Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
He gave me a look as I opened my mouth, as if he knew I was going to protest his point. My mouth snapped closed.
“And you fuckin’ knew the man I was, ’cause you know statistics about fuckin’ helmets. You know about a motorcycle club on your doorstep,” he said, showing me he saw a lot, saw me. “Then, knowin’ all that, you could’ve let the cop handle shit for you. You didn’t. You came here. Got in my face. Threatened to have me arrested. And I’ve buried a fuck of a lot of people for doin’ a lot less.”
I knew his words weren’t an exaggeration to make a point. No, there was that ugliness injected in them which only came with the truth.
I swallowed razors. “Are you going to bury me?” I asked, voice low and timid. I hated it.
He smiled. And it was unnerving, because it wasn’t a smile that came from happiness. The way his face moved with the expression, the hardness in his eyes told me it had been a long time since he’d smiled in happiness.
“No, but you know that already. But what you don’t know is what I’ll do for you already. Not knowin’ everything, but knowing enough. And you don’t know near enough about me, so here’s something. I won’t hesitate to put another person in the ground, whether they wear a uniform or not, whether this club walks on the right side of the law or not. Because that’s the kind of man I am. And it’s not good. But you knew that before your ass was on the back of my bike last night. And you got on anyway. You had a choice then. You don’t have one now.”
He stepped back, and I let out the rush of breath I didn’t realize I was holding. He watched me exhale, his eyes hard, his body taut.
“So you get in the car with the cop. Let him down hard, or easy, your choice. Because both ways end with him breathing. But you need to get the fuck out of here right now before I change my mind and do it my way.” There was a long pause as his eyes devoured me, my body shaking under the gaze. “And my way is fucking you right here, right now.” His fists clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself in place with great effort. “But you’re hurt. That’s what’s stoppin’ me from doing that. From taking you wherever you want to go in the way you’ll be goin’ once you heal. That’s on the back of my bike.”
I didn’t move.
It seemed like I didn’t breathe.
That was a lot of information to take in at one moment.
In one freaking lifetime.
Especially mine.
Because I’d crafted my life so I knew what awaited me around every corner. Planned my life that way. It needed to be that way. I didn’t have many friends, but that was okay, because it meant I had more control over my life.
That meant I worked. Diligently. Efficiently. And then I went home. Read. Spent time in my studio. Cooked—something healthy and nutritious, of course—watched something on television—something informative and educated, of course—took myself out for dinner now and again, on a special occasion, obviously.
I went to the yoga class the little studio two doors down had on Sundays. Had a coffee afterward with one of the couple of women I was friendly enough to have Sunday morning coffee with. Then I’d get a pedicure. Every Sunday. Clean the house. Do a face mask. Exfoliate. Pamper myself.
Called my parents.
I did that every Sunday too. No matter how much it hurt. And it hurt so much that it was why my entire Sunday was spent being kind to myself, treating myself, because I knew what pain awaited me at night.
And then it was Monday and the routine started all over again.
No surprises.
Certainly no bikers talking about how I was ‘on the back of their bike’ like it meant something. Not before telling me they were willing to kill for me—after knowing me less than twenty-four hours and barely speaking to me—that they wanted to fuck me, and that I was theirs.
Certainly no Gage. The purest and most sinful antithesis of the order and safety of my life.
“You’re not movin’,” he hissed, my back still pressed against the door.
“Your name isn’t Gage,” I said instead of responding to that, or moving from the door.
He froze. Literally froze. Something cold and evil moved across his features like it had when he’d thought I was a spy. When he’d thought I’d known too much.
And I had a feeling that no one knew too much about Gage.
Because he buried the ones who did.
“How the fuck do you think you know that?” he demanded.
I blinked. “Because you’re not a Gage. That’s not a real name.”