Indulge (Red Rebels MC Book One)

Prologue

-NOW-

The ceiling overhead lit up with the slanted beams of a car’s headlights, but she held no hope that it meant help was coming. She’d been lying here for … six hours now? Her neighbors were out when the commotion started, and she’d woken up when they turned on their TV. She’d hollered best she could, but that hurt, too. She guessed her ribs were broken. So she gave up. Might have slipped under again.

The sound of traffic must have woken her. That’s how she noticed the headlights.

The cough that hit her wasn’t her idea. Her ribs protested again, and the more she tried to fight the need to hack up a lung the worse it was. She felt the tears in her eyes, and they burned from how much she’d already wept strictly from how much pain she was in.

On her side she could see the legs of her bed, and she cringed to notice how much dust there was underneath. On the far side she could also see a pile of smashed glass that had once been a crystal ashtray. As dumb as it sounded, that had been one of the few things that held memories of her mother that she still had. And now it was shattered.

She’d been in this position since they’d left her. They’d stepped over her while they ransacked the bedroom, and she’d played possum the whole time, listening to them curse and swear, calling her names, running down her father, and she still had no idea what they were looking for.

Before they’d left their leader, a large, dark-skinned man that looked to be of middle-Eastern descent, had kicked her in the ribs with his motorcycle boots. She was pretty sure they were broken after that.

She lifted her hand to study it. Her fingernails were ripped to shit, she’d tried that hard to defend herself. They’d broken off at the point of bleeding. Still she touched her face carefully, tracing fingertips over the swollen contours that now made up her cheekbones, lips, eyes. It probably hurt, but she was getting numb from hurting. Except for those ribs.

She flattened that hand on the carpet and pushed, attempting to right herself. But there was no way. She wondered if her shoulder wasn’t dislocated based on the flash of white light that struck, hitting her head from the inside out.

What the fuck happened?

She blinked awake again, wondering if this wasn’t another mirage. A dream. A false hope.

Denim-clad knees dropped to the carpet she’d been staring at for what felt like days. A hand touched her cheek, feeling cool and comforting. Gertie? What the hell? Are you with me? Gertie?

She licked at her lips, knowing they were cracked.

Oh, thank Christ.

She almost smiled at the relief in his voice but that hurt, too. So she just managed to croak out, Where the hell have you been?

She heard the chuckle he gave, felt it in her bones, and she smiled again despite the split lip.

I’m here now, Gertie. We’re gonna get you fixed up.

Chapter One

Gertrude Dénise was named after her grandmother who had crossed the ocean for the US during the Second World War, leaving behind a husband who lost his life during the conflict fighting for the Free French. She arrived in America at 19, pregnant with her first child. For this reason alone Gertie never once resented her name. Sure she was the only Gertrude in a school full of Lisas, Tammys, Jodis and Amandas, but her grandmother had been someone to admire and strive to take after.

Gertie’s uncle Henri was the son of that Free French soldier, named after his father. Gertie’s mother came seven years later; just six months after Gertrude Bernard married her second husband, Patrick Tash. Gertrude was a brash, plain-speaking woman who had never once white-washed anything over for her grandkids. I was knocked up when I got married both times, she would say. But I know plenty of people went to the altar legitimately wearing a white dress who ended up divorced. I’ve had my Patrick for forty years and he’s never wandered.

In short, she was the most kick-ass grandmother Gertie knew of.

Anytime Gertie had wanted to know about France during the occupation, what it was like to cross the ocean while pregnant, how grandma met grandpa, the answers were given without romanticized idealism.

I didn’t want to leave. Henri threw me over his shoulder and carried me up the gangplank, dropped me back on my feet and walked away. That was the last time I ever saw him.

I was sick the whole boat ride over. But everyone was sea sick so no one thought it was strange.

I met your Granddad at a bar. He was staring at my chest all night. I figured I may as well dance with him.

Her story didn’t need harps and singing choirs. To Gertie, leaving Europe during turmoil, losing a husband and finding love again was the stuff of romance novels.

