Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
"OK. First off, you were exactly where you were supposed to be. I invited you — hounded you — to come to a party with me.” She squeezed my shoulder. “As to Jack? He's... complicated." Wren hopped down from the counter and moved to check on the pies cooling by the window. "He's got this reputation. You know, ‘Bloody Jack’ and all. And yeah, he's earned that reputation. I've seen him beat men half to death without breaking a sweat." She paused, a soft smile playing at her lips. "But then there's the other stuff."
"What other stuff?" Yeah. Wren had me hook, line, and sinker and I wasn’t even trying to hide how interested I was.
"Like the time he found a stray dog behind the clubhouse. Mangy thing, starving and mean as hell. This prospect tried to kick it away, and Jack beat the guy so bad Ghost had to pull him off. Then he spent two weeks nursing that dog back to health, sleeping on the floor of his office so it wouldn't be alone even though he refused to let the thing in his apartment.” She chuckled. “That lasted all of two nights then the dumb dog was sleeping in the bed with him. I know because Jack admitted it to Ghost one night when they were drunk.”
I tried to reconcile this image with the intimidating man who'd claimed me as his property. "What happened to the dog?"
"Lives with an old lady in town now. Jack still visits once a week with premium dog food." Wren laughed at my expression. "Surprised? Bloody Jack's got his code. He protects what's his, whether it's a beat up stray or..." She gave me a meaningful look.
"I'm not his," I said automatically, though the protest felt hollow even to my own ears.
She fingered the shoulder of my vest. “All evidence to the contrary. Honey, he claimed you in front of a rival club." Wren's voice softened. "In our world, that means something. Jack doesn't do anything without thinking it through. So what he did might seem random or temporary, but I guarantee you he did exactly what he intended to do."
Before I could respond, the kitchen door swung open and one of the prospects poked his head in. "Prez wants to know how much longer 'til food's ready. The brothers are getting rowdy."
"Tell him it’ll be ready when it’s ready." Wren called back.
The prospect disappeared, and Wren turned back to me with a grin. "Now, did you look into that dessert I told you about?”
“Apple pie with cheddar baked into the crust? Yeah. I did. Made it too.” I grinned. “I mean, smells wonderful but I’m afraid to try it.”
“I know right? It's weird as fuck, but Bloody Jack loves it." Wren’s smile made me smile back. The woman really was the most cheerful woman I’d ever met.
“I hope so. Because that’s all I had time to make after all this other stuff.” In addition to the brisket, baked beans, and mac and cheese, we also had potato salad, corn on the cob, cole slaw, and cornbread as well as homemade rolls. It was a whole thing.
We carried the first couple dishes out to the big table. Once they saw us coming out with food, the guys descended on the kitchen to bring the rest to the table. The main room had been transformed. Several tables had been pushed together, creating one long surface covered with mismatched tablecloths. Every member of the club was present, their cuts forming a sea of black leather around the tables.
Jack sat at the head, his massive frame dwarfing the chair beneath him. When he spotted me carrying a plate of food for each of us, something shifted in his expression. The softening around the eyes made my heart skip.
"Here," he said, patting the empty seat to his left. "This is your place."
I slid into the chair, acutely aware of the eyes tracking my movement. The positioning wasn't lost on me. Left of the president. The sovereign on the throne sits on the right, the spouse on the left. From Wren's widened eyes and the subtle nods exchanged among the older members, I realized this was significant. Not just a seat, but a statement.
The meal quickly descended near anarchy. Platters were passed with more enthusiasm than care, beer flowed freely, and the conversation grew louder with each passing minute. Crude jokes flew across the table, punctuated by bursts of raucous laughter. I'd expected to feel uncomfortable, but there was something oddly familiar about it all. Felt like the feast after harvest back home. Just with more cursing and leather.
"Pass the fucking mac and cheese before I stab someone," a biker called out, prompting a chorus of agreements.
"You made this?" Jack asked quietly as he forked a bite of the aforementioned mac and cheese into his mouth.