.
“How’s everyone’s damage?” I asked, looking around at York, Velle, and Dixon. Velle had a split lip and bruised jaw. Dixon’s shirt was ripped and bloody from his nose taking a hit. But York, that mammoth, lumberjack fuck, seemed mostly uninjured, save for the splits on his knuckles.