Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
At first, I tried to avoid deep conversations with him, but in the end, I found myself sneaking out late at night to sit by an old tree in the compound to talk with him for hours. He tells me about his club, his life, his family, and how he got to where he is. I do the same.
I have never had conversation like it, and the more time I spend doing it, the harder it is for me to walk back through these doors.
I know it’s dangerous, I know it’s wrong, and in my own head I try to justify it by concluding that I’m not cheating, so I’m not hurting anyone. Yet, deep down, I feel the weight of my choices, the nagging voice that warns me of the consequences. I am playing with fire, and, eventually, I am going to get burned. The thrill of it is intoxicating, a heady mix of fear and excitement that pulls me in despite the risks.
It isn’t enough to stop me. It almost seems like I am walking head first into that fire lately, wanting to see how it will feel when the flames rip up my body, burning into my flesh. There’s a part of me that craves the intensity, the raw, unfiltered emotion that comes with stepping into the unknown. It’s as if I’m testing my limits, pushing the boundaries to see how far I can go before everything comes crashing down.
The danger is real, and yet, it’s the very thing that makes me feel alive, a stark contrast to the monotony that often surrounds me. I know I’m playing a dangerous game, one that could leave me scarred, but the allure of the fire is impossible to resist. It calls to me, promising a release from the ordinary, a chance to feel something real, even if it means risking everything.
My days seem to drag by, my body healing slowly. I can move around now, but there is still a sting of pain if I do too much. The ugly scar across my abdomen is a problem I am refusing to deal with right now. I don’t want to acknowledge it or think about how it has ruined my body. Instead, I choose to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Maturity.
Right?
It’s a cold evening when everything changes. One minute I’m sprawled on the couch in the main room, hand halfway to my mouth with a handful of stale popcorn, and the next the air cracks itself open. Gunfire, close, so close that my eardrums feel as though they’re going to burst.
Windows shatter, glass flying everywhere, and before I know it, I’m being pulled down onto the ground, shouting voices around me. I don’t even know who pulled me down because they came from behind me where the bar was full of bikers drinking.
A loud, guttural curse tells me quickly it’s Gage.
More shots pound the air, splintering glass and voices rising, shouting instructions I can’t hear. I taste metal in my mouth; I think my tongue caught the brunt of my fall. My hands slide through spilled beer on the floorboards as Gage shoves me under the pool table, his big body covering mine, rocking with every loud gunshot.
“We’re good,” he says, but his jaw is clenched so hard the words barely make it out. I can smell his sweat, the tang of it mixed with bourbon. His eyes dart to the doorway and he barks an order at his VP, Rafe, who also happens to be his identical twin brother.
Boots stomp through glass. Someone is yelling for Gage. He stiffens, and then he’s moving, hauling me up with surprising calm, barking orders, gun drawn. I follow, bent nearly double, trying to wrap my brain around what just happened. The gunshots have stopped now, the sound of screeching tires outside telling me that whoever did it just did a runner.
No one looks at me. They all look at Gage.
“Follow them,” Gage roars, and four men get into gear, charging out the door to start their bikes.
I’m walked into the garage, shoved into a truck cab, door slamming behind me. Gage’s voice carries over the shouting. “Don’t open that door unless I tell you!”
I keep my head down, chest rising and falling as I wait.
Feet scuff gravel outside the truck. Faint voices, too many of them. I peek up. Gage is wiping his face with his arm, coated in sweat and streaks of something darker. A few other guys stand by the cab, eyes wide and empty. Muffled behind the glass, I catch a phrase, just a piece.
“Cartel.”
My face flushes, rage ripping through me.
No way in the world Gage would be stupid enough to go into business with the Cartel.
They are dangerous, a level we could never match up to.
“Told you this was a bad fuckin’ idea,” Rafe roars.