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)
All I can focus on is the hateful glare piercing me. Clyde looks even hotter splashed with mud. I wish he could shut his fucking mouth and accept what’s gonna happen between us. Neither of us has a different option. I’m sure he’s not fucking anyone, because he wouldn’t be such a ball of tension if he was.
He scrambles to his feet and Prophet turns me in an instant, receiving the blow meant for me to his shoulder.
I can feel the people gathered inhaling at the same time, but before the fight can escalate, three guys I’ve never before met step in and walk in between us and Clyde. They’re all wearing cuts featuring a familiar club name.
“Enough!” one of them shouts, resting his hands on his belt as he stares my way. “You guys want to beat each other into a pulp? Be my guest, but not at the damn rally!”
Ah, Sunday bikers have shown up. Not that I mind them that much when they don’t separate me from Clyde-fucking-Turner.
Prophet sighs and looks Clyde’s way, his fingers digging into my flesh as if he wanted to break skin. “Agreed. Each of you threw a punch, and now it’s over.”
Clyde sucks in a breath and wipes some mud off his face to reveal a red flush. I can make him flush in more ways than one. He needs to give me a fucking minute or five.
“Fine,” he grumbles, then spits blood into the mud. When he pats his pocket, where I planted the phone, he stills but doesn’t pull it out.
That’s right, Clyde. Call me. Message me. Let’s do it. Let’s do it fast and raw, without caring who we are.
My mouth waters as I try to communicate all that without words. I still taste his salty sweat, so I swallow to keep it inside me.
But then the girl from before, the one with the long red nails, steps in front of Clyde.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” she coos and cups his face.
Even then, Clyde never breaks eye contact with me. “Sure. He can’t do any damage.”
I swallow. The kind of damage I want to do to this man… He’s awoken things in me I buried long ago. He better fucking call me from that burner, or I’m gonna find his house and break in.
Chapter 6
Clyde
I’m sweating every time I touch the secret phone through fabric. I planned to drown it in a keg, or smash it as soon as I rejoined my own people last night, but… I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I attempted it twice since, once placing the phone by the wheel of a delivery truck, and another time, when I considered stabbing it with a corkscrew until it died. But twenty-four hours later, the damn thing is still in my pocket, burning me through denim.
Road’s a degenerate with one thing on his mind, and the one thing keeping a leash on him is that he needs to keep his lust for me secret. And even that he’s struggling with, because he licked me. Fucking licked me. Who knows what else he’s capable of? I once saw him smash a guy’s head against a pool table so hard the poor bastard lost several teeth. Would I truly risk getting naked around a man like that?
But he’s also the only guy who’s ever expressed interest in me, and I do find him hot, regardless of what a cockroach he is. Getting rid of the phone with the picture of an erect dick as its wallpaper and a single number labeled The best candy cane you’ll ever lick in its contacts proves too difficult.
Maybe I am a maniac too? Because I’ve been pulling out the device to steal glances at the cock that carries no identifying features, yet which surely can belong to only one man. I like that Road doesn’t shave his body hair, and I have a feeling the dark brown thatch carries the scent of his musk. If I came close, studying the curved length with my fingers, I’m sure it would be quite… intoxicating.
I hate how this fucked up development is making me unearth all the pieces of me I wanted to bury. I’m not that stupid boy anymore, and I most definitely couldn’t risk having sex with a psycho like him. He’s called Roadkill, for fuck’s sake.
The single reason I entertained his stupid regret was because I thought I was dying. No one should know such a thing about me, let alone the guy who once set my bike on fire. It doesn’t matter that I got back at him for it. How hot he is shouldn’t matter. I’d be betraying my club.
Even the phone I have in my hand is a slippery slope. Especially as I’m in my uncle’s office at the clubhouse, since it’s currently empty and offers me privacy.