Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I also get a uniform, which is comprised of Delivery 2 Go black and yellow leathers. The pants are mostly black, but the jacket has yellow panels, and the helmet is entirely yellow. There are boots, too, so when you put the full outfit on, you’re entirely covered. I’m not Darcy, runaway-academy-dropout-and-horny-for-old-dudes loser anymore. I’m Delivery 2 Go rider.
I’m suddenly aware that I am smiling.
I feel good. Hungry, but good.
Tired, but good.
I’m doing this independent life thing. I’ve got a job. I’m going to stand on my own feet. This is it. Everything I ever dreamed of, I’ve finally had the balls to make reality.
Kirin
“There’s another one of those Delivery 2 Go bikes,” Rafe says, pointing it out as a hazard. We’ve seen maybe three or four of them crash and destruct in the last half-hour. That seems like a lot, but I reckon we’ve seen at least a hundred go by. So that’s a three or four percent failure rate. Not bad, really. Less than I would have guessed. Those couriers ride like they don’t want to get where they’re going, like there’s some delivery-themed Valhalla awaiting them.
Einar is still trying to find Darcy by approaching contacts, but it’s not sounding good. Nobody knows where she’s gone. The academy doesn’t seem to give a shit. They’re too used to her disappearing, is my guess.
I think we’ve lost her.
That pisses me off, because she belongs to us. Shouldn’t be able to lose what you own—but I guess nobody told her that. Even if they had, she’d probably tell them to fuck off. She’s hard to handle, uncouth, rough around every single one of her edges, and absolutely gorgeous.
Another one of those D2G bikes comes swinging around the corner. There’s a pack of them buzzing like flies around the intersection. I’ve started to ignore them. They’re like the visual equivalent of background noise. At least, until one of them slows down right next to us and the rider reaches out, grabs my sausage burrito that I just got from a vendor, and guns the bike.
Fucking riders. Nobody who likes riding motorcycles is entirely sane, that’s just a fact. And that means stupid shit like this is rife.
“Hell, no,” I curse.
I gun my engine and head off after the courier.
Einar and Rafe don’t pay any kind of attention. They’re too worried about the girl. Our mate. God, I hate even mentally putting the word ‘our’ in front of mate. I always knew that one day I’d meet a woman who would become everything to me. She’d be my one and only. Instead, what I’ve ended up with is a delinquent with enough sexual charge to mate bond to a whole goddamn pack. Maybe we should be grateful we didn’t bring more men with us. She might have mate bonded with a dozen guys.
With those thoughts racing through my mind, I chase the delivery rider down. This guy clearly has a very loose attachment to life, judging not only by the shit he pulls on strangers, but the way he rides. That bike is flung around corners, narrowly misses a slew of oncoming traffic and pedestrians, nearly gets horizontal in the effort to avoid a truck. I know I should give up the chase in order to preserve my own life, but this fucker has my burrito, and I have lost enough for one day. I might have to share my mate, but I will not share my goddamn burrito.
Horns blare as I follow this psychopath into an alley where the chase ends abruptly as he pulls up with screaming tires, his bike horizontal to mine.
It occurs to me that this is probably a trap. There are a lot of hijackings in Eclipse. Crime is rampant here. But this guy is going to regret fucking with me today. I am sure of that. Nobody is going to notice a Delivery 2 Go driver’s death. They truly are the house flies of the city, often swatted to the approval of all concerned.
The driver looks at me, still holding my foil-wrapped lunch like a trophy. I wonder if a bunch of people are about to come pouring out of these side doors, or if a shot is about to come from an upper window, but neither of those things happen.
The rider just looks at me. I look back. And finally, idiot that I am, I realize what I am looking at.
Not a man. A woman.
She’s too small to be male, and her jacket sits in a very feminine way on her, flaring out at the hips. Great. I’ve been chasing a random girl. Just what this day needs. More girl trouble.
I’m now even more impressed by her riding. Like most of the yellow-suited menaces who work for that company, she was really throwing the machine around like she didn’t care if she made it to the end of the day. The packages she has on the back swung wildly, but somehow have stayed attached. I don’t know how they pack things there, but someone should study it.