Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“Pack her bags,” I snap, the decision slamming into place before Alana’s protest even registers. My hand is already closing around the familiar, weighted fob of the SUV, the cold sheen of urgency in my veins. “Pack everything she’ll need for a month. Yours, too. I’m leaving now.”
“She isn’t going to agree to that.” Alana’s voice jitters with nerves, but there’s a crack of hope sparking in the undertone. “She thinks she can just wait him out.”
“She isn’t waiting for shit,” I growl, already striding for the door. “I’ll make her understand. Tell her I’m coming. And lock the goddamn door, Alana. Don’t open it for anyone except me—you got that?”
“I hear you,” she breathes, voice thinned out and tight. “Please hurry.”
I hang up and look at Bones. He’s leaning against the frame of the office door, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair messy from a day under a hood. He doesn't need to ask. He heard enough.
"Go," Bones says, his voice like grinding stones. "I’ll handle the shop. Let me know if you need backup."
I don't thank him. We don't do that. I just nod, grabbing my cut from the hook by the door and sliding it over my hoodie. The leather is heavy, a familiar armor.
I climb into the SUV, the black leather interior cool against my skin. The engine turns over with a muted roar, a beast restrained by German engineering. As I pull out of the garage and hit the highway toward the California border, the neon lights of Vegas begin to fade into the rearview mirror, replaced by the long, stretching shadows of the Mojave.
The drive to Los Angeles is usually a four-hour blur of asphalt and sagebrush, but today it feels like a marathon. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. The phantom image of this motherfucker who dared to threaten Serenity flashes through my mind. I don't know his face, but I know his type. Cowards who prey on women because they can’t handle the weight of their own insignificance.
I try to focus on the road, on the rhythmic thrum of the tires, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Serenity. It’s a dangerous place to go. I’ve spent the last several years building a wall between us, a fortress made of 'best friend's brother' labels and polite, distant smiles. She’s Alana's younger, best friend. She’s headed for a life of spreadsheets and corporate towers, a world that has nothing to do with the grease and grit of my reality.
She’s the girl who used to sit at my kitchen table and laugh at Alana’s jokes, her blonde hair catching the light in a way that made it hard to breathe. I remember the first time I realized she wasn't a kid anymore. It was two years ago when I went to LA to visit Alana. Serenity had walked in wearing a sundress that looked like it was made of sunshine, and when she smiled shyly, the fucking world just… stopped.
I’d turned away. I’d walked to the bar, downed a shot of whiskey, and spent the rest of the night fighting to keep my cock from growing hard. Because that’s what you do when your sister’s best friend starts looking like a woman you’d burn the world down for. You look the other way. You remember the rules. You remember that some things are off-limits for a reason.
But the rules feel thin now. I imagine her sitting on that apartment floor, terrified of a shadow outside her window, and the wall I built starts to crumble. I don't care about the labels. I don't care about the distance I’ve tried so hard to maintain. All I care about is the fact that she’s scared, and I’m going to fucking protect her. No matter what.
I pass the sign for Barstow, the desert wind buffeting the side of the SUV. The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges. It looks like a warning. Or maybe it looks like the way I feel. Dark and looming. Ready to settle over anyone who thinks they can touch what belongs to me.
Because that’s the truth I’ve been burying under car repairs and club politics. Serenity doesn’t just belong to Alana as a friend. In some dark, primal part of me that I usually keep locked up tight, she’s mine. She has been since she was eighteen and looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered. I’ve been a gentleman about it. I’ve been the protective older brother figure. I’ve been a fucking saint.
The saint is dead. He died the second Alana told me about that picture through the window. Now, there’s just the Sinner, and he’s heading to LA to protect his girl.