Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I stand there, rooted to the spot, as he leaves. I watch until he’s completely out of sight, praying that it’s not the last time I ever see Liam Maverick again.
Fury
I watch as the three bikers pull in beside me, dust kicking up all around us. I hate the fucking desert. I hate being here. I want to get back to Tennessee. I’m too old for these damn road trips.
I keep my gun hidden. I’m not getting bad vibes out of these guys. They’re not wearing a patch. Just bikers in general, and from the looks of their boots, they are weekend riders.
“What’s the problem, man?” one of them asks. He looks to be older than me, salt and pepper hair, goatee, earring, and a sleeve tattoo that is a mixture of skulls and butterflies of all things. You wouldn’t think those would go together, but even I have to admit it’s a sweet piece of ink. I wouldn’t personally wear it, but to each their own. Fuck, if I tried that shit, Devil would hand me my ass daily over it.
“Bike started sputtering about a mile back. I was hoping to make it to the next gas station, but it didn’t work out that way,” I respond, nodding at the other two. They don’t look that different from the first guy, a little more preppy, and I notice all three are wearing wedding rings. I pull my gaze from that. Too many memories want to spring forth at the reminder of that shit.
Ellie.
How long is that fucking woman going to haunt me?
I’m starting to think forever.
“You got tools?” one of the guys ask.
“Just the one I was born with,” I respond with a smirk while they laugh.
“Dude, everyone knows to bring their tool kit with them on their bike,” one of them criticizes. I manage to not roll my eyes at the biker-wanna-be—barely. I’m not about to tell them this is a bike I bought at a fucking pawn shop about fifty miles back, because I got tired of renting a cage and feeling closed in. It’s a piece of shit, not worth what I paid for it, and about as far from my sexy metallic green Indian Springfield as you can get. Still, I got to feel the air, breathe it in and feel free for the first time in weeks, so it was worth it…until it died.
I am supposed to be in Florida. I never planned on carting my ass out to Arizona. I hate this fucking state. It’s too damn hot for one, and it reminds me of meeting Ellie. Ever since crossing the state line, I swear to fuck I keep thinking I see her everywhere. It’s never her, but for a minute, when I look at a woman with white-gold hair, the color of a palomino’s mane, my chest goes tight.
I haven’t seen Wolf at all, but when I got to Florida the trail to Torrent’s sister led to Phoenix, Arizona of all places. I tried to bow out. Returning to Arizona was not what I wanted, even if Ellie had never lived close to Phoenix. Her family does live about five hours north, in Page, Arizona. I don’t even know if she’s still there, but I figure she is. That’s where her family lives and where she was living when we met.
God, that feels like a lifetime ago…and I guess, maybe it was.
“Your bike paid for?” I ask the biker that hasn’t spoken while forcing myself to think about anything other than Ellie.
“Mine? Uh…yeah. Why?” he says.
“What will you take for it?” I ask him, looking at the Honda and sizing it up.
“Uh well…”
“What year model is it?” I ask him, eyeing it. It’s the lamest bike here—and that’s including the one that died on me. I also figure I could get it the cheapest. Plus, this guy doesn’t enjoy riding. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a banker or works some other desk job. His bike is old, beat up and the only three-wheeler in the bunch—conversion kit, at that.
“Eighty-eight,” he says, still looking puzzled.
Jesus, it’s even older than I thought—and not in the cool vintage way that I like my fucking bikes. “I’ll give you five grand for it.”
“For my bike?” He looks astonished and maybe he is. If I had to guess, I’d say he paid no more than two grand for this piece of shit.
“The offer ends in about three minutes,” I warn him, getting tired of waiting.
“You’ve got five grand in your pocket?”
“Let me worry about how I’m going to pay you. You going to take my offer or not?”
“I…uh. Make it six,” the guy says, looking so nervous I’m afraid he might get sick. I take a step back, just to protect my boots.
“Five and you can have the pink slip to this piece of shit. Take it or leave it.”