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)
A part of me doesn’t want to do this. This is a kid, and he might not have even been involved in Roy’s murder. But what if Grizzly’s right and a bit of intimidation could get us the information we need?
“You’re hiding my brother’s killer,” I state coldly. “I know you have a big family, so I’m sure you understand that I’m not letting this go.” I hope to both threaten him and push his empathy buttons. “Whatever Roy might have done, he was my brother.” My feelings for him weren’t all that warm, but the statement is true.
Rooster swallows but meets my eyes. “See this patch?” He points to the PROSPECT on his vest. “I’m not in on any sensitive club information. Not that I’d tell you if I was,” he adds, then taps the baggie at his belt. “All I know is that Brigid really wants these weird brown mushrooms by noon.”
I admire the confidence with which he then tries to push past Puck to reach his bike, but our road captain isn’t having it.
My mind swarms with questions. Did Rooster admit that the MC members do know, or am I reading into things?
I don’t get to have that question answered, because next thing we know the buzz of more than one hog approaches us at a fast pace. Grizzly mutters out something that sounds like a curse, but Rooster seems close to fainting with relief. Fucking great.
Puck twists his meaty hand in the kid’s T-shirt and delivers a punch to his stomach, which has me flinching a bit. The lanky teen falls to his knees with a choked grunt, but I grab the road captain again. “This serves nothing.”
If it did, I’d be the first one throwing the punch. We can’t let our enemies think that they can murder the president of the Hell’s Butchers MC and get away with it.
The first motorcycle to stop nearby with a screech of tires and cloud of dust is no one other than Prophet, the woo-woo obsessed asshole with a Messiah complex and more jewelry on him than a stand with cheap trinkets at a local carnival.
I try to keep my eyes on him as he takes off his helmet, but my gaze trails off to the man parking right behind him. The man who called me Blue Eyes and told me I smell good.
Roadkill doesn’t look happy to see me. Which is a disappointment, because seeing him stretch and move my way with a red shine in his gaze takes my breath away. In my porny dreams, he grabs my shoulders and shoves me against the tree before claiming me with a kiss for everyone to see.
It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and unhinged enough that a sense of unease spreads among the Butchers, especially when his president and two other members follow, heading straight for us.
“Where’s—”
“I’m here!” Rooster chokes out, managing to drag himself back to his feet.
Little fuck must have texted them his location for them to arrive this fast.
Yet instead of confronting Prophet, my gaze is drawn to Road. He’s pulled out a knife. My knife. And he’s playing with it as if to remind me of our secret meeting. I was so flustered afterward that I forgot to search for it and only realized it was missing when I arrived back home.
“Just a friendly exchange of mushroom foraging tips,” I say grimly so Prophet fucks off.
“Doesn’t look friendly to me,” Prophet snaps, approaching alongside Road. With that scowl, he no longer looks like bad boy Jesus, but I’m more than ready to take on the rings he might use as knuckle dusters. If they want a fight, we can have a fight.
They’re the ones with the smaller club, benefiting more from our truce.
I can’t help it. I look back at Road, and my heart skips a beat. The hooded eyes give him that lazy expression, as if he’s about to either pet a kitten or murder someone with my knife. And oh, how I want to be the kitten in that imagined reality.
Tension spreads through the Butchers when Road steps between us without fear, heading for the prospect who’s picking himself up from the ground.
“So kind that you all found him,” Prophet says just as one of our more junior brothers catches my gaze, as if not sure how to react when Road heads for him like a battering ram.
I don’t like the spotlight. I much prefer being one more body in a crowd of Hell’s Butchers to having all those expectations forced on me. All because as Roy’s brother, Grizzly’s nephew, and the son of the MC’s founder, I’m considered a legacy member. It’s as close to royalty as one can get on a hog instead of in a fancy carriage with golden wheels.
My imagination delivers visions of my uncle stabbing Road in the kidneys in this uneven confrontation, but when I give the gentlest shake of my head, the Butchers step away, letting my secret—what? Lover? Enemy with benefits?—get through to Rooster.