Every tale she had to tell was from a time where life seemed fuller somehow, the needs of the human condition more urgent. Passion motivated every action from fighting to speaking to wooing. Death hiding just around the corner made life more brilliant and vibrant.

Security, on the other hand, bred boredom.

Gertie’s mother, Genevieve, had looked happy to the point of silliness in her childhood photos. Her mother was impulsive, Gertie always knew that. She came from a loving, happy home with two parents who would do anything for her. When Genie was nineteen they received a surprise visitor for the summer.

Grandma’s late husband had a sister who remembered Gertrude well. She came to visit, bringing her son, Louis. A handsome, educated banker doing quite well for himself who wanted to move to the United States to take advantage of the land of opportunity.

He took advantage of more than just that. Gertie’s father was charming, still was, and he talked his way right into her mother’s pants that summer. Gertie’s older brother Louis Junior was the result, but he didn’t arrive until four months after their Justice of the Peace wedding. Her other brother, Henri, came four years later. And that’s when the couple thought they were done.

Gertie surprised them late in life. Her mother was almost thirty when Gertie was born and she was doted on. The only girl, and the baby of the family besides. Gertie learned early that the secret to getting what she wanted was to ask Daddy.

She was his little girl, he could deny her nothing. And Gertie’s mother knew it, resented it, and as Gertie got older she became aware of her mother’s weird jealousy. It felt awful, and it only got worse once the family found out about Louis Dénise’s mistress.

Gertie’s brothers deserted their father, wouldn’t return calls and never forgave him for walking out on their mother. Gertie did, though. She had felt the coldness her mother was capable of, she knew how her mother could manipulate, lie, and never seemed happy with what she had. Gertie always defended her father, which made her mother’s wine-soaked tirades against him take an ugly turn to name-calling on her own daughter.

They didn’t suffer financially. All three children went to university without inheriting student loans, all three had wonderful jobs.

It was at university Gertie fell in love with Darryl Jensen. They had an intense, passionate romance that consisted of dorm room trysts that happened quickly before the roommate could return. They couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t wait to be done school so they could find jobs and move in together.

Gertie left her mother’s home and moved in with Darryl immediately after convocation. This was love, this was perfection. They were married at the age of 23 and set off to build successful careers and happy lives together.

Gertie’s namesake was at her wedding, which Gertie would forever be thankful for. Her grandmother passed away before the couple returned from their honeymoon, suffering a heart attack in her sleep. In their wedding card her grandmother had simply written Always light each other up so there can be no dark times.

Gertie had always been a bit of a home body. And when she and Darryl were first together that was never a problem; they could barely stand to keep their clothes on. But as time wore on, Darryl wanted to go to events and take up hobbies. Gertie wanted to cuddle, read, and watch TV in bed after making love like they used to. Darryl wanted to take ballroom dance lessons. Go to concerts. See live bands at local bars. So she told him to go with his friends, without her.

And he did. It got to where he didn’t bother asking anymore, just went out for poker night or whatever else he wanted, sending her a text to let her know where he was.

Still, this seemed fine to Gertie. They laughed, shared jokes and stories of their days. Still made love, although it was becoming more and more infrequent. It wasn’t without cause, she found out.

Darryl found someone that did like cooking classes. Liked going to bars to see bands. Would go dancing with him until the wee hours. So he picked Dahlia, and left Gertie.

Gertie was able to make her own living. She bought a downtown condo so she wouldn’t need a car. Her job paid her bills and then some, so she could put money away for emergencies or shopping or holidays. But she didn’t do any of that. She stayed home, spent money on wine and books, and watched the network of friends that she and Darryl had shared slowly transfer to the fun side of the couple they had been; the Darryl side.

Meeting people in your thirties was not easy. She knew that the fastest way to create a new circle for herself would be to make friends at work. But coworkers her age were all married, and they were friends with each other already because their kids played the same sports and they sat on the same councils and boards. Whereas Gertie … well, Gertie liked to read.

It was almost like high school all over again. If it wasn’t for her childhood friend’s little sister, Gertie might well have turned into Miss Havisham.

