Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Getting a quiet moment to myself, I closed my eyes tight, giving silent gratitude to whatever higher power might exist that I got her back and that she was—relatively—okay, before making my way back out into the hall where McCoy was walking away from putting Max back into the bathroom.
"You too tired, or can you spare a few to talk?" he asked, waving toward the couch.
"I'm exhausted, but wired, if that makes any sense at all," I said, moving to the far end of the couch, turning on it to face McCoy as he got into the spot Belle had abandoned.
"It does," McCoy agreed as I pulled my knees into my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "It's the adrenaline. Once it wears off, you are going to pass out so hard."
"I'm kind of looking forward to it," I admitted. "I haven't slept well since all this started. What did we need to talk about?" I asked.
"All this," he said, giving me a regretful look. "Sorry, I know it feels over..."
"But it's not," I finished for him.
"I'm afraid not. This all obviously didn't go to plan."
"Yeah," I agreed, mind finally clearing a little of my concern for Belle as she slept peacefully in my bedroom, allowing me to see the situation from the Henchmen's perspective.
I was supposed to be summoned to pick up Belle. Which would have allowed them to follow, to exact their revenge on the people who wanted them dead.
But with the drop off of Belle outside my work, all of that went away.
"I know you were probably overwhelmed, but did you manage to notice anything about the car?"
"I never would have before," I admitted. "But after listening to all you guys talk, my first instinct was actually to look at the car as it peeled off. It was a black Explorer. And there was a Q in the license plate. But that's... that's all there was. There was nothing distinct about it. And they were around the bend before I could read any other numbers or letters."
"Hey, babe, no, that's good. It's something. We would have nothing if you didn't have your wits about you right then. Besides, you'd be surprised what Arty might be able to do with just that. What?" he asked, making me aware that my confused feeling must have been plastered all over my face.
"It's just... I went from being a very, very, painfully average person one day to wrapped up with bikers and kidnappers and hackers and... what does your other friend do again?"
"Booker?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Private security."
"Right. Private security. Which, up until a couple days ago, I thought was only something for the uber-rich."
"You left out street racers. And ex male strippers."
"What?" I asked, eyes widening.
"Not me, babe," he said, letting out a chuckle, but even then, not offering up a smile. What the heck he was hoarding them all for was beyond me.
"Oh."
"It's Alaric. He's the blond one from the clubhouse. The one who isn't Huck, obviously."
"Right. Okay. I guess I can see that. What makes someone go from being a stripper to being a biker?" I wondered aloud.
"My guess? The ticking clock. It's not like he could take his clothes off for money forever."
"But what kind of job security does being a biker have?" I asked.
"That's the thing with the club. Even when the old-timers get old, they're still a part, and they still get a cut of the collective income, even if they aren't doing all the heavy lifting anymore."
"That makes sense. You get a sort of retirement. That's more than most people get these days. Can I ask something?"
"You don't need to ask to ask," he told me, shaking his head.
"Right, well, I totally get it if you can't tell me. But... what does your job entail? On a day-to-day sort of basis, I mean."
"Day-to-day, we're all mostly working at The Shop or the parts store, looking legit for the tax man and shit. Our other business isn't a full-time thing. We get shipments in. And on those days, we are working to pick them up, inspect them, and get them somewhere safe. But until there is a buyer interested, and we need to pack up to do a drop, we are free to do whatever. And most of us choose to do the car work."
"This is probably a stupid question—"
"No such thing," McCoy interrupted.
"But do you make a good living doing that? It seems very unreliable."
"Baby, if there is one thing you can count on in this world, it's that criminals will need to protect themselves from other criminals. And when they need the guns to do that, they will find them. And they will pay out the ass for them. Even doing it part time will set us all up for life in under a decade, depending on the split."