Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Hey, boys, mind if we crash your party?” Copper asked as he lifted the bucket. “We brought gifts.”
As if they could or would say no to their president.
Saint didn’t have a death wish. “Of course,” he said, sliding over to make room for Thunder.
Copper settled his giant body next to Gator, making the bench groan under his substantial weight. Even nearing sixty, the man was muscular as hell, all thick shoulders and corded forearms covered in ink. He carried his power with ease, like he’d been born wearing the patch and running the circus.
Gator scooted a fraction of an inch away. “Careful, Prez. This bench collapses, I’m blaming your old ass, not mine.”
Copper snorted. “You blame me, you better be ready to run laps around the clubhouse until those chicken legs fall off.”
“Joke’s on you,” Gator said, lifting his scarred thigh. “One’s already halfway gone.”
Thunder chuckled as he sat, reaching immediately for a frosty beer. Copper set the bucket in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, gentlemen.”
Saint grabbed his first of the day while Gator went in for a refill, humming some off-key country song as he fished around in the ice.
“Fuck,” Thunder said after drinking a long pull from his beer. “Been a day.”
“You ain’t shittin’,” Copper said as he popped the top off his bottle.
Saint recognized the tone and casual words, but the muscle in Copper’s jaw flexed. The past few years had been smooth sailing as far as rivalries or problems with other clubs. The Hell’s Handlers owned the Smoky Mountains, and anyone who was anyone knew it. Other clubs respected them and didn’t fuck around in their area.
Until recently.
Over the last three weeks, they’d spotted bikers in cuts no one recognized riding around town, setting off alarm bells in their president’s head. Saint didn’t like it. This was his family, and the idea of anyone fucking with them brought out his murderous side.
He’d grown up protecting his siblings at all costs, taking the belt when his little brother was too exhausted to keep up in the fields, drawing the elders’ attention to himself so it didn’t land on the younger ones. Makenna claimed his protective streak for those he loved was a trauma response or some shit like that. Good for her for getting all healed in therapy, but he was fine, living his life, ready to fuck up anyone who side-eyed his family. The philosophy served him well as he worked with Zach and one day hoped to take on the role of club enforcer.
“Think they’re gonna be a problem?” he asked.
Thunder grunted. “Too early to tell.”
“But you don’t like it?” Saint pushed.
“I don’t fucking like it,” Copper agreed. The quiet certainty in his voice held more weight than a shout ever would.
Copper understood the need to keep his family safe at all costs. Hell, he’d built an empire around that need.
“And I really don’t fucking like them being sneaky about it,” Copper added.
“What do you mean?” Gator asked, beer at his lips and interest sharpening his usually joking expression.
“He means we’ve seen three separate riders with the same cuts, but no one seems to know who they are or where they’re holing up,” Thunder said. “If you don’t have anything to hide, you don’t bother hiding.” He set down his beer and shrugged. “And they’re hiding.”
Shit, it did sound shady. “Need help tailing them?” Saint asked. His knuckles itched for the weight of brass and a good confrontation.
Copper nodded. “Probably. Execs are gonna meet tomorrow to come up with a plan, and I’ll fill in the whole club at church.”
“Got it.” Saint resisted the urge to crack his knuckles. Been a while since he’d roughed up anyone. He could use the release.
Shit, maybe Gator was right, and I should have fucked the feather-skirt woman last night.
Gator rubbed his hands together as a slightly psychotic grin curved up his lips on one side. His sharp blue eyes lit with an eager gleam that Saint had seen one too many times. It usually led to an uncomfortable conversation with the local police. Luckily, they’d had the chief in their pocket for the past decade, though rumor had it he’d be retiring soon.
“Been too long since I’ve kicked a motherfucker’s ass,” Gator said. “My joints are starting to squeak.”
“Pretty sure that’s all the cheap beer in your system,” Thunder muttered.
Before anyone could respond, the purr of an engine had their attention shifting to the lot where Shell was parking the monstrosity of an SUV Copper insisted she drive.
“Shit,” Copper muttered, glancing at his watch. When he looked back up, concern radiated from his green-eyed gaze, undercutting the gruff word.
The beer in Saint’s gut immediately soured. Growing up in a compound where wrong answers got you locked in a shed overnight had honed his ability to sniff out trouble. He couldn’t help it. His older sister, Makenna, and he spent their entire childhoods looking out for the younger ones, even if he didn’t pull it off with as much grace as Mak. The club was his extended family and just as important as his blood, and he wouldn’t stand for anyone fucking with them.