Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Too bad he didn’t bring his gavel along to slam it on the table. That usually got the executive committee’s focus back on the subject at hand.
Miller pointed to the front door. “I’d say that’s a sign right there.”
The group got quiet—for once—and stared at the large anarchy symbol spray-painted in red.
“That’s bad juju,” Rez pointed out.
“No it isn’t,” Jamison assured him, “and we can paint over it.”
Rez shook his head. “Hell no. Even if you paint over it, it’ll still be there, only hidden beneath a layer of paint. The door needs to be replaced.”
“Some dumb punk spray-painted a symbol they don’t even understand. It doesn’t mean shit,” Fletch said. “Don’t be a superstitious pussy.”
Rez cocked an eyebrow. “Says you, who does a whole routine before every Steelers game.”
“Do you want them to lose?” Fletch wasn’t going take the blame when his favorite football team lost because he was too lazy or embarrassed to do it. The whole ritual only took thirty seconds. If that.
He fucked himself the day the guys caught him doing it. Now they rode his ass about it every damn time they watched a game together. Being September, football season was finally in full swing.
If they finally got their own clubhouse, they’d be watching a hell of a lot more games together. He’d have to do his “good luck” routine before the game either outside in the parking lot or while hiding in the bathroom.
“Just think. If we get a huge flat screen with surround sound, we can watch all the games here uninterrupted by wives or kids… or,” Finn glanced over at Cross, “others.”
Next to Fletch, Crew snorted. “Jamison, are we just going to stand out here and gawk at the building or are we breaking in so we can check out the inside, too? We can’t make a solid decision without seeing it all.”
The BAMC president dug deep into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out a set of keys and held them up. “We don’t need to break in.”
“How the fuck did you get the keys?” Crew planted his hands on his hips and pointed his mirrored sunglasses at Jamison. “Since when does anyone get to inspect a property before it goes up in a forfeiture auction?”
“Since today,” Jamison answered with a half-shrug. “I had a connection at the county.”
“We all have connections at the county. Must be an extra special one.” Crew, a DEA senior special agent, probably had the most connections out of any of the BAMC members.
Jamison shook his head and went to the windowless metal door. It had a “no trespassing” sign tacked to it, along with the county’s auction notice. The forfeiture sale was only three days away, so a decision would need to be made quickly.
Fletch was surprised the place didn’t have a “condemned” sticker, too. But because it didn’t, it gave him hope that the inside was better than the outside.
After Jamison unlocked and opened the door, no one moved to enter.
“Who’s going in first?” Rez whispered.
“The prez,” Miller suggested. “This was his idea and he’s our leader. He goes in first.”
That sounded like a solid plan to Fletch.
“Anyone have a Maglite on them?” Jamison asked.
“Yeah, I keep one right in my back pocket.” Miller’s words dripped with sarcasm.
“I’ve got my Fenix on me,” Crew announced, digging into his Blue Avengers cut.
They all wore their colors today since they’d been on a run earlier. After breaking for lunch, Jamison had told them he had a surprise and once they left the diner, he’d taken the lead from Finn, the club’s road captain. The BAMC president led them directly to this run-down building located on the edge of Rockvale.
“I’ve got my Fenix on me, too,” Cross announced, holding up a compact, but powerful, flashlight law enforcement liked to carry.
Nox shook his head. “The rest of us that failed Boy Scouts will have to use the flashlight app on our phones like normal bipeds.”
Fletch could imagine his eyes rolling behind those dark-tinted aviators.
“Normal people don’t call humans bipeds, brother,” Miller informed Nox.
“Well, there you go. Since when is Bradley Licks-Windows Lennox normal?” Fletch planted a hand on Jamison’s back and shoved him inside. “We’ll follow you.”
“You act like it’s haunted or something,” came from the dark interior. Jamison released a high-pitched, hair-raising scream and everyone froze mid-step. A second later he laughed. “Just fucking with you! Now get the hell in here so we can get this tour over with before the cops come along and charge us with unlawful trespassing.”
“Has anyone told him we are the cops?” Finn stage-whispered. With the sun setting behind him, Daniel Finnegan’s red hair appeared to be on fire.
Fletch wondered if women were into gingers. Maybe, since Finn never seemed to have a problem with snagging pussy. But then, none of the single BAMC members did. The badges they wore or carried tended to be pussy magnets.