Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“We live in a fuckin’ forest. We don’t have yards,” he cut in.
I went on like he didn’t speak. “And you don’t have wild parties with loud music and loud people on a weekday, or any day, where it goes nearly until dawn. Weekdays, you pipe down at nine. Weekends, midnight.”
“Is that a rule?” he asked snidely.
“Yes,” I answered loftily.
“Woman, I moved out here to live like I wanna live without some uptight bitch wakin’ me up in the wee hours of the fuckin’ morning and getting up in my shit.”
“Then you should have picked a lake that didn’t have another house on it.” I jabbed a finger at his house to indicate the lake beyond it. “That lake”—I leaned into him—“has another house on it.” I leaned back and jerked a thumb to myself. “Mine. So if you’d behave appropriately from here on out, it’d be appreciated.”
“Kiss my ass,” he returned.
Oh no he didn’t.
“You can do that, or you can speak to the local police about whatever fine they levy for excessive noise,” I threatened.
“We don’t have noise ordinances out here, princess.”
“Law enforcement is tasked with keeping the peace, and what was going on last night was far from peaceful.”
“If you had a problem with it, why didn’t you walk your sweet ass over here last night and ask nice instead of pulling this shit?”
I felt my eyes get round in affront, and I was feeling so affronted, I missed how his attention laser focused on my reaction.
I also missed the change in his demeanor at what he saw.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hell’s Angel,” I snapped. “Crawl forward from where it appears you live in the roaring, anything-goes, good-times seventies to today and tell me, what woman in her right mind would walk alone into a rowdy party in the middle of nowhere to ask a man to keep it down? In short, are you insane? And that doesn’t even account for the fact I shouldn’t have to.”
“I’m not in an MC.”
My head jerked at this confusing announcement.
“What?” I asked.
“I got a bike, but I’m not in an MC.”
“A what?”
“An MC.” When I was obviously looking as confused as I actually still was, he educated me. “A motorcycle club.”
“Oh,” I mumbled then shook my hair to get myself mentally back on track.
But this time, I didn’t miss how his gaze went right to my hair.
I put that in my pocket to forget about and wash until it was nothing but fluff and carried on.
“My point still stands.”
“You called me Mr. Hell’s Angel.”
I twisted at the waist and looked pointedly at the mess in his party area.
When I went back to him, he’d leaned out to have his own look, and a smile was flirting with his full lips.
This guy!
“I’m not asking for a lot,” I pointed out.
His attention returned to me. “Really? Because last night was a good fuckin’ time, and it woulda sucked for a lot of people, including me, if I had to kick my friends out at midnight because my neighbor has a stick up her ass.”
“I don’t have a stick up my ass,” I said hotly.
His brows rose.
“I don’t!” I declared.
“Babe?” a woman’s voice drifted from the interior of the house. “Get rid of her. She’s a drag.”
I put that in my pocket too. Not only what she said, but her entire existence, though, primarily where she woke up that morning.
“You done?” he asked me.
I was not.
“Listen, it’s very simple. At around midnight, just ask everyone to keep it down, turn the music down and switch it over to Fleetwood Mac or the Eagles or something.”
“No, woman, you listen,” he retorted. “People who live like us do it because we don’t want anyone telling us how to live. If you picked the wrong place to land, that’s on you. Don’t hang your shit on me.”
After delivering that, he did a full body scan of me that was entirely inappropriate considering not only our conversation, but that he had a woman inside he’d clearly had relations with not too long ago (as in, perhaps only hours had elapsed). It lingered on my hips, on my bust area and then on my hair before he locked eyes with me, muttered a cutting, “Nice Birks. Fuck, velvet.”
And then I had to jump out of the way when he stopped holding the storm door open and it whizzed closed.
If that wasn’t enough, he shut the inner door right in my face.
Well!
“What a dick,” I whispered to the door.
On that, I marched down the stairs and to the trail, my eyes to my Birkenstocks, my blood pressure out the roof.
And as I flicked my slides off into a cubby in my back hall, I thought, Fuck him. Those shoes are adorable.
I then went into my equally adorable kitchen and made coffee.
FOUR
Fuck Him