Cato (Golden Glades Henchmen MC #7) Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Mafia, MC Tags Authors: Series: Golden Glades Henchmen MC Series by Jessica Gadziala

Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)

He was idling by the curb, waiting for one of his friends when a woman jumped on the back of his bike, wrapped her arms around him, and begged him to drive. He had no idea as he wove in and out of traffic to get away from the car chasing her that he had just met the one woman he couldn’t get out of his mind…

* all books in this series can be read as standalones *

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



There are some things they don’t tell you are a part of being in an outlaw MC when you join up.

Like that you might be idling on your bike, waiting for one of your brothers who is having a quickie in an alley with some chick he met in a bar twenty minutes before, and he wants you to keep an eye for cops, so he doesn’t land himself with an disorderly conduct charge at best, a public indecency charge at worst, the kind of thing that comes with offender registries and shit like that.

I mean, to be fair, I probably would have been in the same situation with Levee even if we never joined the club. But I’d probably be sitting inside an air-conditioned car, not sweating my ass off on a bike outside when the humidity was set to a thousand.

“For fuck’s sake,” I hissed, checking my watch after another ten minutes had passed.

Why not just bring the woman back to the club if you wanted to make a whole night out of it?

I mean, I got the thrill of it. If there was anyone in the club who knew a thing or two about being drawn to thrills, it was me. But this was pushing it.

I was being surly about it and I knew it. Probably just needed to get laid myself, to be honest. But I’d rather be doing that at the clubhouse in the air conditioning. Where I wouldn’t be sweating all over the poor woman.

I just saw the shadow of Levee moving out of the alley, the girl in tow, when I felt it.

A whole-ass body jumping on the back of my bike, arms going around me.

“Drive!” she hissed, tone just shy of frantic.

I knew I shouldn’t.

There were protocols and shit with the club, a need to check in before we got ourselves involved with anyone else’s shit.

But when a woman jumps on the back of your bike, her body pressing up against yours, and asks you to get her out of Dodge, well, you fucking got her out of there. Consequences be damned.

I kicked the stand back, checked traffic, and peeled out.

Adrenaline, familiar and welcome, surged through my system, making my hairs stand on end, my pulse pound, my vision and hearing somehow become more acute.

I lived for this shit.

The edge-of-your-seat feeling when something dangerous was happening. Or even just your body’s feeling of danger when you were safe.

Like bungee jumping or sky diving.

As the bike surged, the woman’s thighs clenched around mine. Her arms tightened hard around my ribs, and the side of her face pressed to my back.

She had no helmet.

And I was just asking to get pulled over by staying on the main roads, but the traffic was thick in Miami on a Friday night. Even with the advantage of being on a bike that could, albeit not legally, weave in and out of the crush of cars, it was painfully slow progress to get out of the busy nightclub area.

“Faster,” she called after her body momentarily loosened on mine, and she twisted to look back over her shoulder.

Someone was chasing her.

And I probably should have been kicking her off the bike. Or at the very least, insisting she tell me who it was, and what she’d done.

I didn’t do either of those things, though, I just kept lane splitting, risking being pulled over and crushed between unforgiving motorists as I tried to get her further away faster.

It felt like an eternity before we finally got to a corner where I could go off to the right, into a neighborhood instead of a business district, accelerating until my stomach plummeted, telling me I was pushing it on the safety front. Especially with a passenger without something to keep her head from becoming a crushed watermelon if I made one little mistake, and we crashed.

I was considering slowing down, maybe pulling off and seeing what was going on.

But then she let out a sharp “Fuck” to herself before demanding of me, “Faster. You have to lose them.”

A glance in my mirror said there was a car—dark, sleek, with head-splittingly bright LED headlights—was gaining on us as we barreled down the quiet street.

Now, bikes aren’t great for high-speed chases. There was more danger involved than if we were enclosed in some steel walls with some nice, puffy airbags in case of emergencies.