Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Mature enough to be a valuable member of the team, but also down for a good time.
Coast, on the other hand, had ‘crazy’ tattooed all over him. Tall, but a lean kind of fit. Borderline skinny, but with abs. His hair skirted that line between brown and blond. His eyes were a piercing blue. The man had children’s blocks tattooed on his collarbone that spelled out ‘Fuck You.’
So… less mature.
More scrappy, judging by the fresh cuts on his knuckles.
The “Fuck You” blocks weren’t his only tattoos, either. There were ones on his chest, arms, and back—which I could see because he was in the pool, chasing around a couple of squealing women—and even on his neck and side of his face.
“Are those roman numerals what I think they are?” I asked, meaning the ones on the side of his face. Thirteen, it seemed.
“Yeah, so it seems,” Huck said, shrugging.
Meaning he’d taken thirteen lives.
It wasn’t an astronomical number. For a lifelong criminal, anyway. But it was up there.
“They’re going to put on their best show for us,” McCoy reasoned. “But if you can integrate yourself a little more…”
“Right,” I agreed, nodding. “On it.”
And with that, I decided to actually try to join in on the party, having a few drinks to loosen myself up, then making my way over toward where Eddie was talking to York.
“Hey, man, there you are,” Eddie said, smiling. I swear I’d never seen the man in a bad mood. “Was wondering where you were. This here is York. York, one of the brothers, Cato.” We exchanged the typical chin-nod thing that practically had the gregarious Eddie rolling his eyes. Never having struggled in social situations, Eddie could never understand when people didn’t just strike up immediate connections. “York was just telling me about life in rural New York state,” Eddie said.
“Yeah?” I asked. “What’s it like up there?”
“Cold,” York said, shrugging.
“Roll with any interesting crews?” I asked. “We have connections up in Jersey, so we know a thing or two about the world up that way.”
That was mostly a lie. Sure, Huck knew about some of the shit up that way, having spent time there himself, but the rest of us were in the dark.
“No, worked for myself,” he said, shrugging it off.
“Chopping down trees?” Eddie asked, all charm and affability. “Look at them arms, man. You could be like that dude online that chops up big hunks of wood while dirty-talking ‘em. Drives the honeys wild,” he said, before walking away. Likely to go check on something he was cooking. Despite there already being enough food to feed an army around.
“He’s not wearing a cut,” York said.
“No,” I agreed. “Eddie is more of a… hangabout. He’s trying to get full citizenship. He doesn’t want to be associated in any official way to the club because of it.”
“Makes sense,” York said, nodding. “Let me guess. You’re here to see if I’m a good fit.”
“We’re all here to see if you’d be a good fit,” I reasoned.
He said nothing to that.
“Between me and him, isn’t it?” he asked, jerking his chin toward Coast.
“Got a problem with him?” I asked, though I was impressed he was that intuitive about the whole situation.
“Depends on the crew. Too many of him, you have a problem. But one or two of him, you have controlled chaos.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-five,” he said, shrugging.
He came off as wiser than that.
“You’re York, right?” Alaric asked, coming in at the man’s other side.
“Yep.”
“This is Alaric,” I said, getting a nod from York.
“And I’m supposed to take you to the range,” he said.
To that, York finished his beer, then followed Alaric without another word.
“Got anything?” Seeley asked, coming in at my side.
“He talks like someone who’s been around and has seen some shit,” I said.
“Yeah. From what I gather, he’s been involved in the world since he was fucking toddling.”
“How so?” I asked, wondering what kind of organized crime could be going on in rural New York state.
“His old man hid bodies for the mob,” Seeley said.
“No shit?” I asked, brows raised.
“No shit,” he said, nodding. “York came recommended by Tony Barelli,” he added.
Tony Barelli was the local mafia boss that Donovan had worked with once upon a time. A friendly, but dangerous man who seemed to take a liking on the club since Donovan had mended bridges with him a while back.
“Why? Tony made it clear he gets rid of bodies the old-fashioned, Florida way,” I said. Meaning by feeding them to the gators.
“Dunno. Some sort of connection through the mob in that area. Seems like the New York crew has someone in the family to take care of bodies now, which seems to have put York out of business.”
“And now he wants to be a biker? Different business.”
“Steady business,” Seeley said, shrugging.
“Was he already living down here? Or did he just come to try to prospect?”