Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
When I got back with her other shit after checking the purple box and seeing a whack of bathroom, first aid, and general girl shit along with the guitar from the car (after double checking the pockets of the gig bag), she was timid with me. And that irritated me, too.
Bront still looked like roadkill today. He’d been up since two forty after Prez called Pudge to check in, then stated he wanted two men alert overnight in case one of us got into a tight spot. The enemy was more apt to pull shit at night anyhow. I relieved him, suggesting he lay off the energy drinks so he might actually get into REM sleep.
***
I slid into my room for some weed in the mid-afternoon. My patrol shift was over, so beyond having a couple puffs, I also wanted to grab a paperback to read out in the lounge. She was cross-legged on my bed, TV playing the news, but muted. She had the guitar in her hands, one of her notebooks open beside her, a pen between her teeth.
She snapped the book shut when I came in and went pink in the cheeks.
“You want food or something to drink?” I offered.
She shook her head and pulled the pen out.
And then she wet her lips with her tongue and my eyes were locked on her mouth as I asked, “What about dinner in a couple hours?”
“I’ll be hungry by then,” she said, slipping the pen behind her ear.
“Not much for groceries here so I’ll run out. What do you want?”
She swung her legs off the bed. “I could come and…”
Our eyes met. “That’d be a no. You’re not to be seen. No one outside some club members know you’re here and Prez wants it kept that way.”
“Right. Okay. Um…” She put her index finger to her mouth, drawing my fuckin’ eyes there again, “how about…hmm…”
I rolled my hand impatiently.
“Maybe some chicken breasts and salad or something like that? Italian dressing, maybe, if that’s not a hassle.”
“Back soon,” I said, “Bront’s out there, so’s Pudge. Stay in here. Don’t try any witchy bullshit on them.”
“Any witchy bullshit? What’s that?”
“Seduction. Bullshit reasons to be out of this room so you can sweettalk them.”
She rolled her eyes.
I fought a smile.
Her face went tense and she reached for her bag. “Um… I don’t have much cash, but I should have a twenty.”
“Cash for what?”
“For the groceries.”
“You’re a guest of the club. Put your bag down.”
“I thought I was a hostage.” She cracked a smile.
“Two types of hostages. As long as you’re not pullin’ any bullshit, you’re Type B. Type B gets fed.”
“What happens to type A hostages?”
”Probably bound, gagged, and starved.”
“Are you always this distrustful? Or is it something about me?”
“Do I need to blow sunshine to keep you safe and keep an eye on you?” I fired back.
“Thank you for keeping me safe. I promise, I’m not gonna pull any bullshit, Jesse.”
“We’ll see.”
***
When I got back from the store, Skip was in the hallway at my door. I dropped the bags of food on the kitchen table and moved in that direction, seeing he had Gianna pinned against my door, one hand against the frame, the other on her hip.
I made my presence known. “Yo.”
Skip’s eyes darted to me. “Hey, Jesse.”
Gianna looked my way with alarm. And something else. Was that relief I was reading?
“You’re back early from the fish fry,” I remarked, continuing to move in that direction.
“Yeah. Cut out early this morning while everyone was still sleepin’. Needed to get back.”
Skip’s a club member in his early thirties. Average height, which meant I looked down at him. Long, dark hair. Goatee. In good shape. And he looked at me right then with the universal expression of a man who didn’t want anyone horning in on his action. His expression said, Fuck off, I’m working an angle here.
He's our road captain, hails from the Sioux Falls charter and moved here when we started, but still drives truck for Dominion Moving and Storage so is continually up and down between the two locations. His wife, Sara, is the one with the hate on for Gianna.
“What’re you doin’ out here?” I asked her.
“Just ran to the bathroom,” she defended, looking tweaked. “I came right back here when I was done.”
“Then why are you in the hall?” I asked.
“Tried to go in and-”
“We’re just catching up,” Skip cut her off. “In fact, I’d like to continue our conversation, babe, so follow me and we’ll do that in my room.” He tagged her hand and gave it a tug.
She grabbed my doorknob, looking – if I wasn’t wrong – scared.
I piped up, too. “Sorry, Skip. That’s gonna have to be a no.” The vibe between the two of them wasn’t right. I needed to shut it down.