Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
One side of the big common room is dominated by a well-stocked bar, manned by a big guy with a shaved head and a red dragon tattoo wrapped around it. A woman with pink hair is working with him, and when they pass each other, he pinches her butt, and then she punches his arm, and they laugh.
There're pool tables in the middle of the room, with a few bikers lazily knocking balls around, and booths along the side opposite the bar. At the far end is a sitting area in front of a massive big screen TV. The walls are decorated with motorcycle paraphernalia, and on one is a huge version of the Screaming Eagles MC logo, flanked by American flags. The ceilings are high enough for there to be a staircase up over the bar to what looks like a manager's office, with big tinted windows that overlook the common room.
This is maybe more like the frat house vibe I was expecting earlier, but it’s also strangely homey. It looks like a place people live and hang out in. Not the kinds I usually associate with, but it’s not a scary criminal den. No bullet holes in the walls, no knife fights going on, just some good-natured trash talk over the pool table and a few women hanging out in clothes that would barely be accepted on a beach.
“Not what you’re used to, I guess,” says Preacher.
“What? Oh, it’s not that. It’s just cozier than I thought it would be.”
“Did you fucking hear that, Chef? She thinks it’s cozy.” Devil shouts.
The guy behind the bar sticks up his middle finger.
Crash laughs. “Come on. My quarters are closest. You can stay in there until we figure something else out.”
They guide me deeper into the clubhouse, past the bar and down a corridor. It’s an odd mishmash of a maze, like a hotel that got built partly according to plan and partly just throwing up walls where they were needed.
We reach a door that reads Crash. He opens it and waves me inside. It reminds me a little of the guest apartments we have at the Hall of Grace when we host speakers from out of town. Not a ton of room, but a small living space with a bedroom nook off to the side, and a door that I’m guessing leads to a closet or a bathroom.
“So…” Now that we’re here, I don’t know what to do with myself. Are we supposed to…
“Let’s go to the Roost,” Devil suggests, sitting down and pulling me onto his lap. “It’s been a long fucking week. First round’s on me.”
21
DEVIL
Summer is fucking adorable as she takes in The Eagle's Roost. I doubt she's ever been to a biker bar before, and it's a good night for it. The place is packed, every table full and a line outside with people waiting to get in. The air smells like sweat and cheap perfume, and the music is loud enough to drown out anything else. It's fucking perfect.
Crash pushes his way to the front and leans over the bar and waves down Badass. “Four beers.”
“Get it your fucking self. You forget you work here? Speaking of which, where the fuck you been? You missed your last shift. The girls were asking about you.”
Summer looks between Crash and Badass. “Girls?”
Me and Preacher share an amused look. Our little angel might not like hearing about how popular Crash is with the ladies. He's got a bit of a reputation for being around for a good time, not a long time. He's always honest about it, but Summer's different and he might need to work on making sure she knows it.
“Nobody special,” says Crash, making his way around to grab our drinks.
“Oh.” She relaxes a little but it's with a frown. “So you work here?”
“Yeah, sometimes.” He sets the beers on the counter and slides them to us. “The club owns this place. Most of us help out now and then, but I work a few nights a week.”
“Do you have a job?” I ask Summer. “Maybe we can figure something out for you if you don't want to sit around the clubhouse all day.”
She looks down at the beer she hasn't touched yet. “No. Not really. I have—had responsibilities, but nothing I got paid for. Dad didn't want me to get too independent. I helped out with the little kids a lot though. That was probably my favorite.”
“Little kids?” asks Preacher.
“Yeah, during services and events.” She shrugs. “I read books to them, colored, did activities. That sort of thing. I doubt you guys have anything like that for me to do.”
“You'd be fucking surprised,” Badass chimes in. “Nat's about to pop, and with all the other old ladies, the club looks like a fucking daycare some days. Talk to Emily.”