Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Colt is standing next to Fury, who is holding a man in his grip. The man has his head hung forward, blood drips from his lips onto the ground. Colt barks something, something my fuzzy mind can’t comprehend, and then drives his fist into the man’s face, over and over, the cracking sounds filling the room as blood spurts from his nose. My horrified gasp fills the room, causing him to stop and slowly turn, panting with rage, blood trickling down his hand.
The man standing in front of me isn’t the man I know.
I’ve never seen this man.
The cold, emptiness of his eyes scares me.
The bag of food drops from my hand, and I turn and run.
I run as fast as my legs will carry me to the front gate. Colt bellows my name, but I don’t stop. Leaping into my car, I fumble with the keys, frantically shoving them in and then throwing the car into reverse, getting out of there just as he makes it to the gate. I disappear down the road just as the tears burst forth and roll down my cheeks. I didn’t expect to walk in on something like that.
I know Colt is a biker. I know he does bad things. I just never expected to see it or feel this way.
My phone rings, but I don’t answer.
I drive until the tears stop, and only then do I return to my apartment. By the time I arrive, Colt is standing out front by his motorcycle, his arms crossed over his chest, the bruising on his hands clear. I have noticed bruises on him before, but I never thought anything of it. I always assumed it was just part of him tinkering around with cars, which he does most of the day.
I sit in my car staring at him for a long moment before finally getting out. Walking toward him, my knees feel shaky. I don’t know how to approach what I saw; I don’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t let me say a word, he just reaches for a helmet on the back of his bike and hands it to me. “Get on. We need to talk.”
I hesitate, not sure if I should get on the bike.
He thrusts the helmet into my hands, not giving me a choice.
We do need to talk. That much is clear.
He won’t hurt me. I know that.
So, I get on the bike. He climbs in front of me and then we take off. I know right away we’re heading to our favorite café because we’ve taken this road many times. I try to get my mind calm as we ride, the rumbling of the bike drowning my thoughts. By the time we arrive at the café, I am feeling a little more level-headed and ready to discuss what it was I just saw.
We both go inside, not a word spoken, and find our usual table. Once we have ordered and we’re alone, Colt finally speaks, “I told you I was busy today.”
“When you said busy,” I mutter, “I assumed you meant with work.”
“That was work.”
“That was not work.”
His eyes flash, and he leans forward over the table. “I’m president of a motorcycle club, Chloe. Not sure at what point you decided that me doing those things wasn’t part of the equation.”
“You hurt people,” I whisper. “You were beating that man. It ... it was terrifying.”
“That man has information on my son. Information I need. He’s no good, the worst fuckin’ kind. He deserved it.”
I shake my head, refusing to accept the words coming out of his mouth. “Nobody deserves that.”
“You’re wrong about that,” he mutters as the waitress places down our drinks.
“Is this something you do often?” I dare to ask, staring at my tropical juice and not feeling a single urge to drink it.
“When I need to.”
“And you expect me to just ... be okay with it?”
I meet his eyes.
“I expect you to understand and keep your distance during those times.”
“What if we have children?”
The words come out as a shaky whisper.
“What about it?”
“That isn’t the kind of life a child should be raised in.”
“Why not?”
He’s angry now, his tone is clipped, and his jaw is tight.
“What if a child saw that?”
“They wouldn’t see that, because club business is meant to stay with the club, but if for some reason they did, they would understand because that is the life they’ll be raised in.”
“You can’t be serious,” I gasp. “That would traumatize a child for life!”
“Every fuckin’ effort would be made to ensure they wouldn’t witness that side of the club. The children raised behind those gates are loved, they’re protected, and they have a good life.”
Shaking my head, I’m struggling to make sense of what he’s saying. “No. It’s impossible for a child to live a good life in that situation. It’s dangerous. It’s not right for children to be exposed to those kinds of things.”