Gertie had been friends with Melanie Turner from the fourth grade until graduation. Melanie had a younger sister, Margaret, another child named after a grandmother. But Maggie’s namesake passed away just before she was born. The two of them commiserated over their incredibly old-sounding names, while also sharing that it was pretty awesome to be named after a couple of tough old broads.

Maggie was younger by eight years. She was the surprise child, like Gertie had been. At twenty-five she was in the same field as Gertie, making great money, and she was fun. Incredibly lively, petite, svelte, and bubbly. Her smile was a thousand-watt bulb of neon-white teeth, her green eyes were wide and gorgeous (Gertie envied her for those eyes,) and her shining blonde hair always hung poker-straight and smooth. She was a living doll, and for some reason she took Gertie on as a project.

Maggie was going to find her a man, get her out of her shell, and get her back in the world again. Gertie went along, flooded by the vivaciousness of this little pixie. Maggie took her to bars, clubs, and parties put on by people more fashionable than Gertie could ever hope to be. She took her shopping, helped her buy new make-up and shoes. Even took her to her personal hair stylist, but only after Gertie agreed to let the guy do whatever he wanted with her hair. He took that mop of dark, thick, stubbornly wavy locks and cut it in layers, gave her highlights, and Gertie had to admit it looked better. It was a pain in the ass every morning but the effort was usually worth it.

In exchange for all this Gertie Make Over help Maggie went with Gertie to museums, art galleries, foreign films, and even had girls’ nights in where they shared a bottle of pinot noir and watched chick flicks on TV.

Gertie was certainly having more fun. With all the adjustments to wardrobe and make-up men were paying her more attention, even if they were much younger, and while she was hardly the whore of Babylon she’d had a few short relationships that had been a lot of fun, if not useless in the end. In the two years following her divorce she’d really changed, while managing to avoid running into her ex-husband.

Until right now.

Gertie was sending a text to a co-worker in accounting. The street was crowded with people at the end of the lunch hour as everyone was heading back to work. She had a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, and she’d just hit send when she heard her name.

She turned to the form next to her, and she blinked. Twice. Darryl? she asked, honestly smiling and shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was seeing him.

He looked good. The hair at the temples may have been graying, but that was hardly unattractive on a man. He’d always been clean-shaven with a military-precise haircut, and it was no different now. Darryl looked her up and down, eyebrows high in surprise. I almost didn’t recognize you, he laughed, obviously shocked.

That gave her a slightly victorious surge, but she just waved the hand with her phone. It’s been a while, she said, as though she was forgiving him for something.

How have you been?

She shrugged, then tried to appear as though she was sorting through all the madness of her wonderful life. Oh, you know. Lots of work. They still send me up to Vancouver every couple of weeks, sometimes I gotta work on weekends, too. How about you?

Her shrugged, hands in pockets. About the same. Work, home, you know. Oh, and … he looked uncertain for a moment. Well, I’m not sure if you’d heard but Dahlia is pregnant.

If the windows had fallen out of the skyscrapers around her, she wouldn’t have noticed. Her stomach sunk and she knew her smile likely faltered a bit. He hadn’t wanted kids, agreed with her on that. Yet here he was, pleased as shit that his wife was pregnant. And how would Gertie have heard about it? Their friends were all friends with Dahlia now. That’s great, she said, recovering as fast as she could. Congratulations. She checked her watch. I gotta get back to the office but … tell Dahlia I said congrats, would you?

He nodded, smile growing wide and authentic. Gertie felt the pull in her gut, the pang of heartbreak coming back. Will do. Take care, Gertie. And … you look really good.

Gertie smiled, nodding as the light to cross the street changed and she let the throng of people carry her along. Her nose was prickling a little bit and she sniffed to fight it.

The age of romance novels had past. Her grandmother’s generation was the last with any real heroes and heroines. All that was left in the world were ex-husbands and empty apartments.

Chapter Two

David Buck Buckingham was a certified mechanic. There wasn’t a tool he couldn’t use or an engine block he couldn’t rebuild. But a damn kids’ swing set was getting the better of him and three of his buddies.

He straightened from the pile of aluminum rods that were supposed to come together to create whatever it was on the cover of the instruction manual. After two hours they had yet to put two pieces together correctly.

