Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Yes.” She whirls around. “What Abraham does is evil. If someone did that today, they’d end up in jail.”
I thought being trapped in the elevator with a casket was my worst nightmare. But discussing the Old Testament in a narrow closet with my girlfriend, when there’s an eyeball pendant swinging from the ceiling, just shot to the top of my things I never, ever want to do list.
“Not always,” I say.
She stops and a smile worthy of the most unhinged version of Harley Quinn lights up her face. “Exactly.”
What the fuck? “Uh, I kind of agree with you but that doesn’t explain why you have a fucking eyeball pendant in your closet.”
“It’s from my first kill.” Red splotches spread over her cheeks. “My last one was while you were in Tennessee.”
Her last one?
How many were there in between?
I stare at her. She’s dead fucking serious. This isn’t an elaborate prank. My sweet, soft woman who cares so compassionately for the dead, wears quirky pins, asked me to teach her about sex, and looks like innocence personified, is a fucking serial killer.
My stomach twists in horror, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. She’s not a slightly kooky woman who collects pieces of her clients—that would actually be preferable.
She murders people.
The sledgehammer of truth slams into my body, knocking the air from my lungs.
Shattering everything I thought I knew about my woman into a million pieces.
Jigsaw and Margot’s story continues in:
Collect the Pieces (Lost Kings MC #25)
Universal Link to preorder: https://books2read.com/LKMC25
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Griff
If you’d like to learn more about Griff and Molly’s story, here is an excerpt from Fighting the Forbidden.
My best friend’s little sister Molly is the only person in the world distracting enough to make me miss a foot flying at my head.
The kick slams into my temple. Pain explodes through my skull. My vision blackens around the edges. I rock sideways but stay on my feet.
Stupid mistake.
Everything in front of me blurs for a second. I grit my teeth, refusing to give in to the throbbing ache. Shaking off the blow, I put my fists back up, and weave away from my opponent.
My wandering attention could’ve cost me the fight. But Molly’s here. Watching. Even though she’s what pulled me out of the fight, she’s also the reason I’m diving back into it.
So she can watch me win.
I weave away from my opponent’s next strike. He already had his shot. He’s not getting another one.
Molly is my ultimate forbidden fruit—my best friend’s little sister. She’s sweet, shy, innocent, and gets good grades while I’m gruff, loud, definitely not innocent, and earn extra cash by beating the shit out of people in illegal underground fights.
Why is she even here?
The bloodthirsty spectators roar. This is a rougher scene than I’m used to. Dirtier fighting. Fewer rules. The dank, sweat-soaked air crackles with expectation.
My opponent—a skilled fighter, no doubt—goes in for another shot and that’s when I retaliate, pummeling him with several calculated strikes. He sways on his feet, then crumples to the concrete floor.
Stay down, motherfucker.
He groans and flops his forearm over his eyes. The crowd erupts in chaotic cheers and shouts. The ref stomps over and toes my opponent in the ribs. The guy curls into a ball on his side, signaling he’s done.
Breathing hard, I allow the ref to hold my hand in the air and show me off to the heavy bettors outside the cage.
“Give it up for Stonewall!” the ref shouts, using the ring name I was given years ago.
The people chanting my name are nothing more than a colorful, frenzied blur. My mind’s already left the ring. I’m too busy searching for Molly to pay attention to the spectators, girls, or anyone else.
The organizer of tonight’s matches approaches with a big smile stretched across his face. He hands me my stack of cash and slaps my back.
“Good match!” he shouts in my face. “Come back anytime.”
Not likely. I don’t plan to make a habit out of visiting Ironworks.
I nod to acknowledge his open invitation, then hustle out of the ring and into the fray. Need to reach Molly before the crowd swallows her. These aren’t the sort of people she should be mixed up with.
I shoulder through the mass, bumping guys out of my way. There. No more than ten feet from me. She’s in a shadowy area, waiting patiently against the back wall. My lips curve up as I recognize the logo of my fight club stretched across the front of her purple T-shirt. Brass knuckles and roses. Kind of like Molly and me.
Guys eye-fondle her as they walk by, but no one dares talk to her. They know better than to mess with Remy’s little sister. Because she’s my Molly—sweet, oblivious Molly—she doesn’t notice their attention.
Her eyes are focused on me and nowhere else.