Blood and Grace – Book of Legion – Badlands MC Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, MC Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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The door bangs open harder than before, and a young woman with too much makeup and a crop top struts in like she owns the place. She looks barely twenty-one, with bleached hair and an expression that suggests she's perpetually smelling something unpleasant.

"Brandy," Mama Jo says, her tone noticeably cooler.

Brandy smirks at me, then dramatically drops a pair of motorcycle boots on the floor beside my chair. They land with a heavy thud.

"Those should fit," she sneers. "Though they might be a little wide for those skinny princess feet."

I blink at her hostility, so naked compared to the cool assessment of the others.

"Thank you," I say automatically, my mother's training kicking in.

Brandy snorts. "First one's free. And I'm not like the rest of them." She shoots Mama Jo a look. “If I came in with no shoes, that's what I'd want someone to give me. Not some stupid drink token or used-up handkerchief." She flounces out without coffee, apparently just there for the delivery.

"Don't mind her," Mama Jo says after she's gone. "She's no one."

But Brandy was apparently listening around the corner, because she pops her head back in and snarls, "You wish, bitch." Then disappears again.

I'm aghast. And I clearly look it, because Mama Jo smiles at me, simply shrugging. "She hates me. But I hate her too. So it's even. One day, probably soon," Mama Jo says, calm as can be, "Brick will get tired of her skinny ass and that will be that. I will have my say and she will get the fuck out."

"Ohhhh Kaaay," I reply. Not sure what to think about that, but I am very appreciative for the boots.

More women file in—a steady stream of them. Many look like they've had hard lives—lined faces, tattoos that weren't done in proper shops, clothes that have seen better decades. Hangarounds, I'm told they're called. Women who aren't claimed by any one member.

Each one drops something. A faded t-shirt. Some pink shorts. A pair of jeans with a rip at the knee. A little dress with blue flowers on it. A tank top with the Badlands logo. Socks. A belt. A brush. Lip gloss.

By the time they're done, I have a small pile of clothing and accessories in front of me. None of it new. All of it worn. But enough to make at least three complete outfits.

I touch a denim jacket, fingers tracing a Badlands patch sewn over the heart. These women—who clearly have so little—just gave me their clothes.

"I don't understand," I finally say when the procession seems to have ended. "What is all this for?"

Mama Jo sips her coffee, regarding me over the rim. "What do you think it's for?"

I look at the pile. "For me to wear?"

"Smart girl," she says, not unkindly. "Since you came with nothing but what you had on."

I swallow hard. It's true. I have nothing. No phone, no wallet, no change of clothes. I'm literally wearing the shirt off Legion's back.

"But why would they⁠—"

"Because I told them to," Mama Jo interrupts. "And they do what I say."

I nod slowly, fingering the soft denim of the jacket. "Should I... thank them?"

"No." Mama Jo stands and refills her coffee. "This isn't about gratitude."

"Then what is it about?"

She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "It's about rules, Not Mine."

I wince at the nickname. "What rules?"

Mama Jo sets down her mug and approaches the table. She picks up the handkerchief, runs it through her fingers. "The first gift is free. Always. It's our way of saying maybe. Not yes. Just maybe." She places it back on the pile. "You take it, you owe nothin’."

I frown, not understanding.

"Any gift after the first," she continues, "is a contract. Silent. Unwritten. But real as hell. You take it, you owe somethin’." Her eyes bore into mine. "What you owe is never stated—but it will be decided by the person you owe. Could be loyalty. Could be protection. Could be silence. But you won't get to say no when it comes due."

The weight of her words settles over me. I look at the pile of offerings with new understanding.

"Don’t worry about these," Mama Jo gestures to the pile. "Like I said, these ones are free. They don't cost nothin'. Not today. You take what's offered. You nod. That's all. But hear me good, girl—if they hand you somethin' tomorrow? You best know what that's worth before you reach."

I swallow hard, suddenly seeing these women in a whole new light. I don't know much about motorcycle clubs. I mean, basically, I know zero about motorcycle clubs. But it's very clear that the women don't have a say in what happens here.

At least… as far as the men are concerned.

But the biker culture isn't the only thing spinning inside this clubhouse.

There's a woman's culture too. Wife, or girlfriend, of the bikers.


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