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)
I’ve been able to ignore the pain so far, but the vicious blow feels like a kick in the nuts, and I’m on the verge of puking. A part of me wonders why the fucker isn’t launching an attack on me yet, but then a beep cuts through the noise, followed by the soft ticking of a clock.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I look up in time to see him pull a gun on me. Clyde is fast and agile like a wild cat, but I am faster. And stronger. Anything he can do, I can do better.
I grab a hammer resting on the floor and toss it at him. Clyde blinks, trying to protect himself from the flying object with his arm, and he hisses when the tool smashes into his hand, knocking out the gun.
I’m on the move before he can gather his wits.
Just as I’m about to reach for the gun, he crashes into me from the side. He might be a little shorter than me, but with the added speed, he’s like a bulldozer. We hit the floor and I don’t waste any time before punching him like he’s my new training bag.
I can take this fucker, all right, but the ticking in the background is messing with my head. How much time do we have? Thirty seconds? Sixty? Five minutes? Who the fuck knows?
I kick at his legs and grin when he stiffens in my grasp, offering me the opportunity to slam my fist into the side of his head again. He loses balance, and when his braid falls across my face, I’m sensing smoke, and whiskey, and all that nice, masculine shit. I got a whiff of him when we got in a fight last year, and it’s been on my mind in all types of unwanted ways. But the scent of his hair won’t stop me from covering him in a layer of bruises.
At the next punch I try to land, he grabs my arm and rolls us around with strength I wasn’t expecting. All of a sudden, Clyde’s on top of me, ass squarely on my hips, and I only get one glance at his scowl before he slams me in the face.
“Which one of you fuckers killed my brother?” he yells, leaning down.
That would be me. But why would I let him in on all my secrets before I buy him dinner?
The ticking in the background pulls me right back to reality, and I spit out blood gathering under my sore lips. “If I die, so do you, you fucking idiot!” I say gesturing in the vague direction of the bomb.
Clyde grabs the front of my bloodstained T-shirt and leans down so close I can almost feel his stubble against my skin. He doesn’t even blink as he stares into my eyes with a promise of painful death. “My club will avenge me, and at least you’ll be fucking dead.”
Wow. What did I ever do to him personally? Well, besides shoving a hook under his brother’s ribs and hauling him up with a building crane, but he doesn’t know that was me.
There might also be the fights we’ve had over the years, broken fingers, bikes set on fire…
“You’re fucked in the head,” I say, but when he shifts over me and tightens his thick fingers on my throat, cutting off my air, the storm raging in his gaze sends an unwanted shiver down my back. Clyde Turner might be a maniac, but he is a hot maniac, I can give him that.
When the edges of my vision start to fade, I reach for the knife attached to my hip and stab it into his side.
He cries out and falls over, eyes filled with so much vulnerability, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“Motherfucker!” Clyde screams and kicks me, but then it all ends.
The explosion is deafening, my vision goes white, and time stops.
All I know is the ache in my head, in my back, my face. Even opening my eyes feels like too much effort, so I lie prone, engulfed in heat and a dull ringing I can’t seem to shake off. A grunt is what finally makes me open my eyes, and the view above leaves me confused. The ceiling of the warehouse has caved in, most of the pillar that supported its weight missing. I cannot see fire, but smoke is rising above me, and the pale steel making up the building is lit up with the warm glow of flames.
That’s when memories flood back.
The shootout. Fighting Clyde Turner. The bo—the fucking bomb must have gone off.
I attempt to sit up, but it’s like trying to crawl out from under a fallen motorcycle when near-blackout drunk, and I fall back, staring at the slab of metal resting on top of me. That explains why I feel so damn wasted.