BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Faith Winslow
simply didn’t matter.
But at the same time, even though he left me, Butcher left me with plans. When he left me, he arranged to see me the next night—and that was saying something, wasn’t it?
Plus, I didn’t know why he left me anyway. It could have been for any variety of reasons, and even though he was aloof, he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t he?
Ah, so many questions! And once the cab got there, it didn’t make matters any better. The cab driver was quietly listening to the radio as he drove me home, and it was set to a classic rock channel. In the half hour or so it took to get from The Boneyard to my place, I heard two songs on the radio that Broken Brother had performed that evening, and I was hit with another set of questions.
Broken Brother had only played covers, and I wondered why. Why didn’t they play any of their original songs? Had they given up on that part of their act? Was the band starting to fall apart or lose interest in the scene?
By the time I got home, my head was spinning with both thoughts of the old songs Broken Brother had played and the new developments between Butcher and me. I went to bed somewhat of a mess, feeling torn and confounded. And when I woke in the morning, I didn’t feel much better, but nonetheless, I did my best to collect—and separate—my thoughts so that I could go about my day.
Perhaps some of my personal thoughts and emotions seeped over into my work, which was inevitable, I guess. But, really, I did try as hard as I could to make sure they didn’t, so that I could be loyal to myself and my profession at the same time.
For the most part, I think I succeeded, and I managed to put truly tiring thoughts of Butcher out of my head for most of the day. But when the end of my work day came around and I looked at the clock, my thoughts immediately returned to him, and it was as if I was still standing there behind The Boneyard, pining over him as he drive off. I was still smitten, and I’d merely kept myself distracted for a (short) while.
My commute home from work seemed like the longest commute ever, though it gave me some time to think about my wardrobe for the evening. From what I’d seen of Pinky’s on my phone’s browser, it was a biker dive bar, so anything would’ve passed. However, I wanted to look good for Butcher, and I needed to decide what “good” meant.
It was nearly seven when I finally got home and made it to my closet, and as I worked my way through the hangers and shelves, I got a little worried and resented the fact that I hadn’t done laundry in several days.
Eventually, however, I found a “little black dress” at the back of my closet. I hadn’t worn it in ages and had pretty much forgotten about it, but given its short length, low neckline, and flattering fit, I knew that it would do the trick.
I tossed the dress down on my bed and went off to the bathroom to freshen up, and, within an hour, I was ready to leave. I called the cab company around eight thirty to order a car and ended up sitting around for another hour before it came.
It was a Saturday night in L.A., and I’d been a commuter here for the past six years, since I first came out to California after graduating college. I should have known better and called the cab company earlier than I did. But, come on now, I wasn’t thinking straight!
Traffic was a bitch, and I didn’t get to Pinky’s until twelve minutes after ten (on the nose). I jumped out of the cab the moment I recognized the neon sign I’d seen online, and I held myself back from sprinting to the door. I knew that I wasn’t running that late, but Butcher was still a wild card, and I didn’t know if he’d jump the gun.
When I stepped into Pinky’s, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the muted light, and it took me a few moments to look around for Butcher. There were at least a dozen or so other guys who looked a lot like him in the place—bikers (or rockers, maybe) with nice
But at the same time, even though he left me, Butcher left me with plans. When he left me, he arranged to see me the next night—and that was saying something, wasn’t it?
Plus, I didn’t know why he left me anyway. It could have been for any variety of reasons, and even though he was aloof, he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t he?
Ah, so many questions! And once the cab got there, it didn’t make matters any better. The cab driver was quietly listening to the radio as he drove me home, and it was set to a classic rock channel. In the half hour or so it took to get from The Boneyard to my place, I heard two songs on the radio that Broken Brother had performed that evening, and I was hit with another set of questions.
Broken Brother had only played covers, and I wondered why. Why didn’t they play any of their original songs? Had they given up on that part of their act? Was the band starting to fall apart or lose interest in the scene?
By the time I got home, my head was spinning with both thoughts of the old songs Broken Brother had played and the new developments between Butcher and me. I went to bed somewhat of a mess, feeling torn and confounded. And when I woke in the morning, I didn’t feel much better, but nonetheless, I did my best to collect—and separate—my thoughts so that I could go about my day.
Perhaps some of my personal thoughts and emotions seeped over into my work, which was inevitable, I guess. But, really, I did try as hard as I could to make sure they didn’t, so that I could be loyal to myself and my profession at the same time.
For the most part, I think I succeeded, and I managed to put truly tiring thoughts of Butcher out of my head for most of the day. But when the end of my work day came around and I looked at the clock, my thoughts immediately returned to him, and it was as if I was still standing there behind The Boneyard, pining over him as he drive off. I was still smitten, and I’d merely kept myself distracted for a (short) while.
My commute home from work seemed like the longest commute ever, though it gave me some time to think about my wardrobe for the evening. From what I’d seen of Pinky’s on my phone’s browser, it was a biker dive bar, so anything would’ve passed. However, I wanted to look good for Butcher, and I needed to decide what “good” meant.
It was nearly seven when I finally got home and made it to my closet, and as I worked my way through the hangers and shelves, I got a little worried and resented the fact that I hadn’t done laundry in several days.
Eventually, however, I found a “little black dress” at the back of my closet. I hadn’t worn it in ages and had pretty much forgotten about it, but given its short length, low neckline, and flattering fit, I knew that it would do the trick.
I tossed the dress down on my bed and went off to the bathroom to freshen up, and, within an hour, I was ready to leave. I called the cab company around eight thirty to order a car and ended up sitting around for another hour before it came.
It was a Saturday night in L.A., and I’d been a commuter here for the past six years, since I first came out to California after graduating college. I should have known better and called the cab company earlier than I did. But, come on now, I wasn’t thinking straight!
Traffic was a bitch, and I didn’t get to Pinky’s until twelve minutes after ten (on the nose). I jumped out of the cab the moment I recognized the neon sign I’d seen online, and I held myself back from sprinting to the door. I knew that I wasn’t running that late, but Butcher was still a wild card, and I didn’t know if he’d jump the gun.
When I stepped into Pinky’s, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the muted light, and it took me a few moments to look around for Butcher. There were at least a dozen or so other guys who looked a lot like him in the place—bikers (or rockers, maybe) with nice