Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Especially the Luna I know.
My smirk dissolves into a snarl when sandy-blonde hair flows out beneath a helmet, her tiny body straddling a gloss-black dirt bike.
“That’s definitely Luna…” Vaden clucks his tongue. “Something tells me that helmet placement is only there to conceal her identity, since I’m pretty sure the girl doesn’t give a shit about safety.”
He’s not wrong.
The tight bikini she’s wearing does jack shit to fasten her tits into place, and the muscles in her stomach ripple when she revs the two-stroke engine before the ass end skids around in a cloud of smoke. That helmet is there for one reason and one reason only, though I’m hoping that hair is a fucking wig.
She directs the bike onto one of the ramps that connect to three rings that spin around and around. Each ring is big enough to fit a couple of bikes, which is fitting because another two ride out.
The music shifts to some slow depressing ass song I’ve heard on the radio, but neither of us breathes another word as she continues her set. When she’s upside down and the wheels spin, the familiar weight of an enemy burns the left side of my face. I find him in less than a second. Suited in Armani, he hides his identity with glasses and a top hat.
I tap Vaden’s thigh with mine, nudging my head to where the stranger stands. He doesn’t notice us because he’s too busy watching her.
My jaw tenses.
Vaden follows my line of sight. Shadows form beneath the hard edges of his face. If I’ve ever seen Vaden lose his temper, it was when someone he cares about is threatened, and as much as I’ve tried to ignore it, Vaden and Luna had a bond. Almost instantly. Getting her to fuck Vaden wouldn’t have been difficult if we took things back to the last generation.
“We could kill him in less than two minutes.”
“Leave it.” My legs spread, lowering me further into my seat. “Nothing can come of it.”
Lana Del Rey starts singing about the West Coast as a cage lowers on top of three girls dancing in the middle of the stage.
I lean forward slightly, and Vaden falls quiet. Which is saying something since he can’t shut up.
“They all fuck each other…” Vaden whispers, almost to himself. “Huh. But aren’t some of them related and shit?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” My phone illuminates when I tap on the screen, opening Instagram. I know she has one, but since her feed is always filled with vague shit, I never go onto it. I scroll down to the end, staring at the first photo she shared.
The show must end because people start moving, so I shut off my phone and head toward the room's darkest corner. Tearing the curtain back, I dodge naked girls, weaving my way through to the back room. Mud molds around my boots as I open every door flap to check inside. On the final one, I find Luna sitting on a stool in front of a vanity mirror with lightbulbs lining the edge.
My jaw tenses. Jesus. What the fuck.
She’s always been hot, eradicating the line of flawless genetics, so it isn’t that I’m surprised by the superiority of her appearance. I figure it would take more than that to get my attention, since I’ve been around attractive people all my life and all they do is bore me.
Almost everyone assumes that I have no emotions. Maybe I do. Maybe the ones I have aren’t the same as theirs, but I’m not fucking blind. Luna has always intrigued me, and not because her eyes are a rare gray with a blush of lavender. Her mother’s eyes are straight-up lilac, and she doesn’t fascinate me.
It’s the way my brain played tricks on me over the years, downplaying her existence. She grew into her womanhood like a bottle of aged scotch, and now I’m second-guessing my choice of drink.
Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, leaving it low at the nape and allowing a clear view of her face. Has it really been four fucking years since I’ve seen her? She doesn’t look like the same girl I left behind. She seems different.
Softer.
I expected to see the hard girl who rode the bike on stage, not the girl who’s wearing a knitted sweater and—I pause when she bends to the other side to pick something up from the floor, flashing the black ribbon in her hair that’s tied into a perfect bow, and for a moment, I question myself.
My shoulder meets the threshold of the entrance to her cubicle. The air tightens around me, along with her back. She hasn’t even turned around, but it’s as though she already knew I was there. She straightens lazily as if not wanting to expose how much my intrusion affects her.