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)
“All right.” Copper stood, taking Shell with him as naturally as breathing. “We’re outta here. See you guys later.”
“Where are you off to?” Thunder called as Shell and Copper strode away hand in hand, like there wasn’t a damn thing in the world they couldn’t handle together.
“Going to fuck my wife. That okay with you?” Copper shouted over his shoulder, making the prospect polishing his bike drop the rag.
“Huh, good idea.” Thunder hopped to his feet. “Mak’s home this afternoon. Think I’m gonna go fuck my wife as well. Too bad you guys don’t have a wife who wants your dick all the time. It’s fucking awesome.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Gator said as Saint cringed. Old as they were, it never got easier hearing Thunder brag about his sex life with Saint’s sister. “I don’t need a goddamn wife,” Gator muttered as Thunder jogged off, chuckling. “I get all the pussy I want, and it’s not the same damn one day after day, right, brother?”
Saint shook his head as he snorted. “I’m sure as hell not shacking up with anyone anytime soon.”
The mere thought of it had him shuddering. Settling down meant handing someone the power to wreck him. Every relationship he’d witnessed as a child had been nothing more than a horrendous abuse of power and authority by men who ruled with manipulation and fists, and women who had no choice but to submit. He’d had enough of that for one lifetime.
“See, you agree with me.”
As much as Saint would have loved to sit around and shoot the shit with his batshit crazy club brother for the next few hours, he stood with his empty beer bottle. “I’m gonna knock off.”
Gator nodded and clinked his bottle against Saint’s. “Later, brother. Hey, I don’t need to tell you to hit me up if you run across any trouble, right?”
“Of course not.”
The man might be off his rocker, but if Saint needed him, Gator would be halfway there before he even accepted the call for help. That was the kind of crazy Saint trusted.
“Have a good trip and say hi to Beth for me.”
Yeah, he wasn’t doing that. Not with the way Copper had reacted to the news of their friendship.
Keep dreaming, Gator.
The crazy fucker laughed his ass off, then shouted something to the prospect about a smudge on Copper’s bike.
Shaking his head at Gator’s antics, Saint strode toward his motorcycle shining in the afternoon sun.
He had some packing to do and a club princess to check on.
CHAPTER TWO
LOOK AT THAT. Rylee had been right. The lipstick color complemented Beth’s skin tone perfectly.
She smiled at her reflection as she swiped a clear gloss over her rosy bottom lip. It had been a hot minute since she’d worn anything more than a cover-up and mascara. Why waste money on expensive makeup, not to mention time and energy, when she worked at a pet grooming boutique and ended up covered in fur and sometimes unmentionable animal fluids daily?
Going out in a cute sundress with a full face of makeup and curled hair was a welcome change, sending a low buzz of excitement through her veins. Yesterday, her friend, the salon owner, Rylee, turned twenty-seven, and her friends had planned a happy hour party in her honor for tonight.
Beth had met most of Rylee’s core friend group multiple times when they’d popped by the shop, and they’d insisted she join them for the birthday celebration. Jason already had plans to game with his friends—shocker—so why wouldn’t she go? She hadn’t been out in ages and couldn’t wait to laugh, have a few drinks no one expected her to serve, and eat food she wasn’t expected to prepare.
Jason’s friends hung out at their apartment all the time. All. The. Damn. Time. Not a Friday or Saturday night went by that Grant, Benny, and a few other losers didn’t have their lazy asses parked on her couch. They, along with Jason, sucked back beers and ate half her paycheck in snacks every weekend.
When she told Jason about the party invitation a few days ago, she’d been sure he’d tell her to blow it off as he typically did. And of course, she’d have listened to avoid an ugly blow-up. But something went right that day when he’d responded with, “I don’t give a shit.”
Worked for her. He could veg out and game all night while she got dolled up, ate delicious Mexican food, and downed a few spicy margaritas with friends.
Satisfied her makeup looked great, she fished through her closet for the strappy sandals she’d purchased on clearance last fall and had yet to wear. As soon as they were in place with her freshly painted toenails peeking out, she practically bounced out of the bedroom.
For once, excitement felt bigger than the dread that had become her constant companion—the tight knot in her stomach that never fully loosened, the way she held her breath every time she heard his key in the door.