Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Walk with me,” he commanded.
Not a question. An order.
We slipped out the back door, into the cool bite of morning. The mountain air in Dreadnought was crisp, sharp enough to clear the fog from my skull. The town below still slept, unaware that its mayor was playing games with men who didn’t forgive.
Pop lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke real slow. His face was carved stone, unreadable, but I’d followed him long enough to see the cracks. “Stanley’s coming harder than ever,” he shared finally. “This judge move? It ain’t random. He’s got someone backing him.”
I nodded, sipping coffee, waiting.
“I need you steady, brother,” Pop went on. “No heat, no slip-ups. Not from you, not from the table. The patch stays squeaky clean as we can be. We walk the line until we know where the new judge lands.”
He glanced at me, eyes sharp as glass. “But when the time comes? When I give the nod? We take it all. Stanley, Walsh, whoever’s pulling strings behind him. We bury ’em.”
That was Pop. Calm storm. Always thinking three steps ahead.
“You got me,” I said. “Always.”
He smirked faint, just a shadow of a grin. “Knew I could count on you. You’ve been my right hand since Fallujah. Nothing’s changed.”
And just like that, the desert came back.
Sand in my teeth, blood in my eyes, bullets and bombs cracking overhead. We were pinned down together more than once. Eight tours blurred together, but Fallujah stuck.
Pop was my master sergeant then. Calm in the chaos, storm in the waiting, always ready with the next command. He moved through fire like he was immune, barking orders, dragging men back from the edge.
I’d taken shrapnel to the leg, couldn’t move. Thought I was done. Then Pop appeared out of the dust, grabbed me by the collar, and hauled me out while rounds stitched the ground around us.
“You don’t die here, Gonzales, you hear me?” He growled the words in frustration, not at me, but with concern for his men. “You die when I say.”
That was the bond. That was the reason I followed him then, followed him now, and will follow him straight into Hell. Pop wasn’t just a man. He was always the leader.
The memory faded, leaving me with the mountain air, the cigarette smoke, and Pop’s steady gaze.
“We don’t get second chances here,” he explained his concerns. “One slip, one mistake, Stanley nails us to the wall. But we’ve danced this dance before. He ain’t ready for what comes when the Saints push back.”
I nodded again, words unnecessary.
Pop crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Rally the boys when they wake. Keep ’em sharp. No cowboy shit. Monday we see what Walsh is made of.”
And then he left me standing in the morning light, mug cooling in my hand, head pounding but heart steady. Because he was right. Monday wasn’t just another date on a calendar.
It was a fuse, already lit and a wick burning down.
And when it hit the powder, Dreadnought was going to see what a real storm blowing through looked like.
Chapter 2
Gonzo
“Grind down,” I bit out, voice harsh, throat raw from whiskey and smoke. “Cunt’s tight, bunny.”
She smiled as she rode me, all lips and lashes. “New to this.” Her words came out in pants. “Tryin’ Gonzo.”
The way she said my name—like she possessed a piece of me—hit me wrong. Reaching up, I wrapped my hand firm around her throat, squeezing, claiming my authority. “VP or nothing at all. You don’t use my name. Ever.” That wasn’t how this shit worked. I was nothing more than another Outlaw cock inside her pussy, I didn’t have a name and neither did she.
Her breath caught, eyes widening as I cut off her air. She fought to push her tight cunt down on my length, every muscle straining. I held her there, halfway impaled, watching fear bloom in her gaze like it was the most beautiful fucking flower I’d ever seen. Yeah, she should be afraid. I released her throat just slightly so she could breathe but the pressure remained.
“You’re too big,” she gasped, panic and arousal mixing into one poisoned cocktail. “I can’t.” She was grabbing at my wrists as I tightened around her throat once again. “Breathe.” Her last word was on a choke.
I released, let her suck down oxygen like it was mercy, only to snatch it away again with my hands on her hips, yanking her down hard, filling her insides roughly now taking her breath away differently. She cried out, body clenching, and that’s when I started the rhythm—lift, slam, grind and rock. Flesh meeting flesh, her sounds turning from fear to something broken to sweet. The smacking of her ass to my thighs rumbled through the empty air around us.
Relentless. That was me. Relentless in war, in the club, in bed.
My cock speared her deep, so deep I felt the tremors in her chest as her lungs worked overtime to keep up. Rocking her hips, rolling them, I teased her within an inch of freedom before driving her back down, until her body surrendered, went limp, and instinct carried her forward.