Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
While it could be risky, if it was a fed, they probably wouldn’t place Whip as part of the Fury since he wasn’t wearing his cut but the coveralls he normally wore while working at the garage.
Yep, right now, he could pass off as some dumb, but helpful, local hick.
He parked at the far end of the pull-off, heeled the kickstand down and shut off the Yamaha. Before he was even done throwing a leg over the bike, the “stranded” person was yanking off his helmet.
Only he wasn’t a he.
He was a she.
The helmet had hidden a woman and as soon as it was lifted clear, she shook out her blonde chin-length hair. Whip found himself transfixed as the silky strands swept back and forth.
What. The. Fuck?
Not just any she, either.
His eyes scanned her from head to toe. How did he miss it? It had to be because of the shapeless waterproof windbreaker she was wearing or the fact she’d been squatting down behind the bike when he first passed by.
Or because he really was a dumb hick.
Because damn… He now had no doubts at all that the rider was a fucking woman.
And what a woman she was.
She carefully balanced her helmet on top of the travel bag and turned with hands on curvy hips hard to miss now that he was much closer and paying better attention. When her blue eyes hit him, they hit him hard and seemed to rip a hole right through his chest.
He rubbed absently at the unexpected and strange ache.
She was no typical biker chick.
Not even close.
Once again, that made him think she might be a fed. Shirleys would never expect the government to plant a female agent at the bottom of their mountain. To them, females were only good for two things, breeding and raising young, plus taking care of the menfolk.
Sure as shit not riding a beautiful Indian Scout Bobber Twenty, one of Whip’s dream bikes. Though, he did have a pretty long list of sleds he wanted to one day own. He had plenty of time and many miles of open road to check those off his list.
He shoved his bucket list to the back of his mind and concentrated on what and who was in front of him. Both the Scout and the woman made his dick twitch. Federal agent or not.
Focus, fool. You need to flush out whether this is a real breakdown or a set-up.
He cleared his throat to make sure his voice didn’t crack before he warned, “Ain’t smart to be here.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” she murmured, once again squatting down next to her bike and fiddling with something underneath it.
“You should leave.”
She released a long sigh. “I would if I could.”
He detected a bit of frustration in her words. Was he screwing up her assignment? “Why can’t you?”
She remained in a squat but twisted on her toes toward him, lifting a finger in the air.
Fuck. Her fingertip was covered in oil.
Still could be a trap. How hard was it to make it look like your sled was leaking oil? Not fucking hard at all.
Unlike his dick.
He never thought a woman who rode her own sled would turn him on. Guess he learned something new today.
“I was behind a dump truck a few miles back. I realized too late it was losing some of its load.” Her face twisted. “A load of stone that wasn’t covered, I’ll add. I didn’t see the large rock flying toward me until it was too late for me to swerve and miss it. It hit the front hard but I didn’t think it did much damage.” She shrugged. “I expected a dent on the front fender but I guess I was wrong and it did more damage than I thought. Or more than one rock hit us.”
Those little hairs on his neck perked up again and Whip quickly glanced around. “Us?” Fuck. Was someone hiding in the woods ready to take him down?
“Me and her,” she tipped her head toward the bike. “My riding partner, Agnes.”
Agnes?
One, who the fuck named their sled? And two, who the fuck named it Agnes? The woman standing before him, apparently that was who. That name reminded him of some old granny who sat in a plaid upholstered rocking chair handing out butterscotch candies, not that beautiful machine she rode.
“Lucky it didn’t hit you. Coulda taken you out or at least made you wreck.”
“Yes,” she said softly, sounding distracted as she stared down at her ride, her mouth tight and her shoulders now slumped slightly.
Disappointed, maybe even defeated.
But it could all be a damn act. He still wasn’t convinced yet that she wasn’t an undercover fed. “Beautiful sled.”
Her eyes lifted and her brow furrowed. “Sled?”
He got stuck for a second on how damn blue her sight balls were. Like the Caribbean, even though he never saw it in person, only in pictures. But damn… They could suck you in and drown you just like that vibrant sea. “Bike.”