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)
And this guy I was riding bitch with?
He had on a biker cut that I assumed—from his willingness to be involved with my crimes—was from an outlaw club.
So driving in this area felt risky, since his club logo said he was from the Golden Glades chapter, not Miami.
But he didn’t even hesitate as he drove around like he owned the joint. Maybe his club and this crew had some sort of understanding. Criminal organizations got chummy sometimes since allies were beneficial in a world full of people trying to take what was yours.
At some point, he pulled out of the more built-up area full of giant apartment buildings that had seen better days. You know, back in the seventies. When they were probably built. And hadn’t seen an update since.
Instead, we were going down a street that seemed entirely foreclosed upon, judging by the way the grass was waist-high, littered with scattered remnants of parties and general debauchery, and the extensive and impressive graffiti art on the houses that looked all but crumbling. I imagined that if the area got hit with any sort of decently strong storm, these houses would all be gone the next day.
No one seemed to be milling around, but that didn’t mean there weren’t people inside the abandoned buildings. Users looking for a place to shoot up. Sex workers finding somewhere to take Johns. Or even the unhoused finding a place to stay that kept them out of the unyielding sun in the daytime. And safe from thieves at night when they were trying to rest.
I probably should have been freaking out.
This seemed like a great place to rape and murder and dump a body.
I wasn’t worried, though.
I didn’t get as far as I had gotten in life by being unprepared. I wasn’t packing right now because my outfit wasn’t forgiving of a gun. But I had weapons on me. I always did.
The pendant necklace I had hanging down between my breasts had a hidden blade. Not huge. But in close proximity with the ability to pierce someone’s neck, it could sure do the job.
There was also a reason I wore my combat boots year-round in the absolutely disgusting heat in the dead of summer in Florida. Because there were hidden compartments sewn into them—one inside the ankle, another in the tongue—where I had some other tools to do nasty things with. Plus a handcuff key. Because, well, you never knew when you might need one of those.
These were some of my favorite boots, too. Vegan leather—because, you know, the animals—a dark gray that tapered to a lighter shade and had bats all over them.
If this guy had rapey intentions, he would be in for a rude awakening.
I wasn’t exactly anyone’s MMA baddie, but I was scrappy. I could take care of myself.
The bike pulled to the last house on the street, parking to the side, so it wouldn’t be seen by anyone coming down. At least not immediately.
The engine cut, making my ears ring a bit as I jumped off the bike, my legs feeling like they were still vibrating from the ride.
I’d been on a bike before, but I’d been the one driving it. It was an entirely different experience to ride bitch. More freeing. Probably because I didn’t have to focus on driving, or worry about the other drivers always being assholes to people on bikes.
When I was sure we were safe, I’d thrown my arms up, loving the feel of the wind as it whipped me, making my hair dance all around as we rode. My stomach bottomed out at the freedom as my pulse quickened.
Every so often it was fun to do something just to feel alive. Even if that thing could also lead to your death. What was the point of living if you weren’t actually living, y’know?
As the engine cut, though, and all those feel good emotions were still swimming through me, yeah, you could say I was feeling a bit… uninhibited.
Nothing like a life-or-death situation to kickstart your libido.
So I was just praying the biker was halfway decent looking. Enough for some kissing, maybe some heavy petting.
He felt like he was built well. With the kind of muscles that said he worked hard at his body, but not so much that he would be a complete killjoy in a conversation, only spouting out about shit like keto and micros vs. macros and closing his loops. You know, the guys who base their entire personality around their physique. No one liked those people.
But just because he had a slamming body didn’t mean that he was kissable. Because, let’s face it, faces counted more than bodies.
And voices.
I mean, no one wanted a guy to say That’s right, take that fucking cock in a nasally, high-pitched voice. Talk about a lady-boner-killer.