GRIFFIN by Theodora Taylor EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Theodora Taylor
- Language: English
- Genre: Multicultural & Interracial Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
GRIFF
“ALRIGHT, I’M BORED,” I TELL THE GROUP OF REAPERS SITTING
around the roadhouse’s banquet table. I’m not the president of our biker
gang, but I do expect plenty of answers when I demand to know, “How’re
we going to fix this shitty vibe?”
Waylon, who actually is one of the Reaper’s presidents, rolls his eyes and
ignores me. Like I’m some mouthy brat—not the guy paying him six
figures a year to run security at all my shows.
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With the mood I’m in, that’d normally be enough for me to put a fist
through his mouth. Nothing cures a bad case of the Bored as Hells like
knocking out teeth. But I let it slide.
Waylon and Hades, the other Reaper prez, are two of the only guys I could
call true friends prior to my music fame. Waylon’s the one who pinned me
with my road name, Rockstar, years before I signed my record deal. And,
trust, it’s a whole lot better to have him as a best friend you tolerate than an
enemy you punched because he pissed you off.
I don’t want to use the word psycho, but Waylon has a reputation for ending
anybody who crosses him. There’s a reason DON’T PISS OFF WAYLON
is written in huge block letters on the list of rules hanging above the
roadhouse owner’s office door.
It’s probably a sign of our enduring friendship that he just ignores me
instead of pulling a gun and shooting me in the face. That could 100%
happen with our co-prez. We call him Viking sometimes because he’s been
known to go totally berserk when crossed.
Besides, I am acting kind of bratty. Borderline ’80s-era Mötley Crüe. That
happens when I get bored—which Waylon’s probably thinking I shouldn’t
be, considering we’re at the Reaper’s favorite Tennessee roadhouse with
friends who know how to party, top-shelf blow, quality weed, and biker
groupies willing to do just about anything to get invited to our table.
One of my hit tracks is playing overhead, and two topless blondes with big
smiles and even bigger breasts appear to replace all our empty bottles and
whiskey glasses with fresh pours of bourbon and Yazoo beers.
Yeah, this scene is as close to biker Valhalla as you’re gonna get.
“You want a mug for your Yazoo, Griff?” one of the waitresses asks. She
presses her fake breasts into my shoulder as she sets a bottle of local craft
beer down in front of me. It’s so cold, it’s got a wisp of smoke wafting up
from its mouth.
Hmm . . . there’s a good chance I’ve fucked this girl on a previous occasion.
But I can’t remember.
A few of the Reapers eye me expectantly—probably because the last time a
waitress batted her eyes at me this hard, I convinced her to crawl under the
table and give us all blow jobs. Now that was real ’80s-era Mötley Crüe.
But tonight, my dick does nothing in response to her rubbing up against me
like a cat in heat.
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