This is fucking horse shit, Jayce McClune muttered, throwing a wrench into the pile and likely denting something in the process.

Spaz Phillips picked up the manual wordlessly, carrying it across the yard and sitting on a patio chair to absorb the German instructions. Not that he spoke German, none of them did. Spaz just happened to be the smartest guy there.

Just let them climb all over Tank, Buck suggested, jerking a thumb in the direction of the mountain of a man standing right behind him. He doesn’t mind.

Jayce scoffed, pulling off his ball cap and running both hands over his close-cropped hair.

There’s no way the four of us can’t put this shit together, Tank grumbled, retrieving the wrench.

How’s it coming guys?

They all sat up straighter, offering smiles to Jayce’s wife, Trinny. She was about twenty years younger than him, barely pregnant with kid number three and their oldest was only four. They were putting this contraption together for little Jayce Junior and his sister, Liberty.

This is horse shit, Jayce repeated, getting to his feet. The goddamn instructions make no sense.

Buck had to cover his mouth to hide the smile. Typical Jayce; if the answer wasn’t immediately obvious someone must be fucking with him.

Trinny just smiled indulgently and set her tray down on the patio table. Made you guys lemonade, she sang out happily, then picked up a cordless phone and held it out to her husband. You got a call too, honey.

Every man in the yard fell still, knowing that Jayce had been waiting for this. He took the phone from his wife, kissed her cheek and sent her back into the house with a smack on the ass. She squealed when he did it and knew enough to get out of earshot on the other side of a sliding glass door.

When the door was shut tight Jayce brought the phone up. Talk.

As an unspoken agreement the other three men drew closer, Spaz dropping the instructions on the patio table, forgotten now.

Jayce listened, jaw tight, caught Tank’s eye and nodded. Buck knew what that meant, so he grabbed one of the glasses of lemonade and downed it before Jayce hung up from his call. No need to waste it, and they’d have to leave as soon as this call was done.

Yeah, we’re fucking there, Jayce snapped then pressed a button to end the call. It was a shame you couldn’t slam a phone down anymore when you were pissed. There was something satisfying in that. The shipment’s coming in tonight, he muttered, also grabbing lemonade. He was so pissed and drinking his wife’s lemonade; the hilarity of it was only apparent to Buck. Jayce ignored his tittering. We’ll intercept. It’s going down right here in Markham.

Shit. They were all getting pretty pissed off at these city pricks using quiet communities like Markham to do their deals. Not because it meant drugs were coming through their neighborhoods, but because drugs could draw unwanted attention from law enforcement.

As one the four men crossed the lawn of Jayce’s backyard to the fence where they’d all left their leather kuttes while wrestling with the swing set. The leather settled on four sets of shoulders, sliding on like any other uniform.

They were on duty when wearing the kuttes. Thoughts of kids and jungle gyms were gone. There was just the brotherhood of the Red Rebels Motorcycle Club. The back of their kuttes were emblazoned with blood-red fists of resistance. The jeans and boots were also part of the uniform, and the company vehicles were parked on the street in front of Jayce’s house. Four gleaming black and chrome Harley Davidsons, also proudly displaying artistic variations of the same red fist as their patches.

Jayce was their president, Tank the VP. Buck was just christened Sergeant At Arms, and he was loyal to his president to the point where he would absolutely take a bullet for him. That’s what the position called for. Spaz was their resident tech geek, and the more digitized the world got, the more important his skill set became.

The Red Rebels made their bank roll by transporting marijuana and weapons for their associate MC, the Bastard Banshees. The Bastards set up the deliveries and the Rebels got the shit where it had to be. Their legitimate business fronts consisted of a garage and a strip club, both located in Markham. Money was good, the cost of living low, and the local sheriff’s department only decided to do their jobs when getting heat from other counties. And that rarely happened. As far as Markham went, the Rebels were law with the Sheriff’s department providing back-up.

Where’s the drop exactly? Buck asked, fastening his helmet under his chin.

The Dog’s Breakfast, Jayce answered. By the rail yard. Remember where Fritter knifed that Gypsy?

