Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Roadkill. Violent. Brash. Obsessive. In the closet.
Clyde. Cunning. Ruthless. Biker royalty. Trapped on the other side of the same closet.
Roadkill.
I’ve hated Clyde Turner since the moment I laid eyes on him. I hate him for existing, for tempting me, for being everything I can’t have.
Ice-blue eyes, a cocky smirk that makes my fists itch, a damn Hell’s Butchers MC prince. I want him violently, but since I can’t have him, I will destroy him. I killed his f*cking brother, and he’s next.
When a fire traps us together, death feels inevitable. With no way out and nothing left to lose, we trade confessions like poison-laced promises.
I say I wish I’d f*cked him. Just to break him. Just to see disgust twist his perfect face.
His reply is like a bullet.
“I would have let you…”
Clyde.
I should’ve burned to death in that fire, because now my worst nightmare has come true. Roadkill knows. He knows the secret I’ve spent years burying beneath blood, alcohol, and loyalty to my club.
I have to kill him. There’s no other way.
But a knife fight leads to kisses and a deal struck in the dark. We’ll keep it quiet. No one needs to know. Enemies with benefits, nothing more. A stolen moment here, a touch there, with no strings and no club betrayal.
Until one of us is dead, I’ll let myself fall into his bed, and in the meanwhile, I’ll keep looking for the bastard who killed my brother.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Road
If God appeared before me and asked if I had one wish, I would have the answer at the tip of my tongue. There’s nothing I want more than for all the members of the Hell’s Butchers MC to fall into the abyss and burn for all eternity while demons stab them with hot pokers. It wouldn’t make up for all the shit they’ve pulled over the years, but it would be a start.
I’ve never wanted it as much as when a bullet swishes right by my ear.
The top of my shit list, now that his cunt of a brother is dead—Clyde fucking Turner. It’s his head I imagine aiming at when I stand up and rain bullets from the assault rifle. I lose balance when something collides with the side of my chest, knocking me back, but those fuckers can’t stop me. And neither can my prez when he grabs my belt and attempts to tug me back behind the barricade of cement bags.
I only let him once my magazine runs empty.
“The fuck did I say about throwing yourself into the fire, huh?” Prophet shouts, glaring at me from under his thick brows. Eye twitching, his gaze focuses on my T-shirt, and he tugs on his dark beard in a gesture I know painfully well. He’s nervous. What about?
Creep, our spy/sniper peeks past the tarp covering the bags, but the moment his greasy dark hair looms above it, bullets hit the steel wall of our warehouse. With a scowl twisting his sharp features, he rolls onto the concrete and reaches to the box of ammo. My blood runs cold when I see he’s grabbing the last magazine.
Fucking hell.
“You’re hit,” Prophet says loud enough I can hear him over the roar of shooting. My gaze follows his, all the way to a red splat spreading over the torn white top and staining the name of our club, Vulture Hollow MC.
Well, shit.
“I’m fine,” I say despite my limbs suddenly feeling numb. Won’t be the first scar on my body. I lift the top to get a better look. “Didn’t even fuck up my ink.”
Prophet shakes his head with a level glare. “Just try not to die, hm?”
But when another bullet strikes our barricade, I can’t wait around. We’ve got more ammo in the building, and when I’m back with it, who knows, maybe I’ll get to kill another Butcher.
“You wish you could get rid of me this easily. I’m fucking immortal,” I say and leave the rifle as I gravitate toward the door leading into the warehouse.
When I reach the edge of our wall of cement bags, I get on all fours and hope for the best. My undignified dash for the building doesn’t take long, and while someone shoots, I’m fast and roll inside. There’s thirteen of us here, and only Katze is out of commission, so I hope they can stand their ground before I’m back with supplies.
The walls dull some of the noise coming from outside, but as I stretch to dash between the pallets of supplies, the world swings, and I have to lean against a support beam as my vision blurs. I don’t think I’m bleeding out yet, but I need to be more cautious about my movements until this fuckery is over.
Only two lamps illuminate the entire building, but they provide enough light for me to cross the maze of cargo— The sight before me knocks air out of my chest more effectively than the bullet had.
Clyde Turner scoots by one of the beams supporting the roof above our heads. He might be facing away, but I would have recognized the pale braid hanging down his back, and that round ass, anywhere. There’s no one in the world I hate more.
The shootout outside muffles the noise I make dashing toward him with an action movie soundtrack pumping in my skull. I could slit his throat from behind, or stab him, but what would be the fun in that?
His hair feels silky in my hand when I twist it around my wrist and drag him away from—
“Is that a fucking bomb?” I utter, staring at the device attached to the pillar with reinforced tape.
Clyde yelps at the tug on his hair (one reason I have a buzz cut). “The fuck?”
I’ve not seen him from this close in a while, but his ice blue eyes are like I remembered—cold, condescending, and filled with hate. For me, for my club, and most likely, for the whole world. I’m not surprised he has a scar over one of those baby blues, from forehead to cheek, because I’d gladly pluck them out for staring at me like I’m dirt under his boot.
I’m so taken by his proximity, that I don’t block the elbow coming my way fast enough, and it strikes me in the fresh wound.