Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 66480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
I straightened my jacket and finished my beer as I stood. Moving through the crowded room, navigating my way in her direction. Wren watched my approach, her expression giving away nothing. But her body language shifted slightly, angling toward me as I drew closer.
Game on.
I slid up to the bar beside her, careful to leave space but leaning close enough I could get a whiff of her heady scent. Fuck me, if there wasn’t a hint of gasoline in her in her hair. The bartender glanced over, and I held up two fingers. "Whiskey. Two." I slid one toward Wren with practiced casualness. "Figured you might want something stronger than water."
Her eyes flicked from the glass to my face, studying me with the kind of sharp assessment that reminded me of Vittorio Luca's most seasoned enforcers. "You been watching what I drink?"
"Hard not to notice the only person drinking water." I shrugged, taking a sip of my own whiskey. "Last time I saw someone order water in a place like this, he got a face full from the tap.” I grinned, extending my hand. “Rocky."
"That a name or a description?" Her lips quirked, but she took my hand briefly before picking up the whiskey.
Her hand felt like fucking electricity. Small but calloused, a mechanic's grip with surprising strength. The momentary contact sent a jolt straight through me that had me suppressing a groan. She had a confidence in her touch that made my pulse quicken. I hadn't expected such a physical reaction, that immediate response that went straight to my cock because I’d never had this strong a yearning for anything in my life like I did for Wren.
"Could be both." I grinned, leaning one elbow on the sticky bar top. "Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking you." She didn't smile exactly, but something in her expression softened fractionally.
"Name's Sylvester, but everyone calls me Rocky. And yes, it’s as bad as it sounds.” I grinned. "You got one? A name?"
"Wren." She knocked back half her whiskey in one go.
"Like the bird?"
"Now you sound lame." I snorted as she set her glass down with a decisive thunk. "You're new. Not seen you around here before.”
“I’ve been around from time to time. Been a while though. Might have been before your time.” Not a stretch. She was at least fifteen years younger than me.
"Mechanic?" She eyed my hands, and I knew she was noticing the ingrained oil stains, the small burn scar on my right thumb. Details that couldn't be faked. "What do you ride?"
"Custom Harley. Rebuilt the engine myself last year." Truth again. "She's out front if you wanna see her later."
Wren's gaze lingered on my hands a beat too long. "You affiliated?"
The million-dollar question. I took another sip, letting the whiskey burn. "Lady, I got lots of affiliations.” I smiled to take the sting out of my words, but I knew this girl wouldn’t take offense. “Right now, I’m just lookin’ for some fun company.”
“Uh huh.” She gave me a wry grin, seeing through my deflection. Surprisingly, she didn’t call me on it. “What brings you to Nashville?”
I shrugged. “The usual. Fresh start. New town. New faces.”
"Fresh start from what?" Her eyes narrowed, but there was interest there, not just suspicion.
I laughed, running a hand through my hair in a calculated gesture of discomfort. "The usual shit. Bad relationship. Worse job prospects. Needed new scenery."
"So you picked this shithole town?" She was smiling now, a real one that transformed her face. And, oh, my God, the woman was breathtaking when she smiled.
"Got good roads. Decent garages willing to hire someone without asking too many questions." I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "And apparently hot women with purple hair who drink whiskey like water."
A flush crept up her neck, but she didn't back away. Instead, she finished her drink and nodded toward the pool tables. "You play?"
"Depends on the stakes."
"Loser buys the next round." She pushed off from the bar, and I followed, hyperaware of how every guy in Bound in Blood tracked her movement. Several of the men in other clubs too, but not in the way the men of her club did. Like they were ready to carve out my liver with a spork if I made one move on Wren they didn’t much like. I kept my distance, respectful, watchful, until we reached an open table.
She racked the balls. "You break."
I lined up the shot, the familiar feel of the cue making me smile. The break was clean, two solids dropping into pockets.
"Not bad," she commented, leaning against the wall as I circled for my next shot.
"I've had a bit of practice." I sank another ball, then missed the third deliberately. Never show your full hand too early. First rule of both undercover work and pool hustling.
She stepped up, and I watched the fluid way she moved around the table. Every motion economical, precise. She cleared three balls before missing what should have been an easy shot. Yep. Girl knew what she was about. Though, I got the feeling she wasn’t trying too hard. In fact, I thought she might be mocking me. Which delighted me to no end.