Grave Games (GRAVEDIGGERS MC DUOLOGY #1) by Stacy Gail EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Stacy Gail
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Weekend Warrior
“Hey, Shiloh. He’s here again.”
I looked up from the task of pouring water into the commercial-sized
coffeemaker to my friend and fellow server, Heather, who tilted her sablebrown head toward the back of the diner. Automatically my gaze followed
the gesture and ran slam-bang into a pair of eyes the color of a storm-tossed
sea.
Romeo again.
Though “Romeo” probably wasn’t his real name. It was just the name
on his leather jacket, along with a bunch of other patches that told me bits
of information about him. For starters, he had a yen for rebellion, if the pair
of middle-finger patches he sported were anything to go by. He also liked
retro art, considering the patch of a Rockabilly woman on the left side of
the chest. A couple more patches ballyhooing the beginning of Route 66,
which was right here in Chicago, hinted at him being a native, since he
showed so much pride in that historical landmark. And lastly, he didn’t
belong to any actual motorcycle clubs—the only plus, as far as I was
concerned.
No one belonging to a real MC would dare to wear a jacket like that.
The patches this guy wore could be picked up at a Hobby Lobby or a
Love’s truck stop. He was a wannabe biker, a weekend warrior who
probably lived the suit-and-tie life five days out of the week. If he ever
crossed the path of a real biker, he’d find himself in a world of hurt… after
they stopped laughing at his fake patches.
The thing was, I didn’t like bikers.
Not even pretend ones.
“Great.” Mouth tightening, I swung my attention back to the
coffeemaker before I accidentally reenacted the Great Flood. “Don’t
suppose I could ask you to swap sections with me?”
“We tried that last week, remember? He just moves so he can be with
youuuu.” Heather sang the last word, then moved toward the front when a
couple came through the frost-covered glass doors. “Face it, honey. It’s true
love. Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”
“You’re hilarious.” I glared at her retreating back, listening to her
laughter before admitting defeat. Setting the coffee to brew, I made sure my
order pad and pen were in my apron’s front pocket, then found myself
checking my hair in the distorted reflection of the coffeemaker’s chrome
plating.
Stupid, I immediately chided myself and turned my back on my warped
reflection. Who cared if my frizzy, not-blonde-but-not-brown hair was still
holding up in its bun? As long as it wasn’t falling into my customers’ food,
that was all I needed to care about.
Refusing the urge to smooth a hand over the annoying curls above my
temples that tended to look like devil horns if not nailed down with gel or
bobby pins, I tried for a calm expression and made my way to where the
wannabe biker sat alone in a booth.
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