Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
She was totally fucking naked except for the mark on her breast he left behind last night.
“Gotta go. I’m about to eat lunch.”
“Lunch? Aren’t you—”
He jabbed his finger on the End button and set his phone to vibrate.
“Lunch is ready,” she announced in a husky voice.
“Not yet. But it will be soon.”
He smiled.
She smiled.
It wasn’t long before lunch was served.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thanksgiving came and went like a blur.
Sloane had picked up everything needed for a holiday feast, then refused any offers of help and prepared it all herself. Except for the homemade pumpkin pie his mother brought over.
Then they all sat down at the table like an actual family.
When his gaze had circled the table, watching the women chat and take turns to make sure Val ate enough, he expected to panic at seeing Sloane fitting in so naturally at his family’s holiday dinner table.
And once again he was clobbered over the head with how perfectly she fit in that spot.
His throat had closed and it became difficult to swallow a bite of that damn pumpkin pie. But he forced it down and pretended like everything was okay.
Ultimately, it turned out that it wasn’t the thought of Sloane staying that made him panic. It was the thought of her leaving.
Of her chair at the table being empty one day soon.
And now that the Black Box team had cameras installed all over the Uniontown clubhouse, Decker had no doubt if T-Bone was controlling Sadie’s every move, they’d find her soon.
On one hand, he hoped he was wrong about that asshole prospect, on the other, he hoped he was right for Sloane’s sake.
For his sake, too.
He was tired of late nights, missing his baby girl’s bedtime stories and climbing into bed with Sloane at an unreasonable hour. Of waking up exhausted at the ass crack of dawn to drag himself across the house and into the spare bed.
Of being out of pocket when it came to his brotherhood. Of being cordial to bikers he was sick of being around.
The list was long.
His patience was short.
But here he was again, delivering “pizzas” to sketchy areas in southwest Pennsylvania and just as sketchy people.
If he didn’t find Sadie soon, he was going to have to come up with another plan because he was done with this fucking shit. Done with his shaggy hair, his out-of-control beard and not going to the gym.
He pulled the Ford Ranger up to the double-wide that didn’t look much better than the one the cartel used as a meth lab down in Texas. Only he was damn sure someone lived inside this hovel.
And, of course, it was dark as fuck out and no lights lit the area except for one lone spotlight on the corner of the mobile home uselessly pointing up to the sky.
He pulled a long, deep breath in through his nose and forced the muscles to loosen.
Putting the truck into Park, he left it running—in case he needed to bolt quickly—grabbed the pizza box and hoped like fuck the residents of this utopia didn’t own vicious Rottweilers.
Or Chihuahuas.
He’d rather not run into either in the damn dark.
After opening the truck door, he paused to listen for barking. When all was quiet, he climbed out and took long strides up to the trailer.
On his trek across the weedy, uneven yard, his ass vibrated.
Fuck.
Whoever it was would have to wait until he was done with this delivery. He needed to stay on his toes, keep his head on a swivel and keep a hand free in case he needed to pull his weapon from his ankle holster.
A second after he pounded on the door, it swung open. The man who answered was strung the fuck out to the point he could barely function.
“Juss gimme the shit. Don’t want the fuckin’ pizza.”
No surprise. “Give me the money first and you can have your shit.”
“Already paid,” the man mumbled.
Right. “Pizza Town doesn’t take Venmo, dude. Pay up or I’m out.”
The man, who was nothing but skin and bones and had scabs and oozing sores all over his drawn face, grumbled something unintelligible, dug into his dirty jeans’ pocket and pulled out a bunch of crumpled bills. He flung them out the door and they fluttered to Decker’s feet.
Yeah, no. That was not happening. “Pick that shit up and count it out for me. Otherwise, I’m fucking leaving.”
“There’s eighty there.”
“Then pick it the fuck up and count it out for me. I’m a delivery guy, not your fucking bitch.”
The man blinked slowly at him a few times. He could hardly keep his balance when he finally stepped out of the trailer and bent down to pick up the money. Decker peered over him into the mobile home. It was dark and he didn’t see anyone else.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t full of strung-out or stoned people.