Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I know how it sounds, but I’m not a thief, honest! All I wanted was to figure out why suspicious money was coming in and out of the family laundry business. Uncle Walter told me to leave it alone, but I couldn’t let it go.
And I was right. Someone’s been laundering more than dirty sheets.
Now I’m on the run with a bag full of cash that could get me killed, and my only plan is to get as far away as possible before its real owner catches up.
But I’m an ordinary twenty-two year old, not a super spy. It doesn’t take long before I play right into the rough hands of three inked-up bounty hunters from the Outlaw Sons MC, one of the most notorious motorcycle clubs in town. I expect pain, punishment… maybe worse, but the bikers aren’t anything like what I imagined.
Savage is true to his name, showing no mercy to his enemies or his lovers, driving me to dizzying heights that terrify and thrill me at the same time.
Crude, rough and untamed, Crank’s calloused fingers make me purr just as loud as the motorcycles he loves to work on.
And Poe lures me into his arms with his good looks and silver tongue, but when his sharp teeth graze my skin, I realize he’s every bit as lethal as the others.
They’re everything I was taught to fear, brutal, lawless and dangerous as hell. But when betrayal cuts deeper than blood, and with a bounty on my head, it’s Savage, Crank and Poe who show me that true family runs deeper than blood.
Run all you want, baby girl. Ready or not, the Outlaw Sons are coming.
OUTLAWS' RUNAWAY is a motorcycle club reverse harem romance with a happy ever after ending. It's book 2 in the Property of Outlaw Sons MC series of standalone romances with characters who continue to make appearances.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
PAIGE
“Shake that pretty ass, girl!” one of the jerks at the big table yells. His friends laugh like he’s a comic genius.
Great. It’s going to be like that. I had a bad feeling about these guys as soon as they came in. It isn’t always fair to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes you get exactly what it promises. Trust your gut. A lesson I should’ve learned a little earlier in life, but not much I can do about that now.
“Coming!”
He and his buddies look like they’re on a hunting trip, all six of them dressed in a mishmash of stained camo and army surplus. Just that wouldn’t bother me, but they’re giving strong ‘don’t leave your drink uncovered’ energy. It’s only two-thirty, and I bet not one of them would pass a breathalyzer.
I could be on a plane heading to a tropical paradise right now, but instead I’m counting tips to scrape together enough for some supplies and a bus ticket to the other side of the country. My back hurts, my feet hurt, and if I didn't desperately need the money, I'd tell this guy exactly where he can shove his menu. But I do need it, and under-the-table work that doesn’t involve taking my clothes off isn’t nearly as easy to come by as I thought it would be. I tighten my apron, stand up a little straighter and put a polite smile on my face. Sometimes after a few beers, people get pretty free with their tips.
Not going to hold my breath, though.
“I'm so sorry you had to wait. Busy day, you know? Are you boys ready to order?” I pull my order block out of my apron pocket and do a little test doodle in the corner to make sure the ink is flowing.
The loudmouth guy looks like he’s in his fifties, and sunscreen lotion has never so much as whispered across his leathery skin. His flinty eyes scan my face like he's trying to memorize every little feature. It's creepy. A couple of the others do the same, while the rest mostly ignore me.
“I can come back if you need a minute. Or if you know what you want to drink I can get that going for ya.” Run, run, run! my instincts scream, but I’ve only been here for a few days. I'm being paranoid. It's just some local boys being assholes.
He leans back, hands linked behind his head and gives me a nasty smirk. “Nah. I think we know what we want. Unless you’re on the menu? The boys and I have always been partial to splitting a nice cherry pie.”
It's a struggle, but I grit my teeth and resist the urge to stab him in the eye with my pen.
His buddy to the right laughs at my obvious discomfort. “Ribs, extra sauce. And dirty fries. Oh, and bring a couple pitchers of beer for the table.”