Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I shrugged. “He’s being petty. Still trying to get another judge to overturn the ruling.”
“You’d think he’d give up now that your house is built.”
“He’s a cocky son of a bitch who believes money will get him whatever he wants. It’s annoying. Doubt he’ll take it any further, though. He’s not stupid enough to take on the Iron Rogues.”
Don nodded, then changed the subject back to the house and pointed out some adjustments they’d made from the notes I’d had the last time we walked the property. He was an honest guy with a stellar reputation. Having seen what he did with the house Whiskey now owned and this new place, I was glad I’d given him the jobs.
“Everything looks great,” I told him an hour later as we shook hands on the front step.
“I’ll call you when the last details are complete.”
I lifted my chin in acknowledgment before turning and heading down the front walkway to the driveway where I’d parked my motorcycle.
My phone rang as I swung my leg over the seat, so I left the engine off and fished my cell out of my pocket. The logo for the New York hockey team, the Navigators, flashed on my screen with my brother’s phone number.
“What’s up, little brother?” I answered.
“How’s the house?” Nathan asked in lieu of a greeting.
“Almost done. It’ll be ready when you come to town.”
“That’s the other reason I called,” he informed me. “I need to know how many tickets you want for the game.”
My brother and I had both become pro hockey players, but he was still in the sport and played as the starting center for New York. They’d be coming down to Tennessee to play my old team soon, and I definitely wasn’t going to miss the game.
“Vince offered me a box,” I said with a snicker, referring to the owner of the Tennessee Trojans, who’d remained a friend.
“Fuck that,” Nathan snapped. “You don’t play for those pansies anymore, and you’re gonna be there to root for your brother. I’ll make sure you have a box in the Navigators section.”
I snorted a laugh. Nobody would ever call my brother gullible or a pushover, but I could always get him riled. And he’d taken the bait.
He sighed. “Why do I always fall for your shit?”
“One of the perks of being the big brother,” I teased.
“Bullshit.”
“Prove it. Stop being so easy to manipulate.”
“You know I’d have gotten you a box if you’d asked,” Nathan muttered.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But it’s more fun this way.”
Nathan grumbled something under his breath, and I laughed again.
We said our goodbyes, and I put my phone back in my pocket, then grabbed the helmet that had been hanging on my handlebars.
A lot of bikers didn’t bother with protective gear, which wasn’t the smartest choice in the first place, but it was the lifestyle. However, after playing hockey for the majority of my life, I’d had more than enough broken or shattered bones, torn muscles, and head injuries. So I chose to protect my head from any more trauma.
The engine roared to life, and I flipped up the kickstand before walking the bike back down the driveway. When I reached the road, I took off and left all thoughts behind me as I enjoyed the wind rippling past my body. It was late March, and the weather was growing warm, so the breeze felt good.
Approaching a sharp curve ahead, I eased the brake to slow down. I decelerated for a moment, but then the grip lost its tension, telling me that I no longer had control of the brake. I was just rounding the curve, and with the slight decline of the road, my speed increased and sent my hog careening out of control.
I went flying through the air and landed hard on the ground before I blacked out.
2
MARNIE
Iwas practically on autopilot as I drove home from the salon where I worked, but when I realized I was behind a motorcycle, I slowed until about eight car lengths were between us. With how tired I was and the sharp curve coming up, I didn’t want to get too close to the rider.
That choice turned out to be the right one because I was far enough away to pull over to the side of the road when he lost control of his bike and crashed. I watched in horror as his head hit the road, thankful he was wearing a helmet. He slid a few feet, not moving when his body finally came to a stop.
“Crap, crap, crap,” I mumbled, my hands shaking as I put the car in park and pushed the button to kill the engine.
I jumped out of the driver’s seat to run over to him, skidding to a stop in the gravel on the side of the road. He was sprawled face down, not moving. Crouching, I noticed the leather vest he was wearing, recognizing the motorcycle club logo on the patch on the back. He was an Iron Rogue.