Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Shit, what the hell was he supposed to do with her now? No one would accuse him of being Florence Nightingale, more like Nurse Ratchet, but he did travel with an extensive first-aid kit and knew how to use it.
“Follow me,” he grumbled with a sigh as he started toward the motel. It looked like she’d be invading his room for a while.
The only thing he hated more than strangers in his personal space was men who beat on innocents.
CHAPTER TWO
FOLLOW HIM?
Follow the man who’d just shot Pete and beaten the snot out of Buster without getting winded. He towered over her, making Buster appear child-sized. If he wanted, this guy could send her flying across the parking lot with one flick of his wrist. And now he wanted her to follow him somewhere in the dark?
Buster rolled over with a pitiful groan.
Then again, the second Buster got up, he’d be looking for some revenge, and she didn’t want to cause more trouble for her big burly rescuer. He wouldn’t save her ass just to hurt her, would he?
How the hell do I know?
It came down to the devil she knew versus the devil she didn’t, and as Buster groaned again, she chose to follow her rescuer. The devil she knew would hurt her for sure, but there was a chance this new devil wouldn’t.
Seemed like a no-brainer.
She hustled after him, practically running to keep up with his long strides as she clutched her torn shirt between her breasts. Her unsteady legs wobbled, and more than once, she worried she’d fall flat on her face. Not that her knight in shining… well, leather, seemed to care. He never slowed and didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder to check if she was still there.
The two-lane highway in front of the diner was quiet, typical for this time of night. Lucky for him as he didn’t bother to slow down but merely strode out onto the road as though the cars would automatically stop for him had there been any. On the other hand, Daisy stopped, checked both ways, then sprinted after him.
“Damn long legs,” she muttered as she scrambled up a small grassy hill to the motel parking lot. She never had the pleasure of staying there, but back in high school, this establishment had been known to look the other way when minors booked a room for the night with their boyfriend or girlfriend.
By the time she reached his door, he had the thing open, and she was panting from the effort to get there before it slammed in her face. Her cheek hurt, and her stomach soured from the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and forget this whole night had happened. But Buster and his buddies knew where she lived, so that wouldn’t be wise. Instead, she walked into the motel room of a man she didn’t know in the middle of the night.
She was pretty sure ‘street smarts 101’ recommended not following enormous, strange men into motel rooms.
But there she was like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the single bed in the room.
“Oh, maybe I can just use your bathroom to clean up?” She pointed to her bloody face as she spoke.
“Sit.”
Wow, he’d been much friendlier when she’d only been his server, not the damsel he’d rescued. Not that she blamed him. Who wanted their night disrupted by having to beat the crap out of some guy, shoot someone else in the leg, and then take on a random wounded woman?
“You know, maybe I’ll just sit,” she muttered as she lowered to the side of the bed.
Her rescuer—how did she still not know his name—strode into the bathroom. A few seconds later, the sound of running water flowed through the room. Those bloodied knuckles needed a good cleaning, but they probably stung like hell.
Daisy sighed as she took in the room. The place was typical for a cheap motel room—a thin mauve comforter with a horrid floral pattern on the bed, burnt orange carpet, and beige textured wallpaper. A small minifridge lived in the cabinet under the television. Apart from the bed, the only furniture in the room was a round table and two chairs.
Hopefully, this guy didn’t have a black light. She’d prefer never to find out exactly what she was sitting on.
The water turned off, and the guy appeared in the doorway from the bathroom. God, he filled the entire space. The man was downright scary—huge, covered in tattoos, and scowling as though she’d pissed in the beer she had served him earlier. Unfortunately, those characteristics also made him sexy as hell, like a character from her favorite biker romance novel—she had noticed his one-percenter cut before she’d greeted him in the restaurant. The man could make some money as a cover model. She’d buy the book based on his picture alone—something she refused to let herself dwell on.