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)
She shot him a huge smile. “He’d have to catch me first.”
Zeke snorted, climbed out, and grabbed his shit from the back seat. He flicked her a two finger salute as she squealed the tires and sped away.
Since he didn’t have the key to the bar on him, he’d have to hoof it around back.
He was relieved to find that the chain normally securing the gate separating the MC’s clubhouse and the bar wasn’t padlocked. Wheels had picked up Zeke’s keys from Shadow Valley PD so his brothers could retrieve his sled from where it was left during his arrest. At the time, he was worried that his Low Rider S would be impounded. He’d invested way too much scratch on his badass custom ride, lovingly named Black Betty, to have it fucked up, despite the fact that Badger did most of the work for no charge.
Wheels said he’d store it in the garage at Zeke’s parents’ house. He was not looking forward to the conversation he’d have with his parents when he went to pick it up.
Sometimes they forgot he was thirty-two-fucking-years old and he was president of an MC. A club with now over forty members when including the OGs, like Diesel, Hawk, Slade, Jag and the rest. His father’s generation.
As he turned the corner, he noticed very few sleds and cages parked out back.
He took that as a good sign that his brothers were probably wherever they were supposed to be for the day. But that also meant they probably weren’t throwing him any kind of welcome home party.
Fuck it, he’d throw his own private party. It didn’t need to be fancy. He only needed booze, weed, and wet pussy.
He paused in front of the steel door and glanced up at the weathered sign with their club motto. The one that hadn’t changed since the club was founded in 1974.
He yanked on the door, only to find it locked.
Fuck.
He pounded on the door, hoping someone was inside. Otherwise, he’d be sitting outside twiddling his fucking thumbs until someone showed up.
Worse, he didn’t even have his goddamn cell phone. It had been “misplaced” during his arrest. That was what the pigs claimed, anyway.
Not that he trusted a fucking word that came out of their snouts.
When some drunk asshole had pulled a gun on him, of course, Zeke kicked his fucking ass. It was well deserved and should’ve been considered self-defense. But, unfortunately, knocking the motherfucker into the next decade, as well as carrying a blade in his pocket, gave him a first class ticket back inside to finish out his sentence from a previous offense.
He glanced at his old Ford F-150 parked at the back of the lot. Of course, the ignition key was on the key ring with the rest. Hell, since his pickup had been sitting since last year, it probably wouldn’t start anyway.
Zeke sighed, pounded again, and leaned closer to the door. Since it was thick enough to stop bullets, he couldn’t hear shit through it.
Back when the Warriors were still a threat, the OGs had reinforced the clubhouse, as well as The Iron Horse; essentially turning it into a fortress. No fire bombs or bullets were breaching the exterior.
It was also why his old man had insisted on building a neighborhood for the older generation—the gated and walled community where he and his younger brother Zane grew up.
The perfect little middle class biker family, surrounded by other perfect little middle class biker families, as well as the Shadows and their families.
It was like a whole community of domesticated bikers. For fuck’s sake, they went from badass bikers to PTA meetings.
With a sneer, he spat on the ground to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth.
When the lock clicked, he stepped back just in time to avoid getting knocked over when the door opened. It swung outward so it couldn’t get kicked in.
“Holy fuck! Trouble has arrived.”
“Thank fuck you’re here,” Zeke said to Lucky.
After clasping hands and bumping chests, Lucky whacked him hard on the back. “You’ve been missed, you stupid asshole.”
Zeke opened his mouth to give Lucky shit, but quickly closed it instead. He couldn’t argue that fact. He was a stupid asshole. Pushing past Lucky, he shut the door behind them and locked it.
With his hands plugged on his hips, Lucky looked him over. “Speakin’ of assholes, how’s yours feelin’?”
One side of Zeke’s mouth pulled up. “Still sweet and innocent like a virgin.”
Lucky hooted. “Like you’d fuckin’ admit it if it ain’t.”
“Yeah, well, some shit should go with you to the grave,” he quipped as his gaze circled the empty common area of the clubhouse.
Fuck yeah. It was damn good to be home, despite no one being there to welcome him except for Lucky. “What’re you doin’? Too early for The Iron Horse to be open.”