We can’t let Cole act like this. This is unbecoming of him. He needs our help.
Brock and Steele were close by Cole, processing every word of his. Mason, still with a slight limp from the gunshot wound he’d taken recently, stood near the rear. I took a step back, moved to Mason, and nodded toward a corner where no one else would hear us.
“What’s up?”
“We’re initiated now, right?” I said.
“Damn fucking straight, we are.”
“Fucking right,” I said. “Clearly, the Bandits did this. Two of the three assholes that raped Rachel back in the day are still running around. The Black Reapers need a little bit of a boost. Let’s say you and I go hunt one of those assholes down, maybe bring the head in, show the club that we’re eradicating these little Fallen Saints posers?”
Mason smiled.
“You’re a biker’s biker, Connor, and I respect the fuck out of that.”
You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew me before.
“We should expect, though, that if we only kill one of them, the other will raise hell. Whichever, between Damian and Eduardo.”
“Good. I like hell. I’m used to living in hell. About time we bring the Bandits more than what we’ve given them so far.”
Mason smiled and nodded.
“It’s guys like you that make me not worry in the slightest about what’s going on in the club,” he said, clasping me on the shoulder. “We should stay here for now and see if Cole tells us to do anything more. His word overrides ours. But no one exemplifies tough motherfucker like you.”
Again, you wouldn’t say that if you knew me before.
No one would say that if they knew me from before I moved in with the Bernard Boys. All these tattoos? All the fights? The floppy hair, the constant scowl, the desire to fucking fight? I had to learn that shit.
I was once the world’s fattest, softest, biggest pussy.
But every day was just a little bit more of a chance to bury that soft shithead a little bit more and live up to the image the rest of the now-Black Reapers had of me.
And if it meant killing some Bandits and facing the consequences, I embraced that fucking opportunity.
* * *
Katie Lane
“Why the hell would you do that?”
It was late at night on a Thursday evening. I should have been at home with my dogs, Lily and Jason, resting on the couch, sipping a glass of wine, and finalizing plans for this weekend.
Instead, because yet another employee had called out due to being sick—or, as I suspected, had feigned being sick so that she could go to a nearby concert, something I’d easily uncover when she posted to Snapchat or social media—I was charged with closing the convenience store inside the gas station that I owned. For such an unglamorous business, it paid pretty well, but damn I wished that I had something approaching normal hours.
At least I still got to partake in texting and group chats. But right now, Tara and Elizabeth were sending messages that befuddled me.
“Because I’m an old lady now lol,” Tara wrote back.
I scrolled back up, making sure I had framed my requests properly. I had suggested that we have another girls’ night out at Reapers; though I had gotten scared the last time when a huge amount of fighting had broken out and the cops had come, I assumed that the perpetrators of said fight would no longer come.
On the other hand, I assumed the namesakes of the bar would come, and that would give me a golden opportunity to go after the guy that I had long had eyes for.
Connor.
OK, I’ll admit, I had eyes for him because he was hot as fuck, and he seemed like a “bad decision.” I didn’t know much about him, though I also will admit it was difficult to believe anyone had any fucking idea about him. But if Tara and Elizabeth were getting biker guys, why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t the other girl in the group chat, Justine?
The Rogers girls couldn’t be the only ones winning at life. I had to get in on it some.
