Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1)(3)

By: Lydia Pax

But Manuel, the proprietor of The Hammerin' Nail, often hired out girls to come and liven the place up a bit. Bikers frequented his bar, and when bikers thought they would get laid, they broke less property. So Ram wasn’t entirely out of his mind to imagine that the girls were free game.

He strolled up to the bar, gesturing for a bottle of whiskey from Manuel. Manuel had on a white button-up, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Thick layers of sweat covered him like they covered anyone working a real job this close to the border under the merciless sun. Even indoors and at night, the sun invaded, ever pushing and creeping, pressing through the battered efforts of the decades-old air-conditioner.

The bar owner knew Ram was good for the bottle and did not ask for him to pay. As a point of pride, The Wrecking Crew always paid their tabs.

Six years ago when a brawl had broken a bar in Beaumont so hard that it was closed for near half a year with renovations, the Wrecking Crew paid for every wall, chair, table, pool cue, and window they wrecked.

Ram knew the figure he cut at the front of the bar. Tall. Built like a young god. His muscles darkened from the sun and the road dust of the day. Biceps thicker around than most of the necks of the pretty little things sliding up next to him. They were smiling and busty, and his cock pushed against the heavy denim of his pants, ready for action.

He'd been too long without a good fuck, that was for damn sure.

The whiskey went down his throat smooth and burning like the road he had left behind for the night. Both girls sidled up next to him were Latina, both were pretty. As the whiskey hit his blood and then his brain, he toyed briefly with the notion of bending one over on the bar and just taking her in front of the Black Flags. It might do those pussies good to see a quality dick in action.

Women went crazy for him. He was used to it at this point. He liked it. They always wanted a trip on the wild side. They wanted to know what it was like to fuck a man who didn’t follow the rules—a man who would rather die than live in chains. A man who preferred the unpredictability of lawlessness to the lazy comforts of an office or a paycheck.

One was a blonde with breasts almost as big as her head. They hung loose in her tight shirt, bouncing with every other movement. The other was less busty, but had a longer torso, the kind he could imagine stroking his hand down—grabbing, gripping, never letting go. Girls like this were common around the Wrecking Crew bar back in Marlowe—broads, honeys, chicks. A dozen names for them all amounting to the same thing—women who liked to be in the presence of the pure, unrestrained masculinity of an outlaw.

“You’re with the crew, huh?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Best in Texas.”

“You got here pretty late for the party,” said Blonde.

“All the other guys have been taken up,” said Long. She pointed at the Black Flags gathered around at the other end of the bar, shouting and laughing, tequila dripping down on their shoes.

When he'd heard her say “crew,” he had heard “Crew,” as in, his Wrecking Crew. But now he knew what these girls were—paid company for the Black Flags.

That was trouble.

Already, some of the more sober of their company had started sending glances his way, talking in hushed whispers.

If it weren't for the Wrecking Crew, the Black Flags would be the baddest gang—let alone motorcycle gang—this side of the Mississippi. Their leader, Acero, had a reputation for making brutal examples of the people in his territory who refused to pay rent. The last one Ram had heard of had been strung up above his house on a length of barbed wire.

The reason the Wrecking Crew were badder than the Black Flags wasn't that they hung more people, though. It was just that people knew the Crew well enough not to get themselves hung by causing some shit. Their reputation was solid.

Another whiskey splashed down his throat. He’d had nearly a quarter of the bottle now and he felt like he was just getting started. If the girls wanted to talk to him instead of those bozo wimps, that was their problem, wasn’t it?

He hadn’t called the honeys over. He hadn’t forced anything on them. They wanted to slide their hands around the monster waiting in his pants, and he wanted to give it to them.

Both of them, why the fuck not? He'd done two before, and he could do it again. Women like this wouldn't satisfy him for very long—no woman ever had—but they could dull the burning in his heart for at least a little while.

“Why don’t you girls have a drink?” he said, winking at a Black Flag giving him the evil eye. “Didn’t you come here to have some fun?”

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