Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“If you have time to talk to my daughter, then you're done paying your respects,” Dad snaps, clearly at the end of his rope.
“Hold your fucking horses, Daddy. I’ll fucking leave when I'm fucking ready.”
Grayson must have a death wish, because he makes a move as if to grab for me, and the next thing I know the taller of Crash’s friends has him in a headlock. “Give. Him. Time,” he grits out like it pains him.
Crash grins and take a step closer to me, so close that I have to crane my neck to look up at him. So close I can smell the leather of his jacket.
“You want me to go? To stop making a scene? Fine. Just one thing left on my fucking agenda anyway, sunshine.”
“Crash, I—
“Shh.” He captures my chin in his hand, his thumb covering my lips as he shushes me. His skin burns hot against mine. My heart thunders against my ribcage as if it's trying to break free. I wet my lips, startled to taste him when my tongue slides against his thumb.
Oh, God.
He grins, mischief creeping into his dark eyes. “Yeah, there she is.”
With his hand still on my jaw, he angles my head up, just a little bit more. His thumb slips from my lips and strangely, I miss it—his intimate touch. But then he leans in and I realize what he means to do.
What he does.
Crash's lips are softer than I expect when he presses them against me. His free hand cups the back of my head so I have nowhere to run and then his tongue is in my mouth.
I resist, or try to, but he's too strong and my heart isn’t really in it. Not really. At least not until I remember we're at Viv’s funeral! Dad, Grayson, the congregation, and everyone tuning in from home and online is watching.
He pulls back, releasing me slowly to catch my racing breath. I should be glad, but I miss his touch. The feel of his lips on mine, the scent of leather and him. Just him.
“Take your hands off my daughter!” thunders Dad. He storms towards us, but the guy in the red leather jacket is faster, getting in the way with his jacket pulled open and his hand on his gun.
Dad stops dead in his tracks. Vibrating with rage, but there's no good way out of this for him.
Grayson growls, but he’s just as stuck. The two of them are powerless, and everyone can see it. And they hate it.
Crash laughs, then makes a fist like bullhorns, putting it up to his head like a phone. He keeps his eyes on me even as he backs away. “Call me,” he mouths, then turns and jumps off the stage.
The other two fall in behind him and they stride down the middle of the Hall of Grace like action heroes walking away from a movie explosion. They've got the same Screaming Eagles MC back patches as him, but their names are Devil and Preacher. And all of them Fallen Angels. Somehow that seems both appropriate and not at the same time.
People rush to open the entrance doors before they get there, and the only sound in the hall is the shocked silence of hundreds of people. I don't think the congregation has dared to even breathe in the last couple of minutes.
The doors slam shut and they're gone, leaving me alone to deal with the fallout just like last time. And with my fingers to my lips, like last time, too, trying to hold on to the warmth of Crash’s lips just a few seconds longer.
5
DEVIL
“You’re not going closer?” I ask Crash.
Crash shakes his head. “Nah. View’s fine from here. I had my moment and I’m glad I came, but I mourned that woman a long fucking time ago.”
The cemetery’s on a hill. We’re watching from above as they lower the casket into the ground closer to the street in a fancy ass looking fenced-in plot. Eternity there? Looks like hell to me. When I’m gone, I hope they burn me to ash and throw me to the wind. That slick pastor his mom was married to would never go along with that. He seems like the kind of fucker that’s already ordered a gold plated statue to prove how big his prick is. Fuck, I’m surprised there aren’t disco lights and flag poles.
Assholes like him make me fucking sick. I’ve heard enough about Crash’s background to know that if there is a God, he’s not talking to this dickhead.
I lean back to put my weight against the tree we’re standing under and grin. “But what about the girl? Summer? She was feisty. I liked her.”
“Fuck off,” Crash says, but there’s no sting in it. He’s too busy staring.
“Nothing dirtier than a good girl.” I laugh, earning a glare.