Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1)(8)

By: Lydia Pax

Her heart fluttered.

“Thank you,” she said, “but no. I have family I can call. They’ll want to see me anyway. I haven’t been with them for quite some time.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you around, then, June. I’ll see you real soon.”

It almost sounded like a threat, coming from him. But if it was a threat, then why was her heart beating so fast—and why did she watch his large frame so intently as he walked inside the diner?

Chapter 3

Out of the heat and in the diner, Ram put his colors back on. After the brawl and the shootout last night, there was bound to be a hell of a lot of heat on the Wrecking Crew, and as much as he loved his club, he wasn't stupid enough to ask to be pulled over.

The design of the vest was simple; a wrecking ball on a field of fire. “Wrecking Crew” on top with “Marlowe” on the rocker.

He had meant to put it on the second he got off the road. When a brother walked around, he was supposed to wear his colors no matter what. The girl had distracted him.

Goddamn, she was a classic beauty. His dick was still pulsing, threatening to get harder and harder, just remembering the tight curves of her body, that white shirt she was wearing plastered against her breasts from sweat.

For all he knew, she was the reason the day felt so damn hot.

He didn't give a damn if she was single or not, he was going to make her his business. There was no way someone like her would shack up with him for long—too clean cut, too goody-goody. Probably a college girl, to hear her talk.

But goddamn, those legs. She was a vision, standing over that steaming car. He’d had trouble not pouncing on her then and there.

The diner was the standard roadside fare. Vinyl seats, uncomfortable stools at a counter with their cushioning seeping through cracks, an A/C unit at each end blowing with small ribbons tied to the vent. It was not heavily populated: a few truckers sat at the counter, half of their thick butts hanging off the sides of the stool as they downed greasy burgers and fries.

In the back of the diner were the party he had come to meet. Four men, his brothers, all representatives from the Wrecking Crew.

The sight of them pushed the image of the tempting June from his mind and brought his mind around to more serious affairs.

The Hammerin' Nail. Beretta. A war with the Black Flags.

As much lust as he felt in himself building for June—and after so short a time—that passion had a long way to go if it wanted to meet his desire to smash the Flags into the dirt and grind Beretta under his boot for days.

His brothers at the booth waited for him to sit before saying anything.

Cattleprod, the Wrecking Crew Secretary. He managed the accounts and kept a clean record; the guy who talked to the cops and arranged bails when brawls got too heavy. He was a small man, but thickly built with a dome head and a long black and gray beard.

His sense of humor was more macabre than even most of the other outlaws could handle. Last Halloween he had decorated his house with roadkill to keep trick or treaters away.

Next to him was Rowdy, their Road Captain. A man nearly as wide as he was tall, but none the worse for wear for it. He swore by his diet of bacon and whiskey and breathed every breath for the life of the club. Four times a year, the Wrecking Crew made runs—two that stretched out into other states and two that crossed the length of Texas—and it was Rowdy's job to keep everything running smooth on the road.

All the Wrecking Crew hated cops—cops hassled outlaw bikers nonstop, finding any reason to pull them over and write out citations—but Rowdy in particular hated them.

When he had first started biking, he'd landed in a brawl with some local police and they confiscated his bike. When he earned enough scrap to pick up a new one, they confiscated that one too. Ever since, he'd run his own private guerrilla campaign against the cops, availing himself to the world of the internet to become well-versed in traffic and automotive law. Every citation he got, he took to court, and usually fought it until it got up to the county, where it would inevitably be thrown out because the county court had things like murder and grand larceny to worry about.

“Freedom ain't shit if you ain't fighting for it,” Rowdy would always say.

And he had his pettiness to him too. He had a small bottle in his lap for spitting tobacco juice. The only reason he had started chewing tobacco at all was that so when a cop pulled him over, he could spit heavy on his shoes.

Mikhail was there as well, having beat Ram to the diner. He didn't look any the worse for wear after the brawl last night outside of a fresh shiner on his left eye. A good soldier. Mikhail had been a patch holder for a little over three years now. It gave Ram a great deal of pride to give him the patch himself, and to lead the vote on the matter. A lot of folks thought Mikhail wouldn’t make it—almost nobody in the club came from a family as well-off as his—but the man had carried himself as a righteous brother in too many scrapes to deny him the patch.

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