Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1)(5)

By: Lydia Pax

“Let’s keep this nice, huh?” said Beretta. “You step away. Go back to your table. Jack off with your friends, I don’t care. But you leave these girls to us. We paid for them.”

“They drank my whiskey,” said Ram, finally turning around. “So who’s gonna pay me for that?”

His voice reached a dangerous tone. The longer he and Beretta talked, the closer they would come to fighting. He looked for reasons to keep talking. The fight was close now, bending at the edges of their reality.

Several Black Flags stood up—and so then, did the Wrecking Crew.

Long finally got her shit together enough to back off of Ram's lap, whimpering a bit as she did. He could still feel her wet arousal on his pant leg.

Ram might have been in the wrong to start a fight at The Hammerin' Nail—but that was a question for later. Brothers backed each other up in the moment, no matter what.

The Black Flags moved forward like a wave. Pool cues and chairs in their hands. The Wrecking Crew did the same—Mikhail pulled out a pair of brass knucks and Ace unwrapped the chain he kept looped through his belt holes.

Gunfire. In the brewing melee, Manuel picked up his shotgun from behind the bar and let it unleash on the ceiling, filling the bar with a heavy boom and dust from the shattered plaster. He pumped it and leveled the barrel at Ram and Beretta, who had been circling each other with fists up.

“Get out of here,” he said. “Now.”

Ram and Beretta backed up together, both keeping an eye on each other and on Manuel's shotgun.

Once through the door, Ram heard the telltale snick of a knife popping open. He twisted and snapped Beretta’s hand away just in time to avoid having steel jammed in his kidneys.

Just like a coward-ass thieving' low cocksucker like Beretta to try and stab him in the back. Once clearly hadn't been enough for him.

More bikers rushed through, fighting the second they flooded through the door. Fists flying into each other's faces, boots kicking into ribs, hard wood smashing against backs—it was a brawl, plain and simple.

There were seven Black Flags to their four Wrecking Crew. It wasn’t good odds.

Ram liked that.

Fists flying, knees hammering. He and Beretta rolled through the concrete and he smashed the traitor against the hard ground. The gas pump outside was near. He heard Ace and Mikhail duking it out with the Black Flags, the prospect roaring like mad, no shots fired yet. It wouldn’t be long. Ace and Mikhail were both packing, and no doubt the Black Flags were too.

Ram didn't carry a gun unless absolutely necessary. He was trouble enough on his own, most of the time.

Beretta groaned on the ground. Blood spilled around his teeth and cheek where a cut had opened up. Ram pulled the nozzle from the gas pump and whacked him over the head with it. It made a hard, satisfying clang and thunk sound, opening up another gash on his head. Then, Ram sat down on his chest. The nozzle clanked against Beretta’s teeth—Ram wanted to drown the fucker in gasoline and set him on fire.

Shots fired, bullets banging against the metal roof of the bar. Red and blue lights swarming in the dark of the night. The highway patrol, probably nearby to check the ID’s of the girls partying with the Black Flags.

An old sting and an effective one if you weren't careful.

Intercom voices ordered the crowd of brawlers to stand down. Someone in the mess of outlaw bikers shot back at the cops, filling their newly-arrived cars with bullets. Ram saw blood—saw through the darkness one cop take one hard in the head, dead in an instant.

Mikhail shouted to him. “Ram, we gotta get out of here!”

Ram roared with frustration, so close to killing Beretta, to ending the son of a bitch who might as well have killed his sister.

And a good death, too, burned alive from the inside out. Too good for Beretta, but plenty painful all the same.

No fuck, barely a fight, and not even a kill to speak of. His blood pounded, his cock still hard from the excitement in the bar.

He got up, keeping himself level, and rushed back to his bike. Ace, next to him, started to swear.

“Motherfuckers,” he growled. “They fucking took my bike?”

“What?” said Mikhail. “When?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Ram. “Get on!”

Ace hopped onto the back of Ram's bike, clearly unhappy. Ram was ready to murder every last cop and Black Flag on the scene. But there was too much heat on them already—and he had just started an all-out war with the Flags.

They rode off into the night, leaving the mess—and the dead body—behind.

Chapter 2

June was lucky the diner was there. Her car started smoking just fifty miles out of Marlowe. It was packed full of her entire life, stuffed into the trunk in a series of tote bags and grocery sacks, some luggage, and a long crate that she only barely had room for. The rest was in the boxes strapped to the top of her small sedan with heavy rope.

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