Tank chuckled, swinging a leg over his bike. I remember that one. Great fucking fight.

Oh yeah. It was coming back to Buck now. "Wasn’t he pushing up on one of their girls? They didn’t want him anywhere near the girls that were selling it, remember?"

He got lucky with that one, Tank piped up. I’m pretty sure that bitch’s Adam’s apple was bigger than mine.

They laughed and fired up their engines in unison, the loud rumble echoing through this bedroom community neighborhood. The locals were used to the sound and mostly left the MC alone, which went both ways. The MC made sure their shit stayed away from the good folks of Markham and they turned a blind eye to the noise, roughhousing and questionable operations the club was involved in.

Buck loved being a Rebel. He’d grown up in Markham, seen the Red Rebels roar through town his entire life. All he’d wanted to be was one of them. His pops was a mailman, mom stayed at home to raise him and his four brothers. Buck was the baby and he got away with bloody murder his whole life. His dad worked his ass off to give the family everything they needed. All the kids had been able to attend some kind of post-secondary education, except for Buck.

They were all boys growing up; bruises, cuts, fistfights and blood. His four older brothers all did their part making sure he could take his fair share of hard knocks. Buck would be the first to admit he was a total shit growing up. He gave his mother such grief. He brought her to tears many times. That was before he hit high school and really turned into a holy terror.

He burned his high school down at sixteen. Never graduated, but did time in juvie. His mother was the only one to visit on family day. His brothers all moved away but his parents still lived in Markham.

Buck did three years in a federal pen for an armed robbery at twenty and knew he never wanted to go back inside. He was not welcome in his parents’ home when he was released, so he was on his own. After getting a job as a lackey at the garage their treasurer, Mickey, owned, they prospected him to the club and he became a full member at the age of 25.

He wasn’t hit or abused. He was spoiled, to a fault probably, by his mother because he was the youngest. So he did a lot of stupid shit that pissed off his old man. To this day if he was in a business or on the street within view of his dad, they pretended they didn’t see each other. Buck would stop by to see his mom only if he knew his dad wasn’t home.

Jayce and Buck were the only local-yokels in the club. All the other guys were transplants, most of them cons that Jayce did time with. Personality-wise they were all very different, but as a collective they all clicked.

Markham was their territory, they protected it. And another crew selling their shit in Markham would not be tolerated. No matter how desolate the town might seem to others; it was the home of the Rebels and they looked after it.

Chapter Three

"So … where are we going tonight?" Gertie asked, fixing her earring in place.

The Dog’s Breakfast, Maggie answered, finishing her lipstick application and tucking away the tube into her Coach purse.

Gertie frowned at the name. I’ve never even heard of it. Did it just open?

Maggie shook her head. No. It’s out by the rail yard, out in Markham, she explained casually, like it wasn’t one of the four points of hell.

We can’t go out there! Gertie squeaked. Are you insane? We’ll disappear and no one will hear from us ever again!

Tamara cocked her head, the international symbol for you’re being ridiculous. We’ll be fine.

I’m not taking a cab there. A driver willing to go from downtown to Markham will rob us before we even have a chance to get mugged at knifepoint, Gertie mumbled, checking her wallet before tucking it into her purse.

Maggie sighed. You’re being dramatic. Jim said his brother told him there was some socialite stagette there last weekend and they had a blast.

Jim worked with them, and while Maggie seemed to like him he gave Gertie a bad vibe. He smiled really wide and had to touch you when he talked to you. Gertie didn’t like it.

She chewed her lip, wondering if she was too old to be acting this way in the first place, but she also felt like she still needed a few more years of fun, now more than ever after running into Darryl on the street that very day. She’d been unable to concentrate all afternoon.

Not only that, Maggie drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief, but I got some more of that pot from the mailroom guy. Remember the stuff we tried at Malcolm David’s party?

Gertie had never tried marijuana until she knew Maggie. Or mushrooms. She liked them both. Because of Maggie most weekends she could barely remember where she’d been or what she’d done. But at least she felt like she was living a little. And now she knew why Darryl had been so frustrated with her homebody tendencies.

