Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"It was looking that way," Che said carefully. "But it's new, and I didn't want to assume shit."
It was new. But not that new. Since she'd been staying at the clubhouse, kicking around with all of us for a bit now. It all seemed like an equivalent of a month of dating. And by then, didn't most people know if there was something there or not? Otherwise, what the fuck was the point?
I mean, did I know she was Old Lady status? That she'd be wearing my name on her back one day? That there would be rings and kids and all of that?
No.
I mean, who the fuck could predict that kind of thing? Who even knew if I would live long enough to even want to settle down, let alone do it.
But did I think I was closer to wanting those things with Harmon than I ever had been before? Yeah.
And did that mean that she was mine, albeit even in a temporary way? Yes.
So even if she was just temporarily mine, she was mine. That meant heads needed to roll for even thinking about hurting her.
"Maybe we should put some music on," Che said, wincing when the guy in the basement started wailing.
"Yeah, might be a good idea," I agreed, watching as he moved out into the living room, finding the stereo, then turning the music up loud before coming back in. "Did you look through this yet?" he asked, reaching for the phone on the table.
Fuck.
I was off my game.
I needed to focus.
My men shouldn't have been the ones with all the ideas.
"No, check the texts," I demanded, taking a deep breath, hoping it would bring some focus back into my system. "Any mention of her?"
"Nothing here about taking anyone. But there is a mention of seeing you with a 'blue-haired bitch,'" he said, air quoting it. "Here. This is suspicious. He said something to this guy about finding out she's rich. But that's where the conversation ends."
"Even stupid low-level guys are usually smart enough not to talk about concrete plans in a text," I said, shrugging. "From the looks of this place, they could use some cash."
"But why risk taking her? When she's not only connected to a powerful family in the area, but also us? Seems like a lot of risk."
"They're young," I said, shrugging. "Stupid usually comes along with that. Thinking you can do whatever the fuck you want and get away with it unscathed. We were all like that once."
Hell, some of my earliest chopping schemes involved me acting like a valet, actually talking to the marks before I stole their cars.
Che used to drive over a hundred just to prove himself to some nobody locals, refusing to even take the pink slips when he won, just doing it for the glory.
We'd all been that level of stupid.
The only difference was, we were raised with the morals not to hurt women. These days, though, that shit was rare. Everyone was fair game in this world. Women, kids, beloved grandparents. Whatever it took to get you what you wanted.
"Yo, Huck," McCoy interrupted my racing thoughts.
"Yeah, what?"
"We got some addresses. I don't think he has shit else to give us. But... well, you know Remy," he said, looking a little pale.
Yeah, I knew Remy.
Which meant I needed to rein him in a bit before he got too crazy. So far, he'd never come out of one of his rage stupors and regretted what he did. But I didn't want that happening now, being down a man who was struggling with his own inner demons.
"Alright," I agreed, running down the stairs to find the man tied to a chair, blood sprayed fucking everywhere, a goddamn screwdriver sticking out of his stomach.
"Think he's got a little left," Remy said, reaching for a pipe on the floor, that sick, evil little smile pulling at his lips.
It was hard to reconcile this version of Remy with the one I saw cutting up fruit and vegetables for his tortoise every morning, who sat cradling his dog during thunderstorms because she was scared of them, who made a catwalk all around his bedroom for his cats.
"I don't got shit. I told him everything. I told him everything!" the guy cried, trying to rock his chair.
"That's enough," I decided, raising my gun, and putting a bullet between the guy's brows.
"He had more," Remy snapped, tossing the pipe.
"He was done," I told him. "Wipe down anything you touched and meet us upstairs," I demanded, turning, and making my way up myself, finding McCoy and Che already wiping down anything they'd touched—the phone, doorknobs, the stereo.
"What's the neighbor situation?" I asked, looking out the window, not exactly having been observant enough on the way in to have noticed.
"House to the side is boarded up. The one across the street has grass three-feet high," McCoy said. "If anyone is living there, I doubt they are doing it legally right now. It's a shit area. No one is going to be talking about the bikes. They don't want to be involved."