Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
The man went stock-still. “Whoa. Hey… easy, man. What the hell?”
“Here’s the thing,” Saint murmured, voice low enough that only the two of them could hear. He smiled as if they were sharing a joke. “That woman over there?” He tilted his head toward Beth. “She’s not just some random chick at a gas station. She’s family. Part of the Hell’s Handlers Motorcycle Club.”
Saint increased the pressure a fraction.
The guy sucked in a sharp breath and lost any last hint of bravado.
“And I’m what we like to call an enforcer-in-training,” Saint continued. “Means when people make my family uncomfortable, I fix the problem. Permanently.”
“Hey, man, I didn’t touch her,” the guy whispered. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and his legs began to shake. “Jesus Christ, I was just talking to her.” His pitch rose until he was nearly whining.
“Oh, I heard you talking.” Saint’s smile widened. “Promises, right? ‘Best she’s ever had.’ You talk to all women like that?”
“N-no.” The guy flinched as Saint shifted the blade the tiniest bit. “Look, I’ll fucking back off. I get it.”
“See, now we’re getting along,” Saint said, squeezing the guy’s shoulder so hard he winced. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna apologize to her, not to me, and then you’re gonna climb in that shiny little Prius your daddy bought you, and get the hell out of here. You will not look back. You will not circle back. You will not suddenly realize you left your emotional support energy drink at this gas station. You will not, for the rest of your miserable life, approach a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. You get me?”
The guy nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I get you.” He nodded so fast that he looked like one of those dolls with the wobbly head. This guy better not piss himself.
“Because if I see your face near her again,” Saint went on, tone still conversational, “I’m gonna take this little knife…” he pressed in just enough to make the guy grunt, “… and carve a reminder into your side. Something simple. Maybe the word ‘no,’ so you don’t forget it.”
A strangled whimper escaped Gym Bro’s throat.
“Am I clear?”
“Yes,” he wheezed. “C-clear.”
“Good man.”
Saint flipped the blade closed and slid it back into his pocket in one smooth motion, then slapped the guy’s back as if they’d just finished discussing sports. He turned him around by the shoulders and shoved him back toward Beth.
The guy swallowed hard. “Uh…sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled in her direction. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Beth’s brows rose, but she gave a short nod. “Okay.” Her voice was cool and controlled, despite the flush in her cheeks.
Saint could tell she’d have liked to eviscerate the guy verbally, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Gym Bro backed away fast, then broke into a near sprint toward a shiny black car at a neighboring pump. He didn’t look back.
Saint watched until the car pulled out of the station and merged onto the highway. Only then did he turn back to Beth.
She let out a breath. “You know…” she said, “… I was doing okay handling it.”
He grunted. “You were uncomfortable. Your face was, at least.”
She huffed. “He was a creep, yeah. But he was just spouting off bullshit. Doesn’t mean he needs to get stabbed in a truck stop gas station.”
“Didn’t stab him,” Saint said with a shrug. “Thought about it, sure, but I have self-control.”
Despite herself, Beth’s lips twitched. “You always travel with a knife?”
“Just a little one,” he said. “Barely counts.”
She stared at him for a long beat, then shook her head. “You bikers are insane.”
“We prefer effective.” He studied her, noting the way her shoulders were slowly relaxing now that the guy was gone. “For the record, you never owe a dude politeness when he makes you uncomfortable. You never owe a smile. You never owe a conversation. You sure as fuck don’t owe him your time or your body.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed and then nodded. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But sometimes knowing and feeling aren’t the same thing.”
Her gaze flicked to his, surprise and something like gratitude in her eyes. “You’re getting real wise in your old age, Saint.”
He snorted. “Fuck off. I’m not old.”
“You gotta be what, like close to forty?” she said around a Twizzler, then smiled, for real this time.
“Come on, brat,” he said, jerking his chin toward the bike. “We’ve got a few more hours till home. And I’m thirty-fucking-three. Nowhere near forty.”
She giggled, then grew serious.
Home.
The word settled between them like a living thing.
Beth’s fingers drifted unconsciously to the faint bruises along her throat. In the harsh daylight, they’d faded from angry purple to sickly yellow-green, but they were still visible. She glanced at the convenience store windows, where faint reflections showed her makeup-free face and loose hair.