Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 93698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Vi didn’t say shit about that.”
“‘Maybe ‘cause she ain’t their prez. Lexi is,” Zane said.
Zeke muttered, “Fuckin’ crazy bitch.”
“Fuck,” Wheels said on a groan. “Don’t let her pop hear you call her that.”
Chaos’s eyebrows shot up. “Ain’t Jag he’s gotta fuckin’ worry about. Lexi could kick his ass up one side and down the other.”
“Fuck that. She wouldn’t need to put a hand on him. I swear Lexi shoots almost as good as that new sniper Vi hired,” Cruz exclaimed.
“Lexi ain’t shootin’ me.”
“Test her,” Wheels encouraged him with a shit-eating grin.
“You fuckin’ test her.”
“Ain’t the one callin’ her a bitch.”
Zeke whacked Ash’s chest with the back of his hand. “Rage here’s supposed to take a bullet for me.”
“The fuck if I’m takin’ a bullet for the stupid shit that comes outta your mouth. Would be riddled with ‘em.”
“Okay,” Zeke said on a sigh. “Anything else need to be brought up before we get the fuck outta here?”
“How ‘bout the fact that our prez keeps gettin’ pinched?” Zane asked.
“We can table that.”
“’Til next time?”
“’Til never.” Zeke slammed the gavel on the thick table. “We’re adjourned. Need to go find some wet pussy.”
Zane shoved his chair back and stood. “Might wanna stop at the new groomers in town, then. If you’re lookin’ for wet pussy, heard they bathe cats there.”
“Guaranteed, a comedy club ain’t a business we’ll be openin’ anytime soon,” Zeke grumbled, also rising to his feet.
“Fuck! That was gonna be one of the ideas I brought to the table.” Wheels was chuckling as he walked out the door of the meeting room and disappeared.
Chapter Four
Zeke crab-walked his sled backwards until it was in line with the rest of his club’s and shut it down. Yanking the black bandana down from the lower half of his face, he left it hanging around his neck. After dismounting and shoving his keys deep into his front pocket, he walked the line to make sure everyone—all patched members, including the OGs and the prospects—was there.
Of course, he was the only one that arrived late. But, hell, he had a good excuse. Last night he had gone to Heaven’s Angels Gentlemen’s Club, a strip club owned by the DAMC, and picked up two of the girls, Opal and Cashmere.
It had been a damn good night, if he said so himself. This morning? Not so much. Unfortunately, a big greasy breakfast with a whiskey chaser hadn’t helped his latest hangover. Neither did smoking a blunt.
He had to wait until the pounding in his brain subsided so he could deal with the loud, rumbling exhaust from his straight pipes, as well as the vibration. Puking while doing over sixty-five miles a fucking hour was never fun.
Don’t ask him how he knew.
He came to an abrupt stop when at the end of the lineup of DAMC sleds, another club’s started.
Not the Dark Knights. Or the Blood Fury. Or even the Blue Pigs.
Fuck no, the goddamn Angels of Fury.
Zeke sucked on his teeth and one corner of his upper lip pulled up in a sneer.
A year ago, the women got a wild hair up their asses when they decided they wanted to ride with the DAMC. Not as backpacks—fuck no—but on their own fucking sleds. While that might be acceptable for the pussy-assed Blue Avengers—they weren’t picky since they weren’t a true MC, only wannabes—that bullshit was a no-fucking-go for the Angels, the Knights, or the Fury.
Tradition said no women could be members and non-members couldn’t ride in club runs unless they were a passenger. Even then, backpacks were limited to ol’ ladies, members’ crotch critters, and regular pieces. No sweet butts, strippers from Heaven’s Angels, or randoms.
Zeke spat on the ground in front of the AFMC’s president’s pink Harley.
Yeah. Fucking pink. Like pussy.
Zeke reluctantly admitted it was another damn good custom job by Badger.
While the whole women’s MC was Vi’s idea, she was only a member since she had enough on her plate managing In the Shadows Security. His red-headed, hot-tempered cousin, Lexi, had been voted in as president instead.
The members not only included DAMC women, but some from the Dark Knights and the Blood Fury. They even wore fucking cuts. With rockers and patches and fucking everything. They had an executive committee and monthly club runs.
Like a real goddamn MC.
They didn’t give two fucks about breaking fucking decades of tradition.
He didn’t like it.
The OGs didn’t like it, either.
At least they could agree on that.
He wound his way through the parking lot and headed toward all the activity.
First stop: the beer garden. He’d grab a cold one to cool down his annoyance with the all-women’s MC, then go listen to whatever local band was on stage.
When he found a break in the temporary fencing, he spotted one of their prospects sitting at a small folding table.
“Whataya doin’?”
Tick shrugged and pointed at the metal cash box on the table. “Collectin’ the entry fee.”