Gertie smiled back at Maggie. You’re a terrible influence on me, she muttered, going back to playing with her hair in the mirror.

Come on, this shit is good. And I know you had fun. Or did you forget about the guy that took you upstairs?

Shut up, Gertie hissed, laughing with her now. You know what pot does to me.

It makes me horny, too, Maggie quipped back. That’s why I like it. I can’t get off without pot.

You could say Gertie was having a mid-life crisis a little early. She was taking her single-hood very seriously, and if people had thought she wasn’t fun before they wouldn’t recognize her now. Some parts were scary, like waking up with a naked stranger in her bed and not remembering anything about what happened. It only occurred once, and he’d honestly been a nice guy. Young, no, surprisingly young and gorgeous. Built like an underwear model. Gertie really wished she hadn’t blacked out that night. Protection had been used, thank God. He left without much drama, even told her she’d been fun.

She tried to keep herself in better control since then. She only drank a lot with Maggie and her friends, and they were sworn to keep her from doing stupid things.

This is going to be fun, Maggie promised. And I’m in the mood to party with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks.

Markham was definitely the wrong side of the tracks. Gertie had trepidation, but if the bartender knew they were going to be there maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. And surely this place would have a bouncer. And safety in numbers was a real thing … wasn’t it?

I even invited Jim. He said he’d think about it. Maggie’s eyes were shining. Yeah, she had a crush on him. He was handsome and wore the hell out of a suit but Gertie was missing something there, she was sure. He’s so cute. Did you see his green tie today? Such a good color on him.

Gertie shrugged. She was too old to care if men were cute. She preferred handsome, rugged. Smart. Not creepy.

Are you sure this top looks all right? Maggie was rambling on, tugging the hem of the shirt she was borrowing for the night. My boobs are nowhere near as big as yours.

Gertie raised an eyebrow. Maggie could show up at a ball in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and still put most people to shame. You look gorgeous Blondie, as always.

Maggie grinned at her. Please. You know I’d trade the blonde hair for half of what you’re carrying around on your chest.

Gertie just shook her head, checking her reflection one last time. Sure, she had boobs; a full D-cup above a small waist and round hips. She was told her backside was good too, but you can’t trust a guy that wants to get laid.

All right. Let’s get rid of a joint before we head out, Maggie declared, turning from the bathroom mirror and heading down the hall to Gertie’s living room.

She checked her watch. Sure enough, they had twenty minutes before their cab was due to arrive. By the time Gertie joined her in the living room the joint was lit and Maggie was exhaling smoothly, passing it over. Gertie took her hit then passed it back. You want a shot? she asked, moving to the kitchen.

Yep, Maggie answered, like that should be obvious.

From her cupboard Gertie pulled down two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. She had lime cut up in a bowl in the fridge already so she grabbed that too, then set the whole spread out on the coffee table. They each did a quick shot, then finished off the joint as Maggie’s phone jangled.

Grace and Diane are on their way, Maggie announced, checking the screen then setting her phone down again.

Just remember to keep an eye on me tonight, Gertie warned, pouring out two more shots of tequila. You and your damn pot.

I will, Maggie promised, taking another toke before passing it back. We’ll all have to stick together. You know, with all the muggers and rapists out in Markham.

Gertie shook her head, flipping her friend the bird before exhaling again. Wait until you’re my age, she croaked with a finger wag. You young whippersnappers.

The pot was strong because at the word whippersnapper Maggie started laughing so hard they almost missed the knock at the door. Gertie got up to answer it, and two other girls who had gone to school with Maggie were waiting in the corridor. They were giggling and snorting as Gertie let them in, then shut the door behind them. They looked like they were up to no good.

What did you two do? Maggie was asking, getting the same vibe Gertie was.

We got something a bit different for tonight, Diane said, tossing her midnight-black hair over her shoulder and plopping her purse down on Gertie’s coffee table. She knelt down next to it and started rifling through it while Grace started talking.

My brother’s friend is in town. He’s a grad student, and he brought some LSD back with him.

