Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“You don’t have kids?” I asked, stunned. “You lied about being a father to me? Why would you lie about that, of all things? What does that have to do with a motorcycle club?”
He sighed. “I lied about everything, Tinker. I created the man I needed to be, for my club. But then I met you and that’s fucked everything up worse.”
I knew he was still talking, but my brain was shutting down. Jesus, and I’d thought the first lie hurt . . . but this. Treating the idea of having sons—living children—like it didn’t matter, I couldn’t wrap my head around that. I’d wanted my baby more than anything. I’d give my life to have her back, and this Gage person used imaginary kids as a prop in his little motorcycle spy game.
I couldn’t do this.
“Get out,” I said, clutching my stomach tighter, picturing her precious little face. It’d looked like she was sleeping. A man with sad eyes and a camera had come into my hospital room that afternoon. He’d taken a portrait of me holding her, and then she was gone forever.
Tricia hadn’t been a lie.
“We need to talk,” he insisted.
“Get out,” I hissed, something breaking deep inside my soul. I wanted him out, and I wanted him out now.
He shook his head. “We’re gonna work through this.”
“Get out of my house!” I shouted at him, slamming against his chest with both hands as hard as I could, really putting my body into it. In that instant I hated him. Hated him with all the black rage I held coiled inside and he wouldn’t get the fuck out of my way! Grabbing his shoulder, I tried to knee him like I’d learned in self-defense class. He blocked me at the last minute, catching me and wrapping me tight in his arms, holding me prisoner.
“Settle down,” he muttered. I bit his shoulder. Not playfully. I dug my teeth in deep and hard, and if it hadn’t been for his leather vest, I’d have drawn blood. “Jesus, fuck! Stop it!”
I bucked against him, and while his arms tightened around me I had the advantage, because I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t give a shit about hurting him and I didn’t give a shit about hurting myself.
I just wanted him to leave before I shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Stop,” he grunted. Loosening my teeth from his shoulder, I went for his neck instead. He wasn’t expecting that, and when I dug in he shouted in a way that let me know I’d hurt him, and hurt him good. Finally. Suddenly his arms dropped as he shoved me away, one hand clutching his neck, blood oozing between his fingers. It happened so fast that I fell back on my butt, slamming into the wooden floor. Pain washed through me, but the anger numbed it. Gage backed away, glaring at me. Ignoring him, I jumped to my feet and lunged for the sideboard where he’d coiled his belt.
Coiled his belt and set down his gun.
Grabbing it, I flicked off the safety and pulled back the slide, loading a shell. Then I pointed it straight at the lying son of a bitch.
“It’s time for you to get out of my house,” I said, and this time the words were steady and strong. He studied me warily, one hand firm against his bleeding neck.
“You know, my club president didn’t think you’d take this very well,” he said, his voice casual. I blinked, confused.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Picnic—he’s my club president. He thought you might be pissed off about me lying to you,” he said. “Guess he was right.”
“Are we having the same conversation?” I asked, raising the gun higher. What the hell? I had the gun. He was supposed to do what I said, not get all chatty. “Because I feel like maybe you don’t realize what’s happening here. If you don’t leave my house I’m going to shoot you.”
“Yeah, he was right,” Gage said thoughtfully. “This was a mistake. And I’ll go. But not until you put that down.”
“I am not putting down the fucking gun!”
“Okay, keep the gun for now,” he said, sighing. “But could you toss me the belt? This probably won’t be my only fight tonight, and I don’t want my pants falling down during a critical moment.”
“Do you realize that your life is in danger?” I demanded, my voice growing hysterical. “What’s wrong with you? Your belt doesn’t matter!”
He took a step toward me, frowning. “But it’s my favorite.”
My hands started to shake. The gun was heavy, but it wasn’t just that. He wasn’t leaving, and all of a sudden I realized that I might actually have to shoot him.
I didn’t want to shoot him.
I didn’t want to shoot anyone. I was the kind of girl who made chocolates and watered flowers and occasionally got drunk on red wine while sitting on my porch swing. Girls like that don’t shoot men in their living rooms.