Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Release him now or die.”
I drop my legs, spitting at him as he gasps, falling away from me. It takes a special kind of scum to threaten a person with rape.
They usher him out of the room, leaving me alone. When the door closes, I allow myself to feel the fucking pain, wincing in agony. My blood sticking to my thighs drips to the floor beneath my feet. I’m not getting out of this.
That job was clean.
Only the Royal Bastards at Little Rock know.
The information had to come from a rat.
The prick who called me for the meet.
Chapter Five
Ruby
Walking up the small yard, the overgrown lawn almost swallows the pathway. It’s more forest than yard now. Mother’s let this place go to hell since I moved out over a year ago.
A drape twitches. Eyes watch my approach. The paint has chipped so badly on the porch, it looks like the house has a skin condition.
I hate it here. Hate that one phone call from her in tears has me right back here, bailing her ass out.
Mother inherited this house from her grandmother. It’s not worth much, but it’s been something she could call her own—if she hadn’t taken out mortgage after mortgage on it over the years. Now, the bank owns it. If she isn’t careful, they’ll repossess it and throw her ass out.
The door swings open, and I walk in to find her huddled on the beaten-up couch. Black streaks line her cheeks from the mascara she cakes on. “I’m sorry, baby,” she sobs.
“If you were, you’d stop doing this shit,” I snap, noting faded green bruising around her eye. Her tears don’t make me feel sorry for her, just angry that I’m here again. The guy who opened the front door to me closes in at my back, distracting me from Fisher standing directly in front of me. This guy is too close, the cigarette stench on his breath hitting the side of my neck. He's tall, maybe in his thirties, and intimidating as hell with his weapons openly strapped to a belt around his waist.
“Ahhh, look at you Ruby. You get sexier every time I see you,” Fisher croons out, forcing my attention from the man behind me to him.
Puke.
It smells of alcohol and regret in here. Dust coats every surface. The air feels thick, grimy. She needs to open a damn window once in a while.
“You wear those shorts just for me?” This jerk has been flirting with me since I was fourteen years old. He seemed to have a soft spot where I was concerned, and my mother exploited it to her own benefit. I’m now regretting not stopping to change before coming here. My shorts aren’t short-short, but they may as well be the way Fisher’s eyes devour me.
“What does she owe you?” I sigh, sick of this shit. We’ve done this song and dance so many times. Fisher is a brother of a rival biker club. He doesn’t know I’m the sister of a Royal Bastard. And Jameson doesn’t know I’m here dealing with these assholes. He’d lose his shit if he did. I’ve never told him about this stuff. We’re siblings, but it’s through a shared father not mother. Jameson would probably kill my mother for putting me in such dangerous situations. And as far as I know, there’s no tension between the Royal Bastards and Lilith’s Army. I’m certainly not going to be the reason there becomes one.
“I have three grand.” I pull out the cash I stole from Jameson’s stash and dump it on the glass coffee table covered in dirty ashtrays and beer cans.
“You really think I’d be here for a measly three grand?” Fisher snorts, shaking his head. Despite his words, he always comes to collect when her tab goes over a thousand. I used to think he sold to her when he knew she couldn’t afford it on purpose. He would always tease I’d have to marry him one day.
He leans against the divide between the kitchen and living room, picking dirt from his nails with the edge of a knife. I heard his road name Fisher was short for Fisherman. Apparently, when people wronged him, he stabbed a fishhook through their cheek and dragged them by the back of his bike until the skin split, freeing them. He’s a scary man, but I’ve been around scary men my entire life.
“How much?” My lungs burn. My stomach catapults when my mother won’t look me in the eye.
“Ten.” She sniffles, scratching track marks up her arm.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Where the fuck have you snorted ten grand?” I exhale, wanting to shake her, hoping it will knock something free and make her realize what a joke she is. I sometimes fantasize she dies. It’s fucked up. I hate myself for the thoughts. But they’re there all the same. Life would be easier if she just stopped existing.