Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 35933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“Probably just fucking stupid,” he muttered, lifting the blunt to his lips and grabbing his lighter from his pocket.
“Possibly,” I agreed. “But I think there’s bravery there, too. And I don’t think it would hurt to give her a chance. Anyone coming here asking to prospect has seen some shit, brother, and you know that. We all have.” Hell, my mother had been a damn good woman, but my dad had been a fucking abusive piece of shit. I was sixteen when I put a bullet through his skull after I found him raping my mom.
Johnston had caught me trying to get rid of his body and had helped me. And then, he’d given me the number to his burner phone and told me to call him if I needed a place to belong.
Back then, Johnston had just been making a name for himself. He’d still been trying to build the Satan’s Worshippers MC. I’d called him a week later, and together, we formed the club, making it into what it was today.
Johnston was quiet for a few minutes. I let him have his time to think and used my pocket knife to clean the dirt from beneath my nails. Finally he sighed and put out his blunt with the tips of his fingers before setting it in the ash tray.
“You really think she can be valuable?” he asked me. “You’re not just looking to get your dick wet?”
I scoffed. “I’m always looking to get my dick wet, Johnston.” He rolled his eyes at me. “But yeah, I think she can be valuable. Something about her tells me she’s someone we want on our side.”
He grunted and pushed back from the table, then pointed a finger at me. “Then she’s your problem, Blayke. She’ll go with you to Mexico. If she does well and can hold her own down there, then you and I can discuss patching her in when you get back. If we agree, then we’ll bring it to the table.”
Standing from my own seat, I pocketed my knife and nodded once. “Understood, Prez.”
3
Noah
“So, you want to prospect?” Aaliyah asked, leaning on the bar in front of me, holding her own beer.
I scoffed. “I did. Not so sure I want to any longer.” I cut her an annoyed look. “Your man is a real piece of work.”
She laughed, her blue eyes lighting up. “He is,” she agreed. “But he’s also a man you can rely on to always have your back. If you’re loyal to him, he’ll stand ten toes down for you. He’s definitely an asshole, but honestly, once you get past that hard ass exterior of his, he’s a decent guy.”
“Really?” I asked, my brow arching as I lifted my beer to my lips. “Because one of the first things he said to me was some sexist ass bullshit about how women weren’t allowed to be members of his club because of our—and I quote—‘soft hearted bullshit’.”
She scowled, her entire demeanor changing, which made me like her just a little bit more. At least she wasn’t going to try to defend that bullshit, which meant she had a backbone.
“Okay, yeah, that was a dick move,” she agreed, her lip curling in disgust. “But look, if I know Blayke—and I know him pretty well—he’s in there right now trying to convince Johnston to give you a chance. To let you prospect. I think if he can sway Johnston, you should still give this club a try. I’d like to see you stick around.” She scrunched her nose as she looked around at all the men scattered everywhere. “There’s too much testosterone here.”
I laughed quietly. “Yeah, it’s pretty cloying.” She was the only woman I’d seen since I’d been there.
She grinned, then ran her eyes over me. “So, why do you want to prospect with us?” she asked. “You could’ve gone to the Texas charter or even went a little further east and prospected with the Savage Crows MC. Why us?”
“My dad knew Johnston,” I confessed. It’d been years ago. Back before Johnston even formed this club, Dad used to give Johnston a place to crash at night when shit got too bad with his parents and he couldn’t stand being at home. He’d give Johnston a meal—usually something microwaveable or a sandwich—and a blanket, and tell him to crash on the couch. It was before I was even born. Johnston had been a kid then. Barely even a teen.
Dad had apparently kept track of him over the years, even though I’d never known it. When he’d been on his death bed, lung cancer finally winning out, he’d told me to come here. That he didn’t want me alone in the world. We’d been wanderers, never settling in one place long. We loved the open road.
But me coming here and prospecting had been his dying wish. When he’d passed away, I sold both of our campers, both of our vehicles, and used the money to buy the bike I’d ridden here with—something I’d always wanted anyway—and I had the rest of the cash in a fireproof box in my small duffel bag.