Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
After nearly twenty years away from his club and family, he’s more than ready to put down roots.
Theodora James is desperate.
After the death of her father, she’s been raising her two children alone, doing everything she can to keep them safe from her ex’s terrifying family.
Neither of them has any idea how their lives are about to intersect…all because of a favor that the Aces and Eights Motorcycle Club owed Teddy’s father.
What starts as an uneasy agreement based on duty and necessity transforms into something deeper and the line between truth and fiction quickly blurs. But, when loyalties are tested and tragedy strikes, Curtis and Teddy must decide whether or not the reality they’ve created is one worth fighting for
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Teddy
“Three p.m.,” I confirmed. Then I hung up the phone, stuffed it in my pocket, and looked around.
Our townhouse wasn’t anything special, but we’d made it our own in small ways. It was furnished when we moved in three years before, and we’d managed to keep everything in excellent condition. Walking over to the TV stand, I pulled down the three photo frames on the shelves and stacked them on the coffee table. Behind the unit, I unplugged the TV that I’d saved for months to buy and the gaming system my kids had received as a gift. It was secondhand, but whoever’d turned it in to the pawnshop had barely spent any time on it. Sucked for them, good for us.
As soon as I’d finished wrapping up the cords, I pulled the knitted blanket from the couch, slung it over my shoulder, picked up the gaming system and photo frames, and carried them to my room. I set them on the end of the bed. My bed set, nightstand, and dresser had come with the apartment, but the painting over the bed was mine, and so was the bedding. Moving to the wall, I took down the painting and carefully propped it against the side of the bed. Then I went to the closet, pulling down the sweatshirts, coats, and dresses stored there, complete with the hangers. I stacked them on the bed and went back for more. When that was finished, I pulled out the three bins stored on the floor and the plethora of shoes. Behind all those things were the boxes I’d stashed for just that moment and a small overnight bag.
Pulling out my dad’s little pocketknife that I’d carried since he died, I flicked it open and cut the cord holding the stack of boxes together. I had packing tape in my nightstand drawer. Five minutes later, the boxes were built. I packed the overnight bag first. Then the shoes and the clothes from the closet. The picture frames from the living room and some from my nightstand and dresser. The little ceramic upside-down umbrella that held my rings at night. The small lamp that my parents had received at their wedding. After that, I emptied the dresser from the bottom up, tightly packing the rest of my clothes. I stripped the bed and packed the gaming system above the pillows and below the sheets and comforter.
I carried the last of the empty boxes and the bag into the bathroom and left them there. Then I moved into the second bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look it over. The bed was mine from when I was a kid—twin-size, dark wood, heavy. The dresser and shelf below the window weren’t anything special. Secondhand, and not that great to begin with—they wouldn’t be a huge loss. I stripped the bed first, then moved to the closet, pulling everything out so I could get to the boxes and backpack stored there. Then I packed, only pausing to jog downstairs to the garage for my tools to take the bed apart.
I was efficient. Quick. Every movement had purpose. I went from one bedroom to the next. Then the bathroom. The kitchen, where I picked through the contents, pulling out the things that we’d accumulated since we’d moved in. Cans of food. Boxes of cereal and rice. Cleaning supplies. In the end, the cupboards were bare beyond what had come with the place, and I had two boxes of kitchen supplies and two bags of garbage. It killed to throw away the contents of the fridge and half-finished containers of food, but it couldn’t be helped.
It took two hours to give the place a quick clean and take out the garbage bags—four of them by the time I was done. Half an hour to get my toolbox into the back of my truck and tied down—it was heavy as hell and awkward as fuck to push up the ramp. An hour to carry the bed and boxes to the garage, stacking them in the truck like a game of Tetris around the toolbox and folded-up ramp. I wrapped the television in a moving cloth I’d had folded in the corner of the garage for that purpose and laid it flat on top of the boxes.
I’d just finished securing the truck bed with every tie-down I had when the front door opened and footsteps thundered onto the hardwood in the living room.
I’d made good time.
“Did we get robbed?”
“We didn’t get robbed…I don’t think.”
“I think you’d know if we got robbed,” I announced, stepping through the garage door. “I doubt they’d mop the floor and dust.”
“What’s goin’ on?” my ten-year-old, Finn, asked, looking around blankly. “Where’s our stuff?”
“Moving day,” I announced, making my fifteen-year-old’s head snap sideways to look at me. “It’s loaded up.”