Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Not everything,” I drawled, parking near the clubhouse while Hawkeye, Ghost, and Cipher looked up from a workbench beside the garage. “We leave room for the illusion of civic independence.”
A soft laugh slipped out, filling the cab with warmth that had nothing to do with June in California. When I helped her climb out of the truck, I didn’t have to look to know we’d caught the attention of every man within twenty yards.
Though they didn’t yet know the depth of the meaning, they knew enough to understand I was making a statement.
Hawkeye wiped his hands on a rag and walked over first, his gaze moving from Jacqueline’s face to my hand at her waist before his mouth curved with the kind of satisfaction that usually preceded a conversation I didn’t want to have. “Welcome to the Black Crowns compound.”
“Thank you.” She offered him a small smile that softened something in his expression despite the amusement he aimed at me. “I hear I need codes, escape routes, and maybe a map so I don’t accidentally wander into something that requires a waiver.”
Cipher snorted from behind Hawkeye. “Everything here requires a waiver.”
Ghost nodded. “Mostly because Judge got tired of telling grown men not to do stupid shit.”
She looked around thoughtfully, but her tone was impish when she replied, “Good to know. I’ll lower my expectations accordingly.”
Hawkeye looked at Jacqueline like she had just passed some invisible test, then glanced at me. “She’s funny. That’s gonna be inconvenient for you.”
“I’ll survive,” I drawled, letting my thumb brush once against Jacqueline’s waist. “You’re the one testing your odds.”
They knew exactly how little space I’d ever made for anyone outside the club, and watching me hand a woman access to our world was apparently too valuable to waste in silence. Ghost grinned into his coffee, but he was studying me in a way that most likely meant he was about to piss me off.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Wasn’t gonna say a word.”
“Bullshit.”
Cipher coughed to hide a laugh.
I let my gaze move from Ghost to Hawkeye to Cipher, putting enough edge under it that all of them knew where the line sat. “Keep it up, and I’ll put you on the rear fire road tonight with the coyotes and mosquitoes.”
Ghost’s grin faded just enough to be satisfying. “That road’s boring as fuck. A graveyard with dust.”
“That’s why it’s punishment, asshole.”
Hawkeye’s mouth twitched as he glanced toward Jacqueline, clearly enjoying himself but not stupid enough to push much harder. “Could be worse. He could put us on prospect evaluations.”
“Still an option,” I threatened.
Cipher cringed. “Bishop told me yesterday that one of the guys applying to be a prospect asked if a tail gunner handles actual guns or just rides in the back looking mean.”
Bishop was the club’s secretary, and a part of his responsibilities was to monitor and keep track of prospects and their progress. That included vetting applications for new ones, a job everyone hated. So he was more than happy for any help I sent his way when someone pissed me off.
“Can’t blame a brother for being shocked,” Hawkeye goaded, falling in beside us. “Never seen you throw this many resources at anything that didn’t shoot back.”
“We’re going somewhere you’re not,” I groused, guiding Jacqueline toward the clubhouse while she looked up at me with laughter in her pretty eyes.
“Good choice,” Hawkeye shot back, opening the clubhouse door for her. Then his expression turned sly. “Except my office is right next to yours.”
Jacqueline stepped inside, and I slammed my heel into Hawkeye's solar plexus while her attention was on the interior, then shut the door in his oxygen-deprived face.
Jacqueline took in the walls first, the old photographs, patches preserved behind glass, framed shots of runs, fundraisers, and brothers who were gone but not forgotten. I showed her the main room, the hallway to the offices, the emergency exit near the back, and the keypad beside an interior door that would get her into the secure corridor if she ever needed to reach the safe room.
When we reached the kitchen, a couple of old ladies, Mara and Dot, were pulling pies from the oven. Both women were in their early fifties, were married to older patches who had joined under my mentor, and had been feeding brothers long enough to treat armed men as obstacles between them and a clean counter.
Mara saw Jacqueline first, and whatever she’d been about to say to Dot vanished as her face lit up.
“Well, aren’t you as pretty as a sunrise.” Mara crossed the kitchen with a towel thrown over one shoulder, hugging Jacqueline before the girl managed more than a soft hello, then held her out at arm’s length like she was inspecting a prize filly. “Otis’s girl. He talked about you every time I saw him in town, usually while pretending he wasn’t bragging.”