Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Throughout the night, I watch Bronte. Study her. Enjoy her smiles and the way her blonde hair shakes and shimmers as she throws her head back and laughs at something Bam or Loki says. I watch as she relaxes. Watch as that haunted look slowly disappears from her beautiful eyes with every new passing minute.
Then I watch as she and my twins go to the bar and indulge in tequila slammers. I watch her pink tongue slide out from between those glossy lips to lick the salt from her hand, and I feel the move all the way to my dick. I watch her bring the shot to her mouth and her slender throat work as she swallows down the liquid.
Watch her suck on the lime.
Fuck.
I need to get laid.
As if they can read my mind, the Fenway cousins pounce and give me a tempting offer. But the Fenway cousins are club girls, and I’m not about to indulge. No matter how hard I’m punching against my zipper right now.
Thankfully, Paw says he needs to talk, so we visit the chapel for some privacy.
“I’ve just got word from one of my contacts in the Bureau. Human remains were found just outside of Harristown.”
Harristown is a small town about fifty miles north of Flintlock.
“And?”
“They think they might be the remains of Frankie Jones.”
Aka Ghost.
Aka the sonofabitch, I was going to kill with my bare goddamn hands.
I push back the disappointment looming in my guts because if he’s dead, I don’t get to kill him.
But this isn’t the first time his remains have been found. Two years ago, they thought they’d found him—a burned body was found in a house fire. It had been wearing his signature skull ring, with the word Frankie engraved into the band.
Turned out it wasn’t him, but the skull ring was his. The authorities think he staged the whole thing to get them, and me, off his trail. So this could be the same thing.
“What makes them think it’s Ghost?” I ask.
“Clothes. Jewelry. Wallet with his ID in it.”
“Tattoos?”
“The remains were dust and bone in a shallow grave. They’re waiting on dental records.”
“Cause of death?”
“A bullet wound to the skull.”
A quick death.
Not something he was worthy of.
“It’s not him,” I say.
“No?”
No. This is another one of Ghost’s attempts to shake us off.
I don’t know who’s in that grave, but it isn’t him.
“We’ll keep looking. In the meantime, we keep our focus on the harvest,” I say, walking toward the door.
Looking at my watch, I’m surprised half an hour has passed.
In the bar, Mel Torme’s, “Comin’ Home Baby” blares from the speakers as Bronte dances with the twins near the couches lining the far wall.
Another poker game is underway, but a couple of my brothers are watching Bronte dance, and I feel my mood darken even further. As I walked past them toward the bar, I make eye contact and give them a dark look. Immediately, all eyes snap back to the card game.
When Bronte sees me walk in, she squeals with delight and runs over to me. She’s drunk, and her hair is tousled and tangled from dancing.
Yeah, just how it would look after an afternoon in my bed. I can’t help the thought and mentally kick myself in the balls.
“Oh my God, I had completely forgotten how much fun it was in the clubhouse!” Her face is flushed, her eyes sparkly. “I’ve missed this place so much.” She throws her arms around, me and the sudden softness of her breasts pressed into me makes my dick twitch with appreciation. My body’s reaction is completely unwelcome.
I put down my drink so I can control how much contact my body has with her sweet curves, which is now minimal. I don’t need to know how warm and supple she feels against me. I don’t need to feel the ample swell of her breasts or the silkiness of her hair as it glides over my arms.
“I think I’m drunk,” she slurs, looking up at me with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Drunk ain’t the half of it, darlin’. You’re bonafide wasted.” I shoot Bam and Loki a what-did-you-do-to-her look, but they just shrug at me like they had no part of it.
“I think I need to go to bed.” She tries to walk, but her legs give way, so I lurch forward and grab her before she falls.
“Come on, you can sleep it off in my room.”
I think back to last night to her asleep on my lap, and a rush of unexpected longing courses through me, but I bite it back as I steer her toward my bedroom.
Because I’m president, I get the palatial room. In its heyday, it’d been the presidential suite of the hotel. The sheen has worn away over the years, but it’s still a damn fine bedroom.
Inside, she stumbles, so I lift her into my arms and carry her over to the bed, plopping her down amongst the pillows. She moans and whimpers, and I bite back a groan.