Fuck. I go to storm past but pause and look at King. He’s frowning at War, but he waves a hand, dismissing me to go see whatever the fuck is happening to my bike. If it’s damaged, I’m gonna fucking tear off this guy Rip’s head.
War is behind me as I walk through the bar area to the front of the clubhouse. Most of the men are outside. A few of them watch as I push through them.
The line of bikes where I parked mine is now all piled up on top of one another, as if they’ve been knocked over like dominoes.
My bike is at the bottom of the fucking pile. There are six men staring at the mess as if they’ve come across a dead relative. Their bikes are in there too.
Handlebar is standing a little away from everyone else. He has hold of a kid, propping him up. He looks fucked up and as I glare, he bends over and pukes all over the floor. Handlebar steps back, so it doesn’t splash on him, but keeps him from face-planting into his own vomit.
“Christ,” I groan and walk over to where everyone is trying to figure out how to separate the bikes.
The weight of all the other bikes has come down on mine and the pedal is bent. There are scratch marks and dents on the paint work. Fuck knows what the side on the ground looks like.
“Rip, get your ass inside!” War shouts. “Unless you’re gonna puke again, do that shit out here.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean it… Sorry,” he whines.
“Just get the fuck inside.”
Jamming my hands on my hips, I watch as Handlebar steadies the little fucker then lets him go. His worried gaze turns to the bikes. If there is one thing I know about this guy, it’s that his love of machinery far outweighs… well, everything.
He moves toward us to help figure this out. As much as I don’t like it, he heads straight to where I’m standing. He doesn’t look at me, but at my bike. I’m surprised by the look on his face. I figured he was going to gloat. Instead, he looks thoroughly pissed off.
“How the fuck do we even begin to fix this?” I mutter.
“Very carefully.”
I’m surprised Handlebar even answers me. I don’t look at him though, I’m too fixated on the bikes. Out of the corner of my eye I see his head shake, but he gets to work organizing everyone.
I step in and help out and we’re two bikes away from rescuing mine when I hear feminine laughter.
Club whores don’t interest me but without having to turn around I know who it is the minute she speaks.
“I have the name of a good therapist.”
“Not funny!” Handlebar calls over his shoulder.
There is more than one woman laughing It’s the hot blonde with the huge rack.
I’m not sure who she is, but I’ve seen her around. She’s hard to miss, looking like the porno version of Marilyn Monroe. And she’s distracted more than a few of the brothers already. In fact Casper, the guy who likes to blow shit up, is sidling up to her already with a lascivious grin on his face.
Waverley catches my eye and hers widen in surprise seeing me here. It’s obvious when she figures out my bike is among the mess when her hand goes over her mouth.
Waverley is the only woman who has ever ridden on the back of my Harley. Hustle is still sore about that shit. He only lets it go because the only way to make sure Waverley was safe, was on the back of that bike.
“Holy shit.” She stops short of the right side of Handlebar, away from me. “You can save it right?” She worriedly bites her lip.
Handlebar looks up at me and grimaces. “You’re gonna have to leave it with me again.”
“You gonna keep it another week?”
“You’re welcome to take it elsewhere.”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
Waverley’s eyes ping back and forth between us. We both stop and look at her grin. “Let me help.”
“No!”
