Page 5 of Bullet

The door to the small room opens and a tall, slender woman enters. She has the grace of a swan, but the unrelenting straightness of her spine suggests that under the surface, she’s all goose. Full of wrath, hissing and spitting. For all her elegance, there’s something in her caramel brown eyes, a hardness that hints she might look like a model on the outside, but on the interior, she’s as brutal as an underground fighter.

She’s wearing the typical business power outfit—suit jacket, skirt, pumps, white blouse, but she rocks the hell out of it at least. She sits down in the chair directly to my left.

I pictured her as a blue-eyed, streaky blonde, shorter, with plenty of curves. The girl last night, Willa, said she was her sister. Seeing as all I had was Willa’s image to go on, I conjured a sort of twin in my mind.

From her severe features to her chestnut hair with the coppery undertones, she doesn’t bear any resemblance to the girl I met last night. She’s likely somewhere in the neighborhood of five ten or eleven, and that’s without the heels. Her curves are streamlined under the no-nonsense suit. Not dramatic, but definitely there. She’s delicate and striking, whereas her sister’s beauty was in your face the moment your eyes fixed on her.

Willa was easygoing. She seemed to enjoy having a good time, at least before Donny grabbed her and we got in a wrestling match that ended with him breaking his face on mine.

If I don’t miss my mark, Lynette George is different from her sister in every way. She’s clearly far older than Willa, but where her sister was soft and lighthearted, this woman is hard, with the unmistakable aura of ambition. She hasruthlessly drivenstamped all over her, that desire for success and recognition branded onto her features the same way my skin is fully inked.

She turns her neck with that swanlike grace and gives me a cursory onceover. If I’ve seen her as a powerful lawyer on the rise, she instinctively labels me as a dirty biker.

No, she made that judgment long before she got here. She’s already reviewed the files and done her research.

Women seem to go one of two ways when it comes to men like me. They either want me and aren’t afraid to show that the bad boy aura is like catnip to them, or they want nothing to do with me, assuming incorrectly that I’m involved with the usual shit that bikers embody. I don’t mind assumptions, but the way Lynette George’s soft brown eyes narrow and her lips pinch causes something sour to settle in my stomach.

“Why’d you agree to take this case if you’re going to sit there judging me, finding me wanting already?” I ask her evenly, without giving in to the urge to be waspish in my agitation.

I’m practically buzzing with unbridled energy beneath my skin. It’s taking all my control to stay calm and placid and not tear this damn room to shreds in my frustration.

Probably one of the reasons I’m manacled like a fucking animal.

“Shut up,” she snaps, opening up her sleek black leather case and pulling out a stack of crisp white papers. “You haven’t signed a retainer yet.” She casts her eyes around the room furtively. “Think about where you are.”

“Where I am? I’m pretty fucking aware of where I am.”I bow my head, indicating the cuffs at my wrists. “Are they going to remove them now that you’re here?”

She gives me a cold once over. “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you can scrawl your name and initials with them on.” Her face says she’d like to see me rot, and that if I did, I’d deserve every single second of my time, so asking for the cuffs to be removed isn’t something she’s going to bother with.

She leans close enough that her intoxicating scent temporarily covers the unsavory aroma of this room. It had a distinct odor of piss when I walked in, but that’s not so strong anymore. The strange metallic smell hasn’t faded. I wonder if they beat people in these rooms, like they do in the movies.

“I agreed to take this case because my sister begged me. Not just this morning, but in the middle of the night. I told her I wouldn’t, but I knew I’d be left with very little choice if you called.” Her brows arc down as her eyes narrow. “She feels guilty and responsible, and well she should. I’ve dealt with her, and I’ll deal with you. I’ll win this because that’s what I do. I’m good at my job. It’s not a favor. We arenotfriends. I despise men like you and everything you stand for.”

She means her threat to be scary and scathing, but I find myself biting back the first urge I’ve had to smile in days. She’d look so fucking beautiful taking my cock with that same ferocity she’s displaying now.

Jesus fucking Christ. Not the time or the place, asshat.

I don’t just go around blasting thoughts like that off in my head. Ever. I might belong to a biker club and plenty of my club brothers indulge in the club whores, but I guess I’m not a very sexual person. Quite possibly, twenty years as a soldier fucking broke something in me.

I’m generally a hard man to offend and I know what it takes to hold my peace, but beautiful and fierce or not, getting judged and immediately found wanting is a burr up my already irritated ass. “Do you hate your freedom?”

“Excuse me?” She shoves the paperwork across the rectangular metal table, twists one of those fancy, heavy pens, and pretty much launches it straight into my hand. I draw back before the nib stabs my palm.

Now that I think about it, maybe they do beat people in here. Why does the table look like something from a morgue? Fucking hell, all the years I spent in Special Ops were nothing like what city police have to do every day. There was none of this bullshit.

“It was men like me who fought for you to be free. They’re still out there, still fighting.”

If anything, her face hardens further. When her lips flatten out like they’re doing now, the high slashes of her cheekbones are highlighted further. The poor lighting in the room casts shadows over her face. I think she knows that when she’s scowling, she’s even more beautiful. While her sister would bat her eyelashes and smile, flirting sweetly, Lynette is far more intriguing because she would never do that.

“I know all about the Special Ops business. Apparently, so does everyone else. It was leveled in the charges that you’re a violent man. You’ve sought no help for your past and suffer from PTSD. You’re known for starting fights, abusing women, and causing general chaos where you live, which is Hart, Washington, a small city an hour from here, where your clubhouse is located. You own the only gun range in Hart. You’re obsessed with weaponry. All in all, you’re a dangerous man, awalking grenade waiting for someone to pull the pin. You beat a man badly this time. Next time, you might kill someone.”

I can’t help it. The flabbergasted chuckle seeps from my lips like sunlight coming in under the crack of a closed door. What the actual fuck? Who came up with that nonsense? I could get further offended and give in to my urge to be butthurt, or I could laugh about it, because what else am I supposed to do?

Lynette doesnotsmile, and she certainly doesn’t laugh. “What about this do you think is funny, Mr. Aberdeen?”

Damn, she’s pulling out all the stops. Hamish Aberdeen isn’t a name I’ve heard in many years. Even long before the club, I was Bullet.

“They want felony charges,” she continues. “You won’t just be fined. If they have their way, you could be facing years in jail.” She drops her voice, leaning in even closer. “Need I remind you that the man you assaulted is the son of your own club’s lawyer? Attorney-client privilege only goes so far. This man will want to make an example of you and your little outlaw boys’ club now that he thinks you’ve wronged him. Not even the threat of snitches getting stitches is going to deter him. The fact that you’re sitting here now should make that abundantly clear. As I said, I’ve read the charges, and they want to crucify you. The law here, unlike in Hart, which your club no doubt has in their pocket, will only be too happy to comply.”

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