Gertie’s stomach tightened up. Pot and ‘shrooms were one thing, they were basically plants. LSD was scary, and unpredictable. Wasn’t it? She’d never even witnessed anyone high on LSD.

Oh man, Maggie groaned, plopping into the sofa. I haven’t done acid in years.

I know, Grace commiserated. I’ve missed it. Gertie, you ever tried it?

She shook her head, knowing her trepidation was written all over her face. What if I freak out on it?

Try it right now. If you do, we’ll stay in, Maggie suggested.

Gertie frowned. Are you kidding? We got dressed up.

Yeah but if you don’t wig out we can still go out and have fun, Diane pointed out.

Come on Gertie, Grace coerced. Give in to peer pressure.

Gertie’s eyes went from Maggie’s expectant ones to Grace’s encouraging ones, ending on Diane’s gaze which seemed to be saying she expected Gertie to realize how old she was and how much she didn’t belong.

Gertie didn’t belong anywhere, really. These girls were all young and nuts. Her own peer group was at home with a Disney movie, cuddled on the couch with their kids. And her ex-husband wasn’t even miserable.

She held her hand out. Give it to me.

Chapter Four

Buck stubbed out his fifth cigarette, rolling his eyes at Jayce, who looked about as done with the place as he was. Although, to be fair, the entertainment was hilarious.

The Dog’s Breakfast wasn’t a biker bar, more of a trucker’s bar. But it was certainly rough, and the guy who owned it had been jailed about ten years ago for manslaughter. He’d beaten some asshole to death that tried to rob him. He went by the name Dog, and only a few people knew his real name was Terry. He ran a pretty tight ship, and he was tight with the Rebels.

Because of his reputation for running a safe spot, The Dog’s Breakfast sometimes attracted townies looking for a night out slumming. Dog had some pretty good stories based on these occasions, and Buck and his brothers were getting a show at the moment.

Four girls, dressed a little up for the place, were in the center of the dance floor making idiots of themselves. There was a live band tonight playing southern rock, and the girls were providing the most enthusiastic audience Dog’s place had ever had. It wasn’t a dancing kind of bar, but the audience seemed to appreciate the show.

It was becoming obvious that the G-Town pricks weren’t showing. Hopefully the row of bikes in the lot was a deterrent that would avoid any bloodshed tonight. It didn’t mean that the Gypsys, G-Town’s transporter MC of choice, would avoid a fight.

I gotta take a piss, Jayce shouted in his ear over the noise of the bar and Buck nodded. He let his green eyes swing back to the dance floor, taking in the same sight every other guy in the place was focused on.

Drunk girls were fucking funny. Like true townies they were oblivious to the fact they were the only ones dancing, far too self-important and drunk to be embarrassed. The black chick had legs that went for miles. The blonde was tiny. There was a brunette that was a bit heavier but dressed and did her hair to take away from it. And then there was the fourth one.

She was older than the other three, just as blitzed. Buck liked watching her. She was all hair, tits and ass and moved her hips in a promising way. He’d like to get closer to really check her out but he’d likely get pepper sprayed. Or hit with a Taser. They were all blitzed and likely had their inhibitions lowered, but she had his attention. There was a bit of desperation to a thirty-something woman hanging out with tartlets and getting drunk at dive bars. Might mean he had an actual shot at her.

Someone hit his shoulder, and he looked over his left to see Tank right behind him, jerking his head towards the door. Buck followed the motion and saw what his pal saw: four guys in leather kuttes looking their way.

Shit, Buck muttered. I hope there’s only four of them.

Where’s Jayce? Tank mumbled.

In the can. We’ll wait.

There was a tense standoff, the Gypsys in the doorway, the three Rebels across the barroom, eyeballing each other. Locals knew what was going on, and a few even switched tables to be out of the line of fire. Didn’t matter. No one was pulling a gun or throwing down indoors.

Jayce coming back into the bar proper notched up the tension. The Prez paused by the table, downed the last of his beer, and snapped out, All right. Let’s fucking do this.

Buck and his brothers followed their leader through the tables to the door as the Gypsys turned and vacated the premises. The Beretta suddenly