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)
“Fancy seeing you here,” their prez, Prophet, says without humor in his voice. “You brought Road some flowers? Or just exchanging tips on dealing with broken ribs?”
Road exhales, rubbing the back of his head against the pillow, as if trying to get rid of an itch. “He came to tell me he’s waiting for a rematch in the future.”
I let out a non-committal grunt, and push my way through them, making sure I drag the wheels of my IV drip over Creep’s foot, since he wears those weird soft barefoot shoes. Sadly, the snorts behind me still leave me humiliated because I’m all too aware that in the damn hospital gown half my ass is showing.
A nasty part of me, one I buried away with half my soul long ago, wonders if Road liked getting a glimpse.
Chapter 3
Road
I’m the most stubborn motherfucker this side of the Blue Mountains. It took me months to recover from the injuries left behind by the warehouse explosion, but that’s only because my body couldn’t catch up with my mind. I did all the damn exercises, swallowed supplements like they were candy, and I even abstained from alcohol. Most of the time.
Okay, I drank less than usual, which clearly counts, because it’s May, and I’m good as new. Sure, I’ve added a few more scars to my collection, including the burn on my cheekbone, lost half an ear, and one of my joints needs to be put to work slowly, or else it sends shocks of pain down my leg, but that’s nothing. Will be back to normal by the time I say my wedding vows.
Which I don’t plan to ever do, but that’s just a detail.
During my recovery, I’ve not been away from the community run by the Vultures often. It was safer to stick to my cabin, especially since in the winter the mountain roads become treacherous. At least I wasn’t needed out there, because after the shitshow at the warehouse, Prophet negotiated a truce with the Hell’s Butchers MC. While I think they should all rot in unmarked graves, I’m glad for the peace we’ve enjoyed since. What we lost that night is still a financial black hole we’ve not dug ourselves out of, so it’s not like we can afford an all-out war.
I’d be lying if I claimed I’m not interested in any gossip about Clyde and how his recovery is going. Not a day has passed since I left the hospital that I didn’t think about the dimples on his ass. My brain took a vid in fucking 4K, and I replay it in my head before bed each night along with his whisper.
“I would have let you.”
The option dangles in front of me like a candied apple on a string, and I can’t fucking bite into it no matter how hard I try.
That fateful night, when we both lay dying, he told me the truth for once in his life, and now I keep wondering if I really know much about him at all. I hate his guts, but when I think of him under me, suddenly, he doesn’t seem so bad.
A loud meow makes me sit up in bed. Listening to the imaginary Clyde offer himself to me in an increasingly pleading tone gave me a chubby, but I get up and head to the kitchen anyway. “Yeah, yeah, just a moment,” I shout and grab some cans from under the sink.
My home’s a mess, with crumbs on the floor, and empty bottles from the day before yesterday still occupying the coffee table, but it’s mine. No one bothers me here, and even when they do, I can always shut the door in their face. Then again, there are some guests one doesn’t deny.
“Well, hello, leeches,” I say, stepping out onto a porch crowded with furry bodies. I drag my feet to avoid stepping on a paw or tail, but it’s a free-for-all, and I resort to pushing one of the cats off the shelf where I keep clean bowls. Once they’re filled with the meat-mush-and-jelly mixture, I put them down and watch the tiny predators gobble their breakfast.
I refill the kibble bowls next, but most of the animals are here for the gourmet option.
I sit on the wooden steps leading from my porch and pull out my pipe. It’s an old thing I found at a second-hand store after someone got rid of their entire collection. I have no idea how old it actually is, but they don’t make things that fancy anymore. Made of dark wood, it’s small, with the head shaped like a hand holding an old-fashioned goblet. Ideal for smoking cherry tobacco.
I’m sucking in the first round of smoke when Leto, one of the strays that found a home in our compound, approaches me, licking his black face. “What is it, Old Boy? Satisfied?” I ask as he climbs into my lap and drops in it, as if it were his spot.