Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“They were like fifty,” I protest. I was on that walk. I saw them. I know. “Plus, they live just down the street. Neighbors. Please don’t do things that will get us kicked out of the neighborhood.”
“So?” Ransom shrugs. “What’s wrong with that? If they’re out walking their dogs, it’s probably a sign that they’re single and ready to rock. Isn’t that why all people own dogs? To attract potential mates?”
“I think sometimes people own dogs just to own dogs,” Azalea says very logically. “Because they like them. They walk them because the dogs need exercise.”
Granny stands back and watches this all, her face betraying almost none of her amusement.
“Please don’t start,” I beg. “You have enough on your plate with Operation Freaking Bartender coming up.” Yeah, that’s the gig Granny gave to Ransom. Bartending at one of the clubs that the biker gang owns. This is new for us—going straight into someone’s territory—and while Ransom looks the part, I’m worried. We’re all worried.
“Don’t be worried.” Of course, he knows what I’m thinking. “I’m good. I’ll have everyone close by, and Granny’s there to go all badass on anyone who tries to mess with me.”
Granny crosses her arms and nods in agreement.
I wouldn’t put it past Granny to wield a knife or pack on a set of Glocks and go into whatever bar Ransom is going to be working at and create major chaos if someone tries to fuck with him. I wouldn’t put it past her because I’ve seen her with a knife and a target, and I’ve also seen her with a set of Glocks and a target. I know she has a big arsenal that she doesn’t usually discuss. I just hope she doesn’t have to use any of that. At least Lennox, Atlas, and Orion will be close by as well. With the five of them together, what could go wrong?
Right.
A lot.
A-fucking-lot.
“I’m not worried,” I lie. Badly. Azalea sets her hand on my shoulder. She’s concerned, too, and she knows how I feel about this.
“You are.” Ransom cracks his knuckles. “But don’t be. When we’re done with him, that mother fu…mother of a pickle will wish he’d never flipped Granny off. That’s for damn sure.”
“Damn sure,” Granny echoes. “If they’re willing to ride down an old lady and flip her off when she’s on a damn crosswalk, they’re definitely up to no good.”
“They’re a gang. A gang that is extremely secretive and has left almost no trail behind them. They must be bad. A lot of people are probably in their pockets.” I don’t have to point that out because it’s pretty obvious. That’s why Granny chose them in the first place and spent a long time putting together her plan.
“They’re about to get gobsmacked by karma.” Ransom cracks his knuckles again and heads back into the house.
Granny gives me a soft, sympathetic, assuring look and follows. She’s trying to tell me that I don’t need to get involved, that we’ll be safely out of harm’s way—that’s not what I need to be reassured about—and that none of them are going to get shot, stabbed, dismembered, or the other hundred odd creative ways that I’m sure burly bikers could make someone pay or disappear.
I flip the burgers over for the last time, remove the buns before they get too crispy, and wrap an arm around Azalea’s waist to pull her close. She smiles at me, her eyes as clear and blue as the sky above us, and somehow, on this lovely July day, almost a year after we met under such extraordinary—I like to use that word instead of a few choice others that I could substitute— circumstances in my basement, everything feels so right in our world. If Granny and my brothers could keep their fingers out of dangerous pots, maybe everything would be right in all the world.
She leans up on her bare toes, and her bare, bronzed legs in those smoking hot jean cut-off shorts rub up against my jean-clad legs—yes, she’s got me wearing jeans almost every day now—as she presses a soft kiss to my earlobe before she whispers, “I love you. We’ll get through this like we have everything else. Somehow, we turned around the plans of two terrible fathers and made something wonderful out of it. If that can work out, anything can work out. It’s going to be okay.”
I know she can’t know that, and she knows I’m not going to stop worrying, especially because this is something new for Granny and very hands-on, but when she squeezes my bicep in just that special way she does, I find myself believing her just enough that the tension flows out of me. I’m even able to give a shaky smile that I half feel.
I brush a kiss over her temple and cherish her closeness. “Thank you for being so good and kind. And patient. And wise. Thank you for just being you. I love you times the highest number.” That’s our inside joke. Because infinity is too corny. I used to say love you like a mother because it was Azalea’s favorite saying for a while, but that sounded about as wrong as Granny’s “You’re grilling my buns all wrong.”