Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Driving down familiar little front lawns, littered with glass beer bottles, handles of hard liquor, and snack food wrappers, I saw a fresh coat of graffiti on some of the houses. Big, colorful pieces of art.
There had always been a lot of fucking talent in the area. Just not the support systems to allow these artists to go to schools to hone their skills, to get them out of the neighborhood.
I pulled down to the last house, the one that had always been used the least because there were stories about it being haunted because the entire family—mom, two small kids, and the grandmother—had been murdered inside by the father who then turned the gun on himself, and no one would live there after.
I drove down the weed-filled driveway, parking the bike beside the house where it was hidden if anyone did come looking, cut the engine, reaching to pull off my helmet even as the woman behind me climbed off, stretching her legs.
I wasn’t far behind, turning, not sure what I was expecting.
I think my mind had been expecting pretty. Or, at least, I wanted to attach pretty to the bare thighs that I’d seen wrapped around me.
Pretty was a weak fucking descriptor for this woman, though.
She was on the tall side with a figure that was smaller on top, and wider in the thighs and ass. She wasn’t wearing much, either. Just a fucking black bathing suit top and a short black jean skirt with a frayed hem.
A skirt.
She’d been on my bike, all around me, in a fucking skirt. Nothing between us but a pair of panties.
My cock, already interested, twitched as my gaze slid over the tattoos imprinted on her arms, all black and gray, one a full sleeve, the other a mix of various things, including some sort of writing down the length of the inside of her forearm.
But I wasn’t inspecting those.
Not when there was that fucking face to look at.
A round face with great cheekbones, framed in shiny, ink black hair that streamed down her back. Her eyes were edged in somewhat heavy black liner and mascara, but the eyes themselves were a bright blue.
“That was fun,” she declared, smile breaking out, revealing fucking dimples in each of her cheeks. “Thank God you’re hot,” she decided, closing the distance between us, reaching up for both sides of my cut, and yanking until my body lowered toward her, then sealing her lips to mine.
Fuck the car chase.
The unexpected kiss was the most exciting part of the evening for me.
Or so I thought at the time.
CHAPTER TWO
Rynn
What can I say?
Sometimes a girl has to jump on the back of a bike and force a man to become an accessory to her crimes.
To be fair, I had my own damn car.
Parked down a side street, unlocked, waiting for me.
But the fucking traffic was worse than I’d been expecting. And, well, I wasn’t exactly planning on being caught, y’know? I’d done my due diligence. I’d planned this shit out.
Sometimes, though, it didn’t matter how good you were or how much you’d planned out a job. Shit happened. You had to be willing to adapt.
I’d been tear-assing down the street, knowing that the car wasn’t far behind, but was struggling to make it through the crush of traffic, when I’d seen a guy sitting on an idling bike, checking his watch, then looking toward an alley over and over.
Waiting for someone?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
All that mattered was that he was sitting there, on a motorized vehicle that was capable of weaving in and out of the thick traffic.
I didn’t stop to think. Because I’d learned that in these sorts of situations, going with your gut was the best bet.
I ran in his direction, seeing another biker and a girl pulling her club dress back into place making their way out of the alley the guy had been checking.
Rushing past them, I jumped on the back of the bike, wrapped my arms around the stranger, and told him to drive.
There was a chance, of course, that he wouldn’t play along, that he would tell me to get my ass off of his bike.
But I’d lucked out that he was willing to play along, rushing into traffic, taking off into neighborhoods, then even finding some hidden trail I’d never seen before, and getting us off the main road for a while.
I figured that, once the car was a thing of the past, he would pull over, and let me off.
But he surprised me by driving me out of the party area of Miami, and into, well, the redlined area of town.
I knew the area. I’d been in the area a time or two. Enough, in fact, to know that this place was a map of different gang territories. Some more violent than others.