Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I turn and look at him now. He's got his eyebrows raised. A silent question hangs between us. What the fuck are we doin' here? he's askin'.
I'm not sure.
Which is how this day started so why not keep it goin'?
I want to ask Diesel about Laz. About this club. I want to know everything he knows.
And he must read my mind, or just the pissed off expression on my face, because he whispers, "It's a long story, Legion."
"I bet it is," I murmur back.
Then I turn and walk inside the clubhouse where the darkness presses up against me like a fuckin' welcome. The light gets murdered at the threshold, cut clean by the shadow line runnin' down the door frame, and I step right into it, lettin' it swallow me whole.
My boots make a heavy sound on the old floor. The sound of a man who isn't sure where he's goin' but keeps movin' anyway.
The air changes, gets thicker, tastin' like stale beer, and cigarettes, and history.
The morning brightness behind me bleeds around my shoulders for a second, then gets choked out when the door swings shut. My eyes adjust quick. Seein' shapes, then outlines, then faces in the gloom.
This place used to feel like home. Now it feels like somethin' I gotta solve, figure out before it figures me out.
Keep walkin', Demon. One foot in front of the fuckin' other. I walk over to the bar with more than a dozen sets of eyes on me.
Chains gives me the same eyebrow raise Diesel did. "What the hell's goin' on, Demon?"
But before I can answer, the door slams open and men pour in. Diesel first, then June, then Laz, then Bruiser. Then everyone else.
And suddenly, the place is crowded.
Diesel takes over, pointing at Crow, who is the closest man to the bar. "Drinks on us. Pour."
Crow blows out a breath, then turns and starts grabbing shot glasses.
Diesel catches my eye again. No questions this time. No explanations, either. There's no time for that. Just a steady gaze that says more than it doesn't.
Whatever this is, he's with me.
That's never been in doubt.
But if he did know I had a half brother… why? Why didn't he ever tell me?
The first drink gets sorted out slow and messy, like everything else worth doin' in this life. The place is so packed with bodies we run out of shot glasses first, then whiskey glasses, then even those chipped beer mugs Butch refuses to throw out.
Men press in from all sides. Boots scuff against the concrete. Leather cuts creak like old bones. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and a mix of motor oil and male sweat that never quite leaves these walls.
I'm standin' too still. Aware of the scrutiny. Eyes tracin' over my face, searchin' for the family resemblance that's suddenly so fuckin' obvious now that Laz is in the room.
But eventually, everyone's holdin' something. Glass, or plastic, or metal. The whole room goes quiet in that way that hurts your ears.
They're all just... waitin'. Watchin' me and Laz like we're some kinda biblical revelation come to life. Like this is a fuckin' wedding where the bride just realized she's marrying her cousin, and it's time for the best man's speech to save the whole goddamn disaster.
Keep breathin', Legion. Just keep fuckin' breathin'.
Laz is smiling. Grinnin'. Lookin' right at me with eyes that match my own. And I can suddenly read his mind.
You're up.
I'm not here to save ya, brother.
Only make your day harder.
Appreciate that… bro.
I have a shot glass and I raise it. I'm lookin' right back at him when I say, "To shitty surprises and bad days that start with a perfect sunrise. They go together like death and taxes, the only two things this life guarantees. Let's drink."
Laz's grin falters for a moment. But only a moment. He nods again, then throws the drink back laughin'.
CHAPTER 4
"Hello? Destiny?"
For a moment, there's silence, and my fingers tighten around the phone case, nails clickin' against the rhinestones. Then, in the background, the sounds of a babbling baby drift through—little gurgles and coos that make my chest ache with a longing I didn't expect.
"Savannah?"
I smile and twist a strand of hair around my finger. "Yes. It's me. I got your number from Legion. I hope you don't mind that I gave you a call."
"No. It's fine."
More baby sounds fill the space between us—sweet little hiccups and sighs that probably look like tiny bubbles forming on rosebud lips. I can almost picture her there, all wrapped up in something expensive, probably laid out on some rustic-chic baby blanket in a mountain cabin.
For a moment neither of us says anything, and I shift my weight. Then I realize, I'm the grown-up here and I was the one who called her, so if I want a conversation, it's up to me to produce one. Social graces don't just happen—they're trained into you, like show ponies learning their gaits.