Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“Hey, girly! You lost?”
She jumped out of her skin. Her heart skipped a beat or two and it took her a few seconds to find her breath so she could answer, “I…I’m not sure.”
A bearded man with a beer belly so big he looked about to deliver triplets stood only yards away. His black leather vest couldn’t be buttoned closed even if he tried. His worn jeans were dirty with brown and black stains. She didn’t want to know from what.
She needed to pay better attention. This man approached her while she’d been distracted. She glanced around to make sure he was the only one and this wasn’t an ambush.
He tipped his head and scratched at his long beard. “Huh. Pretty fuckin’ sure you are. Best you get back in that cage of yours and skedaddle.”
Cage? Skedaddle?
His scraggly salt and pepper beard was overdue to have a date with a weed whacker. It would take a day’s work to find his lips in that mess.
Taryn would not volunteer to be on that search party.
His boots, similar to the ones James Conrad had been wearing, were covered in scuffs and dried mud. What gray-streaked hair remained on his head was pulled back into a thin ponytail. The man should stop fighting the good fight and shave it off.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the still burning butt onto the ground.
This is why the “yard,” or whatever it was called, looked the way it did.
“Like whatcha see, girly?” He yanked on his long beard again as if he was pointing out his best feature.
No, she was not interested in the man standing before her.
“I have business here.” She squinted and read the patch on his vest, “Patch?”
“Business?” Patch chuckled. “You a whore?”
Her chin jerked into her neck. What kind of question was that? Besides a rude one. “No. Do I look like one?”
“No particular look for a whore. But if you ain’t, then you don’t belong here. Best you leave.”
Just like that? “I’m looking for someone.”
He planted a hand on his hip and shook his head. “Ain’t we all?”
“His name is James Conrad.”
Patch—even though he never confirmed that was his name, she might as well call him that—spat a stream of dark juice onto the ground, barely missing his own boot with the splatter. “James Conrad, huh? Nobody here by that name.” He jerked his chin toward her Honda. “You tryin’ to sell that ride?”
“What? No.” She would need it to escape this paradise.
“Then, you got no business here.”
That was his opinion. Taryn didn’t agree. “I actually do.”
“What?”
“What, what?” she asked.
He shook his head. “What fuckin’ business you got here?”
“I need a word with Mr. Conrad.”
“Mr. Conrad,” he repeated in an amused mutter. “Jesus fuck.”
“Does he not live here?”
“Like I said, girly, nobody here by that name.”
Bullshit. “This came up as his address.”
“That fuckin’ so?”
“Yes, but if he doesn’t live here then I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” She wasn’t. If he was going to lie, so was she.
One shaggy eyebrow rose. “He know you?”
What an odd question to ask if the man didn’t live here. More proof he did. Or at least spent time here.
“Yes.” Sort of.
She had no idea if James Conrad knew her name or if he would even remember her. The incident with Vic happened over a year ago. She did know James went to prison for his unfortunate part in it. As soon as she discovered he’d been freed, she began to search him out.
And here she was. But according to Patch, not at the right address.
“D’you even have any fuckin’ clue where you’re at?”
Another odd question. “A school?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, girly, what used to be a fuckin’ school. Ain’t that now.”
“I figured it was no longer a school solely by the amount of empty beer and liquor bottles. Plus, I can’t imagine a school cafeteria would serve up food from”—she flipped a hand toward the nearest halved steel drum—“one of those DIY grills.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with those grills.” He rubbed the part of this gut that extended past the leather vest. “Makes some damn good eatin’.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She glanced to her left and eyed up the building. “So if it’s not a school and not a residence, what is it?”
Patch turned around and hooked a thumb toward the back of his vest. “Know what these are?”
A large embroidered logo of a masked skull wearing a crooked crown was sandwiched between a downward curving top patch that screamed: KINGS OF ANARCHY and the lower upward curving patch that shouted: PENNSYLVANIA. A smaller square patch with the letters “MC” to the right of the logo completed the look.
She might as well state the obvious. “Patches?”
“Know what they stand for?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t belong here.” Patch made a shooing motion with his tattooed hand. “You best skedaddle.” With that, he spun on his heel and headed back to the school.