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)
“Honey,” Peter murmurs, his fingers giving my shoulder a knowing squeeze, “that's not memory loss. That's a power play.”
Of course it was. He probably wanted me to know exactly where I stood in his world.
Exactly nowhere.
Four
Hella
Travis, the local Woodsman's Westbeach bitch boy, won't stop grinding on some club bitch. He's desperate. Too desperate.
My beer hits the table with a sharp clack. The legs of my chair scrape the floor as I rise and stalk toward the spectacle.
I hook my fingers around the woman's wrist, yanking her from Travis's grip and flush against my body. In a cloud of cheap perfume and stale tobacco wafting off her, I lean in, pushing platinum blonde hair from her ear. My palm splays across her stomach, my gaze locked on Travis as the hope drains from his face.
“You wanna fuck a real man?” My voice is low, deliberate. This isn't about her. This is about watching little Travis crumble.
Her cheek curves against my jaw and Travis folds his arms, early Justin Bieber hair flopping over his forehead like a surrender flag. “Fuck you.”
My eyebrows shoot up as a chuckle rumbles through my chest. I grip her shoulders, spinning her to face me. “Fuck me? Don't mind if she does.”
I lift her by the back of her thighs, watching over her shoulder as Travis yanks at his hair in frustration before storming out, slamming his palm against the drywall on his way. The hollow thud echoes his hollow pride.
“Come on,” she purrs, “I have a room here that the boys let me use.”
I laugh. Bitch can’t be serious.
“Aye!” Travis's voice cuts across the room as he barrels back in. Maybe I've underestimated the little shit.
I scan his body.
Or not.
He flashes a smirk I’m sure wins him lots of time in the honey pot. “Didn’t I see you with someone last night?” Travis. Travis. Travis.
I throw my head back, running my tongue piercing over my bottom lip. “Don’t know, young buck. But if you find her, I’m sure you’ll still be able to taste me all over that shit.”
He backs up as laughter barks out around him.
Game over. I release the woman, and she stumbles to the ground with a thud.
“Ouch!” She scrambles to her feet, eyes narrowed on me.
“Fuck off.” I gesture toward the door.
“You sure?” Give it to her. She’s persistent. She places her hand on my chest, running her tongue across her lip in that awkward way desperation likes to show its whole ass.
With my beer mid-air, my other hand flies to her throat, forcing her face close enough to see the flecks of mascara beneath her eyes.
“One,” I whisper harshly, “don't ever touch me again.” I shove her backward, sending her sprawling once more before turning back to my brothers.
Frost, Nyx, and Ripper watch from our table, all doing equally shit jobs at trying to hide their amusement.
“Shut up, motherfuckers.”
Frost barks out a laugh loud enough to fucking raise Candle from the dead. Smug bastard.
Taking my phone out my pocket, my thumbs fly over the screen.
Could it be that little Travis has a stiff cock for the girl I had wrapped around my shit last night?
What's that girl's name again?
Who are you talking about?
the girl from the bakery.
Her name is a fuck no.
So funny. I'll ask Yana.
Why
Because I got a prospect to play with
Melissa. And good luck.
I stare at my screen, brows drawing together. “Melissa,” I murmur, the name triggering something in my alcohol-soaked brain. My vision blurs momentarily as I pull my wallet from my pocket, flipping it open. A slow smirk crawls across my lips as realization dawns.
“Well, I'll be damned.”
I played it off like I didn't remember her, watched that flash of hurt cross her features before hardening into something sharper.
Travis can dream all he wants. Some women are made for men like him. Soft, predictable, easy. But women like Melissa? They're made for chaos. For destruction. For men who know how to fuck and protect with the same hand they can be gentle with.
Men like me.
Past
Two months. Two months since waking up to my mum dead in her own vomit and my father with a sawn-off shotgun between his legs. Took me three seconds to notice his brains painted over our run-down living room.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t get scared. I rolled up the leftover weed that was dusted over the coffee table, doing my best to pluck out brain matter and bone. Hard to tell when it’s mixed in with Mary Jane. Eventually, I gave up trying and rolled whatever else up with it and smoked that shit like I was Snoop Dogg.
Cops never came. Knew when they did, they’d just throw my ass into a group home as if anyone wants a fourteen-year-old boy who’d either fuck their wife or their daughter. In no particular order. Shit, no one is really off the table if it comes down to it. Grandma? Take the dentures out, baby, we can make it work.