Shakedown (Souls Chapel Revenants MC 8)

My father started to chuckle. “Just leave her be. The guy sounded like a loser.”

“Last week, she told her date, who also happened to be a man that I set her up with, that fifty percent of all women murdered are offed by their ex-husbands or ex-boyfriends,” Booth added.

“They are,” I said defensively.

“He lost his last wife by murder,” Booth said. “You basically accused him of murdering his own wife.”

I sighed. I had not, but there really was no reason in telling these two jerk-offs anything. They’d think what they wanted.

My phone buzzed, and I thankfully pulled it out of my pocket to read the text that flashed across the screen.

It was a one-word text from my best client.

Hastings: Mayday!

I sighed and replied.

Belle: What’s up?

Hastings: I lost my entire book. It’s just gone. G.O.N.E. Can you send it to me again? I can’t access my email.

I’d do absolutely anything to get out of this particular family dinner.

Belle: Yes. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can get home. You saved me from my brothers. Again.

Hastings: Glad that one of my lowest moments could be beneficial to you.

I kind of felt bad, but kind of didn’t.

She should know better.

You always, always, always used two forms of backup when you were writing.

Always.

Most people found out the hard way, like she was doing now, to do that.

Because usually, when authors were first starting out, they’d think that it could never happen to them.

They would think wrong.

It happened to everyone that ever used a computer eventually.

The only thing was, most people didn’t lose what an author lost—hours and hours of hard work.

“I gotta go,” I said to my dad. “Hastings lost her entire book and she needs me to send it to her again.”

Bourne started to make chicken noises. However, I was able to ignore him.

Mostly.

After giving my dad a kiss on his cheek, and my brothers the finger, I walked outside and headed in the direction of my car.

It was raining, and like always, the two assholes inside had ridden in with each other.

Grinning like the loon I was, I walked over to their left front tire and pulled a set of needle-nose pliers out of my purse.

Removing the valve out of the stem, I watched with glee as the massive truck tire dwindled until the rim was sitting on the concrete.