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)
He drove by and pointed out all the DAMC businesses and told her which DAMC members ran them. He doubted she’d remember it all, but Crew had included that detailed info in her packet. They also did a drive-by of the DAMC compound. They even stopped in to see Cross and his husband, Nash, and their two kids for a few minutes since they just lived behind the Angels’ gated neighborhood.
Later, they stopped at a jam-packed Bangin’ Burgers for their famous burgers, seasoned fries and thick shakes. Because the take-out joint didn’t have indoor dining, they sat at one of the picnic tables outside to eat. Being out in public, they kept their conversation generic in case someone overheard them while they wore DAMC colors.
A few women scrunched up their faces with disbelief or disgust once they read the patches on the back of Nova’s—Kitten’s—cut. One brave woman actually asked Nova if she was okay.
Of course Nova pulled out all the stops when she slapped back with attitude. “I don’t look okay?” She turned and asked Fletch loudly, “Thought I looked pretty damn good today, ol’ man, am I wrong?”
The woman’s cheeks flamed red. “I just thought—”
“Try not to think so fucking hard next time,” Nova snapped. “You think my ol’ man’s holding me against my will? Fuck no, this man gives it to me good.” Then she turned her back on the woman, who skulked away. Finally, when no one else was around, she whispered to Fletch, “I kind of feel bad. I understand why she might be concerned. What woman in their right mind wants to be the property of a man?”
Probably more than either of them would expect. “Yeah, well, you handled it as a biker chick would’ve. Good—”
Nova cocked an eyebrow, and shot him a warning look.
“Job,” he finished, swallowing down the “girl.” He valued his nuts and preferred to keep them safely secured in their sac.
Just like on Saturday, he dressed the part of Ghost by pulling on a worn pair of Levi’s, a Steel City Harley-Davidson dealership T-shirt, heavy boots and his cut. Nova dressed similar to the previous day, too, but with a black Harley-Davidson camisole snug enough to push up her tits, making them appear larger than what they were in reality.
After seeing her in the tank top she wore to bed two nights in a row, he had a good handle on their size since she hadn’t worn a bra.
Her faded jeans were shredded, her black boots scuffed and she wore a bunch of clunky silver rings on both hands. Around her neck, she also wore a thick black chain with a large O-ring that reminded him of a collar worn by a submissive. That gave him pause since he couldn’t imagine she was even close to being a sub, either in life or in bed.
A wide black leather cuff circled her left wrist, a silver hoop decorated her right nostril, silver skull earrings hung from both ears and the dark makeup around her eyes was put on heavy-handed, bypassing the sexy smoky look the first day he met her and now leaned more toward goth. Her dark brown, almost black, hair was covered with a black bandana to protect it from the wind and her brown eyes were hidden by a very dark pair of sunglasses.
With the way she appeared today and if he didn’t know better, he never would’ve guessed she was FBI and not a genuine biker bitch. “Down and dirty ’til dead” was the Dirty Angels’ motto and she had slipped into her role as an Angel’s ol’ lady like a pro.
While he preferred her this morning with her face scrubbed clean versus it being overly done, her whole biker chick look also did things to him he hadn’t expected. It made him think she’d have no problem getting “down and dirty” in bed and out of it, too.
He realized the road name Kitten might not fit her. She had warned him her teeth and claws were sharp, he had no doubt that was true. Maybe he should’ve picked the nickname Lynx or Puma, or hell, Wild Cat, for her instead.
He quickly lost his smirk as the long formation hooked a right into the parking lot of The Iron Horse Roadhouse, the public side of the DAMC’s church. Since they’d been placed at the back of the pack, and basically ignored the whole ride—when they weren’t getting the side-eye—he followed the line of bikes through the open gate and into the back lot behind the building. One of the prospects closed the gate behind them and secured it with chains and locks.
That made the hair on the back of Fletch’s neck prickle and Nova tapped him on the shoulder, making sure he saw what happened.
He nodded and found a parking spot along the very back edge of the large paved lot. Once he shut down the Harley with the straight exhaust pipes so he could be heard, he murmured over his shoulder to her, “I’ll see about getting a key for those locks.”