Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And behind him, tootling down the stairs, is the cutest little brown boxer dog. It's hardly more than a puppy. It looks adorably out of place in the middle of a fistfight slash drunken bash slash orgy slash God knows what else. After taking the last step, it sees me, and comes sniffing.
“Eagle-eye,” say both Bear and Snark, like an acknowledgment and an apology in one. And that seems to be all he needs, because he nods briefly, then redirects his attention to us. I kind of wish he hadn't.
He's only got one working eye, while the other is an eerie milky white. But the stony glare from his good one takes no shit from anyone. It passes from Wild Child, to King, pauses at Hero long enough for a raised eyebrow and then settles on me. “You guys want to explain what the fuck is going on here?”
The puppy lets out a happy bark and nudges my leg. Who can resist that? While keeping one eye on the bikers, I crouch so I can pet its cute, little head. Dad never allowed pets, but I've always liked animals. Eagle-eye's lips quirk for just a moment, before his face rehardens.
Wild Child draws a breath, but King puts a hand to his chest, stopping him. “This is Kurt Hawthorne's daughter.” Hero steps aside so I'm more exposed. I look up at Eagle-eye, while the puppy's grinding its head into my hands, an obvious hint.
Eagle-eye grimaces like he just smelled something unpleasant and sets his gaze on Wild Child. His voice is calm, but it's scary calm. The kind of calm an executioner has before swinging the axe. “You didn't think to check this with me first?”
Wild Child takes a couple of steps one way, then back, then shrugs. I don't think he ever stands still. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Happy birthday!”
“It's not my fucking birthday, you nut.” Eagle-eye shifts his steely eye to the others. “What about you two? Wild Child is crazy, but you should fucking know better. King, you're a fucking officer, for Christ's sake.”
“We saw an opportunity and took it.” King meets Eagle-eye's hard gaze without as much as a flinch. He's got more guts than I would. “Hawthorne's task force is going to kick our ass. We need leverage to make him back the fuck down. Well, here's our leverage.”
“Fuck.” Eagle-eye grimaces and looks at his watch. “It's four in the fucking morning. I don't need this shit. This is too big for you three to be calling the shots on behalf of the whole goddamn club. I'm calling Church in the morning, once this is cleaned up.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the totaled community room. I make a pointed attempt to not stare at the couple in the corner, who have changed position but are still going strong. Eagle-eye cups his hands around his mouth and yells like a drill sergeant, “Do you fuckers hear? Church at noon. Clean up your shit!”
One of the guys, half asleep in an easy chair, raises his beer in salute.
“In the meantime,” he continues, whirling back to us, “keep her someplace safe. One of you on watch at all times. I'm going to catch some shuteye. If anything, and I mean fucking anything, happens, wake me. Come, Jupiter!” The pup barks happily and tears away to run after Eagle-eye. Big name for a little dog.
Wild Child makes a boy scout salute. “Aye aye, capt'n.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eagle-eye mumbles as he climbs the stairs. The puppy follows him eagerly.
The moment he's out of sight, King grabs my arm and pulls me down a corridor. “This way, sunshine.”
I resist. I shouldn't. These guys are killers, the back of my brain tells me. Heck, as he twists, I see the hilt of a pistol peeking out of his pants. He's got to be more than twice my weight, and all freaking muscle. And yet, my mouth runs. “I'm not your freaking sunshine.”
“Ain't that the fucking truth?” And then, without as much as a warning, he sweeps me up and throws me over his shoulder. “Come on.”
I'm getting really sick of big guys carrying me around. Isn't that what they say is so sexy in romance novels? Big guys carrying you like you don't weigh a thing? That might be nice when they carry you over a doorstep or a puddle, but when it's like a sack of potatoes? Not as sexy.
The half-asleep guy in the chair yells out in a slurred voice, “Right on, man!”
It doesn't matter how much I beat on King's back. It's like trying to break down a wall with my bare fists. “Let me down!”
He ignores me. Down a corridor, then he kicks open a door. It takes us to a storage room, with metal shelves covered in junk and some large crates against the far wall. He flips a switch and two bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling come on, bathing the room in unforgiving white light. No windows, other than a dirty skylight well out of reach. Only one door.