Read Online BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) by Faith Winslow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Faith Winslow
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Lexi behind me and focus on the “real life” that was already waiting for me at home.
Chapter 13
~ Lexi ~
Great!
Of course!
Just my luck!
The rollercoaster ride continued.
I’d just had the greatest sex of my life with a sexy bad boy, and now I found out he might also be a “bad guy,” or maybe even a “good guy” or “good fella.”
Butcher was in a gang. He said they were involved in drugs and seedy business, and that they tried to do “good.” But that didn’t change the bottom line. The bottom line was: Butcher was in a gang.
Gangs meant outlaws, criminals, trouble, and danger. They meant breaking the law, risking your life, and endangering others around you. Gangs were not a good thing, even if they did good, and I questioned what kind of good they could do anyway.
I asked Butcher what the name of his gang was, and I felt a little queasy when he answered.
“The Wolves,” he’d said. My stomach churned. I’m a journalist, and as such, I’m more familiar than most with recent headlines. I recognized the gang name from several recent news stories that appeared both in print and on television. I couldn’t remember all the details, but the details I remembered weren’t pretty, and it terrified me to think of Butcher—and by extension, me —involved in such a lifestyle.
As soon as Butcher left my apartment, I ran and locked the door after him, then grabbed my laptop and ran back to my bedroom. I set my computer down on the bed, pressed the “power” button, and threw on a clean pair of panties and T-shirt while it booted.
About a minute later, my laptop was up and running, and within seconds I was on my bed and online. I typed the words “Wolves,” “L.A.,” “motorcycle,” and “gang” into the search bar and had thousands of hits returned in a fraction of a second.
After sorting through the results and disregarding the ones that had to do with animals, I found a several relevant taglines from very reputable sources, and I scanned them in quick succession.
Great!
Of course!
Just my luck!
“ Terry Cramer, 23, plead guilty to the murder of Jake Keller,” one news source reported. “Cramer is a known member of the Wolves, one of L.A.’s more covert biker gangs, and the crime has been… ”
Another site ran a story approximately three weeks later. It stated that that same guy—Terry Cramer—had been killed in prison.
My pulse was racing. How was any of this good?
I read on.
A crime-blotter rag read: “ Suspected Wolves gang member, Sam Hammond, was attacked by unknown assailants and anonymously dropped off at a hospital in San Marino. Anyone with information on this unsolved crime is advised to contact local authorities immediately. ”
Shit. Two months later, multiple stories mentioned a Wolves member named Carl Struthers and said he was “ suspiciously linked ” to the murders of a L.A. man involved with another gang and a San Francisco police officer. Shit.
What the fuck?!?!
I slammed my laptop shut, jumped up off of my bed, and ran to the bathroom, where I hunched over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I rubbed my fingers over my eyes, massaged my nose, and did circles on my cheeks, splashing my face repeatedly and intermittingly.
I turned off the faucet and looked in the mirror. My face looked red, like it was on fire. Not even the cold water could douse it. My blood was boiling. I had so many questions and was afraid of learning the answers.
“What did you get yourself into this time?” I asked aloud, talking to my reflection in the mirror. I shook my head and thought, for a moment, about hopping into the shower. But then something hit me, and I swiftly returned to my computer.
I’d read about Terry Cramer, Sam Hammond, and Carl Struthers—and then I stopped reading. But what if I stopped reading too soon? What if there were stories on other Wolves? What if there were stories on… John Crane?
My computer started up right away from
Chapter 13
~ Lexi ~
Great!
Of course!
Just my luck!
The rollercoaster ride continued.
I’d just had the greatest sex of my life with a sexy bad boy, and now I found out he might also be a “bad guy,” or maybe even a “good guy” or “good fella.”
Butcher was in a gang. He said they were involved in drugs and seedy business, and that they tried to do “good.” But that didn’t change the bottom line. The bottom line was: Butcher was in a gang.
Gangs meant outlaws, criminals, trouble, and danger. They meant breaking the law, risking your life, and endangering others around you. Gangs were not a good thing, even if they did good, and I questioned what kind of good they could do anyway.
I asked Butcher what the name of his gang was, and I felt a little queasy when he answered.
“The Wolves,” he’d said. My stomach churned. I’m a journalist, and as such, I’m more familiar than most with recent headlines. I recognized the gang name from several recent news stories that appeared both in print and on television. I couldn’t remember all the details, but the details I remembered weren’t pretty, and it terrified me to think of Butcher—and by extension, me —involved in such a lifestyle.
As soon as Butcher left my apartment, I ran and locked the door after him, then grabbed my laptop and ran back to my bedroom. I set my computer down on the bed, pressed the “power” button, and threw on a clean pair of panties and T-shirt while it booted.
About a minute later, my laptop was up and running, and within seconds I was on my bed and online. I typed the words “Wolves,” “L.A.,” “motorcycle,” and “gang” into the search bar and had thousands of hits returned in a fraction of a second.
After sorting through the results and disregarding the ones that had to do with animals, I found a several relevant taglines from very reputable sources, and I scanned them in quick succession.
Great!
Of course!
Just my luck!
“ Terry Cramer, 23, plead guilty to the murder of Jake Keller,” one news source reported. “Cramer is a known member of the Wolves, one of L.A.’s more covert biker gangs, and the crime has been… ”
Another site ran a story approximately three weeks later. It stated that that same guy—Terry Cramer—had been killed in prison.
My pulse was racing. How was any of this good?
I read on.
A crime-blotter rag read: “ Suspected Wolves gang member, Sam Hammond, was attacked by unknown assailants and anonymously dropped off at a hospital in San Marino. Anyone with information on this unsolved crime is advised to contact local authorities immediately. ”
Shit. Two months later, multiple stories mentioned a Wolves member named Carl Struthers and said he was “ suspiciously linked ” to the murders of a L.A. man involved with another gang and a San Francisco police officer. Shit.
What the fuck?!?!
I slammed my laptop shut, jumped up off of my bed, and ran to the bathroom, where I hunched over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I rubbed my fingers over my eyes, massaged my nose, and did circles on my cheeks, splashing my face repeatedly and intermittingly.
I turned off the faucet and looked in the mirror. My face looked red, like it was on fire. Not even the cold water could douse it. My blood was boiling. I had so many questions and was afraid of learning the answers.
“What did you get yourself into this time?” I asked aloud, talking to my reflection in the mirror. I shook my head and thought, for a moment, about hopping into the shower. But then something hit me, and I swiftly returned to my computer.
I’d read about Terry Cramer, Sam Hammond, and Carl Struthers—and then I stopped reading. But what if I stopped reading too soon? What if there were stories on other Wolves? What if there were stories on… John Crane?
My computer started up right away from
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