Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Pretending to ignore that, I attempted to throw a leg over, forgetting my teetering heels and my, well, shortness, that made me wobble and almost miss, my hand slamming down on his shoulder for stability.
"So, I'm assuming dance wasn't your childhood extracurricular activity, huh?" he asked, a low rumble of amusement in his voice.
"No one would ever call me graceful," I admitted, shaking my head at myself as I finally got my leg over and settled in, the seat forcing me to slide forward until my thighs gripped the outer sides of his, the juncture between pressed intimately against his body.
"Gotta hold on," he reminded me, but before I could do so, his hands reached back, grabbing my wrists, pulling them around his sides, securing them across his stomach. A rock freaking hard stomach, I might add.
When I drew in my next breath, it was shaky for reasons I couldn't even pretend I didn't understand. But then the next second, the engine roared to life, the bike peeled away from the streets, and my stomach just seemed to drop straight out of my body. And then dragged along the street for the short five-minute drive to the other end of town.
"You can relax now," Virgin told me, voice amused, making me realize how tightly I was still clinging to him even though we were stopped by the curb.
"Mhm. After my stomach climbs back up into my abdominal cavity, that is exactly what I am going to do." But even as I was saying the words, my arms were untangling themselves from where they had curled around his midsection, holding on for dear life, the grip so tight it must have made taking a proper breath difficult work at best.
"Not a fan, huh?" He asked, waiting for me to climb off before doing so himself. "I practically grew up on one. Forgot that not everyone has the stomach for it."
"It's not that. It's like a rollercoaster. Freaky when it is happening. And you swear you will never put yourself through it again. Until your feet are back on solid ground. Your belly settles. Then you are running back to get on line again."
"Spent a lot of time in amusement parks?" he asked, seeming a mix of amused, curious, and almost... sad? But sad seemed wrong. For such a big, scary biker guy.
"My brothers and I learned that the best way to survive summers was to avoid our aunt. So we got passes to Six Flags when we were teens and drove down in the morning, came back before she got home from work." It was the most adventurous thing I had ever done. No one would believe that since I had a record that said quite differently. But sneaking out and lying to my aunt was as daring as I had ever been.
"Not a great family, huh?" he asked, tone seeming to hold familiarity, intimacy. Like he knew that feeling all too well.
"Well, my brothers are everything," I admitted, feeling like that was too much, over the top. But it was true nonetheless. They were everything. "And my niece is a sweetheart too. But growing up, we had some rough times."
"I grew up in a heroin-dealing MC. I know about rough times too."
"Your mother was okay with you being around that?" I asked, figuring if he was willing to talk about it without prompting, that it wasn't being nosy to do so.
"My mother dropped me off there and never came back for me," he admitted.
"How old were you?"
"Four?" he half told, half asked.
"And you grew up with bikers? Just bikers?"
"It was an interesting childhood," he admitted, reaching up to rub a hand across the scruff on his face, holding back a smile.
From what I heard about MCs, I imagine he grew up with next to no rules and a revolving door of half - or fully - naked women around.
Yeah, I bet that would have been interesting for a growing boy.
"So, you gonna nut-up and go in there?" he asked, jerking his chin behind me, making me aware of what we were doing. Not getting to know each other. Not exposing shared wounds or little childhood rebellions. No. He was driving me to apply for a job.
Half-turning, I saw a small storefront wedged between two much larger ones - a laundromat to the left, a pet store to the right.
Abby's.
It was in the spot that a small Chinese place had been when I had left. The all-glass front had been frosted, the only thing to see through the white being the bold lettering at eye-level saying the name of the establishment.
My brow furrowed, wondering why - with a place that small - you would choose to close yourself in, block out the world.
I guess, if I maybe, possibly, got the job, I could ask.