Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I met her in Alabama, before I went to Afghanistan,” I say calmly, keeping my position.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“Did you know she was my cousin when you started working for me?” he asks.
“No, not until Sage asked me to look into Lane.”
His eyes narrow before he drops his forehead. “This is fucked. How did I not know about this?” he asks the top of the desk.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“You don’t think so? You fuck up with her, and I’m down one man, ’cause I’m gonna have to take you out.”
My spine stiffens and I growl “I’m not gonna fuck up with her.”
“You were with her, and then you weren’t. My guess is you’ve already fucked up with her.”
He had a point—one I didn’t like, but a point nonetheless. Still, I continued on, “Can’t predict the future, but I know I regret everything I did to us. I also know how it feels to live without her, and I won’t do that again.”
“I should’ve seen this coming.”
“I’m not gonna say sorry.”
“Jesus, Evan, you’re fucking locked up tight. No one knows shit about you, and then you come to tell me this shit, and expect me to just fucking deal with it, without questioning the shit you’re sayin’?”
“I don’t expect anything. One: me and June are none of your concern. Two: no disrespect, but I don’t really give a fuck what you think about the two of us.”
“You don’t give a fuck?” he asks low, cutting me off and leaning closer. Jax is a big dude, but I still have about two inches and thirty pounds on him. I’m not afraid of him, or anyone else for that matter. Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, watched people die, and been up close and personal with death yourself, you know what real fear is. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Barrister?” he asks on a growl, leaning even farther across the desk.
“Nothing, let the cards fall where they’re gonna fall.”
Shaking his head, he stands, taking his hands from the desk. “This goes bad, and I’m gonna have no choice but to kick your ass.” He sighs, and I shrug. “This is fucked,” he mutters, taking a seat and rubbing his face.
“I gotta get to June. You need anything else?” I ask, standing up.
His head turns to the side, and he lets out a breath then asks, “Does my uncle know about the two of you?”
“No, but he will.”
“You may wanna wait to inform him of this shit until you and her are solid,” he suggests, looking at me.
“I’m not waiting again. I should have forced her to be honest about us before, but I didn’t. That was my bad. This time around, I’m doing shit differently,” I tell him, and he roars with laughter, doubling over with the force of it.
“Oh, shit. I need to be there when you tell him this,” he says through his cackles as I head for the door.
“I’ll get you a front row seat,” I mutter, before shutting the door behind me.
Once out of the office, I back my bike out of my spot and head for the compound to exchange my bike for my truck. Pulling into June’s driveway twenty minutes later, I look at the dash, seeing it’s ten ’til five. I park behind her bug, shut down The Beast, and hop out. Making my way down the sidewalk, the front door opens, and I notice she’s dressed, but not dressed to go out. Her hair is up, and she’s wearing a plain, peach-colored tank and short jean shorts with bare feet.
“You change your mind?” I ask as I make my way up to the front door.
“Um…no, I…” She looks up at me, seeming uncomfortable. “I thought we could eat dinner here?”
“Yeah?” I ask, wrapping my hand around her hip, pressing her into the house before shutting the door closed behind me.
“I kinda had a hangover and—”
“I’m good with us having dinner here,” I mutter, cutting her off, and she smiles, taking my hand and leading me down the hall. “Do you want me to go out and pick something up, or do you want to order in?” I ask, and she looks at me over her shoulder.
Smiling tentatively, she murmurs, “I already cooked.”
“You didn’t have to do that, ’specially if you’re not feeling well.”
“I wanted to,” she says, and I follow her into the kitchen. As soon as we reach the threshold between the kitchen and living room, I’m hit by the overwhelming smell of rosemary chicken. It’s one of the things she used to make for me when she came to my place on the weekends, something I told her I loved on our first date.
“Baby,” I whisper, feeling my chest tighten when she drops my hand and grabs a set of potholders off the counter to open the oven. Pulling out the baking dish holding the chicken, she sets it on the stovetop then pulls out a pan I know holds scalloped potatoes. As soon as she has the pan with the potatoes on the stove, I shut the oven, mold my front to her back, press my mouth to her neck, and breathe her in.