Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
There, he’d been polite.
Madge pressed her bright pink lips together, and as he took in her shrunken form, guilt twisted his stomach. He was about to offer her a cup of something warm at least, since they didn’t only drink booze in the clubhouse, but the hurried tap of feet approaching from beyond the trees dividing the property from the main road made him look up.
A lamp by the open gate chose that moment to switch on, spilling its dirty white glow on the vehicles. Roach gave his dad’s motorcycle a longing glance. A black beast of a Harley, with silver elements Roach had polished countless times. He’d once stolen it to ride the magnificent machine for a few hours, and Hulk had beat him black and blue for it, but Roach would have done that again in a heartbeat.
One of the cars parked in the far off corner was shaking rhythmically, but Roach’s gaze was drawn to the lone figure jogging across the yard, heavy boots thudding on the ground.
And just like that, Roach was thrust into the opening sequence of a 90s TV show, only the person running toward the camera in slow motion wasn’t a busty woman but a guy with the densest, most beautiful waves of hair falling almost all the way down to his ass.
He couldn’t help it. He stared.
The stranger headed straight for him, guitar case in hand, and huffing from the effort. He wasn’t much shorter than Roach, in his late twenties, but despite the lazy jeans and hoodie combo he wore, he caught all of Roach’s attention. Maybe because he was new in town, since Grit, Ohio wasn’t exactly a tourist destination.
He ran right past Madge and looked at Roach, who stared at him like a calf with a brain injury.
“Is this the Rabid Hyenas MC clubhouse?” he gasped in a voice that dripped with honey and vanilla straight from the South.
Roach took a deep inhale of smoke, his heart rattling like the idiot it was. Stupid fucking body finding the worst possible moment to wake up and get horny. That hair, though. So luscious and long. And eyes, such a bright gray against warm skin that evoked evenings on the beach—tan cheeks, and eyelids heavy and dark like damp sand.
“Huh?”
The stranger blinked, lowering his brows as his gaze trailed down Roach’s torso. Was he... could it be that this gorgeous man was checking him out? Roach froze in anticipation as he took in minor details. Like the fact that the man’s nose, while a perfect size for his face, was slightly crooked to the left—a memento from an accident in childhood maybe?—or that his brows created a groove in a spot that was perfectly aligned with the dip in his narrow chin. Such symmetry. From jaw to sharp cheekbones. Well, with the exception of the nose, but that slight imperfection only made the beauty of that face more striking.
White teeth emerged and dug into the full bottom lip, and Roach found himself staring. It was a pillow stained with cherry juice, with a Cupid’s bow right above.
And then, the stranger reached out to touch Roach’s chest, right there, on the porch, under the light that so often attracted insects in the summer. As if it was no big deal.
“Ah-hah. Seems I’m in the right place after all,” the man added, his mouth crooking into a smile that expressed knowing.
He’d just tapped the patch on Roach’s chest, and Roach would have let this man touch him everywhere. Maybe not in front of the clubhouse, but… yeah. He would. Shit like this didn’t happen to him. If there was a gay guy around here that Roach wasn’t aware of, then he sure as hell wouldn’t dare approach an outlaw biker.
He couldn’t explain it by means of logic. The guy had a confidence different to the aggressive way in which Roach’s friends carried themselves. It was more… sexual. As if he knew he could have anyone. That he could have Roach.
That, or Roach’s dick was projecting its own needs on this poor stranger.
“Yeah.” Mouth dry like during the worst of hangovers, tongue like wood, he was useless at striking a conversation, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. “You here for the open mic?” he managed to force out just to keep the guy here, to himself, a few seconds longer.
The stranger nodded and pulled the cigarette out of Roach’s hand. For a wonderful second, Roach hoped to see it touch those seductive lips, but the man threw it to the ground with a small smile. “Bad habit. Would you hold Diana for a sec?” he asked, pushing the guitar case at him.
Roach stared at the perfectly good cigarette dying on the ground with the last bit of bright orange glow. Had this been anyone else, Roach would have slapped them to make his point, but this guy invaded his personal space so casually, as if he knew his crime would remain unpunished.