Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Okay. I still want eyes on him. For a bit.”
“Done.”
Copper looked up at the ceiling like he was searching for patience. “I’m fucking torn about how to handle this shit, Saint. The club’s never had a problem with you before. I don’t fucking like it.”
“I know.”
“I hate being kept in the dark.”
Saint straightened, meeting Copper’s gaze head-on. “I get it. And I’m not trying to give you a line of bullshit excuses. When I agreed to keep quiet, I knew I was risking your fury. I knew it wasn’t acceptable to you or the club, but Beth needed space. She planned to tell you once she processed. I made sure of that. Everything happened fast. She was reeling. Keeping my mouth shut gave her the dignity to share painful information on her own terms.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t hedge.
“I fucked up with you, Prez. I own that. But if I’m being totally honest, I’d do it the same way again. I think I made the best decision at the time, given what I had to work with.”
“You’re protective,” Copper said with a solemn expression. “It’s one of the reasons I knew my daughter would be safe with you.”
For fuck’s sake.
He nodded, fighting to keep his expression neutral while the taste of Beth still lingered on his tongue. An hour ago, he’d had his face buried between her thighs, making her scream his name, and now he stood here pretending to be the loyal soldier Copper believed him to be.
“I want to rip your head off…” Copper muttered, “… but I also understand. And I need to respect my daughter’s autonomy and right to privacy, or some shit. At least that’s what Shell said,” he muttered.
Saint pressed his lips together to keep from smirking. It seemed the wisest idea.
“Just don’t forget…” Copper added, “… your first obligation is to this club.”
“I won’t.” It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t forgotten his club. He’d made a choice.
A few choices.
Keep Beth’s secret.
Let her suck him off.
Make her come on his tongue.
“So now you owe me. You’re going to make it up to me by heading to the laundromat and getting that number so we can find out who the fuckers are dicking around in our town.
“Now?” Saint blinked.
“Right fucking now.”
He cleared his throat. “You got it, Prez.” It looked like he had about five minutes to get in the headspace to fuck with some drug dealers. Not what he had planned for the day, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to argue with Copper.
“Good. Zach, Mav, and I will ride along but stay out of sight unless it goes tits up.”
“Okay.” Already, he’d begun the shift into enforcer mode, pushing everything out of his mind except his duty to his club family.
“Let’s roll.” Copper strode toward him, slapping his shoulder as he passed. His expression softened to the mildly murderous appearance he usually wore as opposed to the violent visage he’d had when Saint first walked in.
He followed his president outside to find Zach and Mav already on their bikes and primed to go.
“All right,” Zach said from astride his motorcycle. “We’ll be near if there’s trouble, Saint. Go in, get the number, and get out. Leave your cut off and fingers crossed that whoever is working doesn’t recognize you as one of us.”
He grunted. Fat chance of that happening. Almost everyone in their small town knew the Handlers. Half the town feared them as villains, while the others saw them as vigilante saviors. Reality lay somewhere in between. They wanted to live their lives their way, and sometimes that didn’t always follow the letter of the law.
“Easy enough,” Saint said as he grabbed his helmet.
Mav snorted. “Let’s fucking hope.” Then he fired up his bike and gestured for Saint to head out. “After you,” he shouted.
Their crew of four took off, flying through the mountains into town. The ten-minute trip gave Saint the time to get in the zone.
When he made the left into the parking lot of the small shopping center housing the laundromat, an antique store, and a dental office, the rest of his brothers kept riding. They’d circle back and park in the far end of the lot, but wanted anyone watching out the window to think they rode on.
Saint parked his bike in front of the antique store sandwiched between the laundromat and dental office, removed his cut, and stowed it in his saddlebags before striding toward his mark. A large sign on the door read No Loitering, and beneath it, an ever-popular No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service sign hung crooked in the front window.
The bell over the laundromat door jangled too cheerfully as Saint stepped inside. Overfilled washers rattled with angry metal clangs like they were seconds from tearing themselves apart. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. They blasted him with light brighter than the midday summer sun.