That puts him in a slightly better mood.
About the time we get our food and coffee, the brothers begin pouring back in.
Ghost is the first one to approach us. He stops in front of our table and gives a short nod. “You did good work out there today,” he says.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “We lucked out by noticing them.” Truth be told, compliments still feel awkward as hell, even when I know I’ve earned them.
Rick sits quietly, not eating or looking up. Ghost turns to him. “You got lucky out there, prospect.”
He nods. “Yeah. I have Bear to thank for savin’ my ass.”
“The thing about luck is that it eventually runs out,” Ghost responds. “And someone ain’t always gonna be there to save to pick up the slack when you drop the ball.”
Rick swallows hard and nods again. “Yeah. I get that.”
Crow passes by our table with a mug in hand and pauses just long enough to glance at me. “I’m proud to have you as a brother, Bear,” he says. “Think of all the people who won’t end up addicted to meth because of you.”
I shrug it off, more reflex than dismissal. “It was more a coincidence than intentional.”
Crow’s mouth twitches into a smile. “I hear modesty is a virtue.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
When Crow moves on, we dig into our breakfast in earnest. About the time we’re finished, a couple of brothers stop by the table. Haze claps Rick on the shoulder a little harder than necessary, and tells him to keep his head on straight.
His twin, Vapor, tells me I should’ve been patched in sooner and jokes that I’m wasting my time babysitting Rick. I let it roll past without comment, mostly because Rick would be embarrassed if I spoke up on his behalf. He’d see that as me fighting his battles for him.
Truth be told, Rick’s more like a brother than a friend to me. We were both shuffled from one foster placement to another before landing in one together. And since then we’ve been inseparable.
Chapter 2
Natalie
The Savage Legion clubhouse looks nothing like the place I thought it would be. I thought it would be rough, worn, and filled with men in leather jackets with scraggly beards and poor hygiene. I imagined a metal burn barrel out front, and bikes lined up as far as the eye can see.
I was right about the bikes. As for the rest, instead of a run-down hovel, it’s some kind of gated compound with a main building that looks like a sports bar. And the men milling about outside have neatly trimmed beards for the most part. They’re well dressed in jeans and their club vests. They look rough, but not in a gang type of way
For once, I’m not walking into a place that feels crowded or neglected. The thought makes my chest ache in a way I’m not ready for. I’m not used to spaces that look like they’ve been built with care, especially for the people who live there.
I hesitate at the front steps, a bit worried that the non-threatening manner of the outside won’t continue. My heart is hammering in my chest and my palms are sweaty. I have to do this, I tell myself. I don’t have another choice. So, I snatch up all my courage and head inside.
An older man dressed all in black with long, dark hair is inspecting the tag on a fire extinguisher. With the cross around his neck, he looks more like a renegade preacher from a cowboy film rather than a biker. Seeing the cross sends a chill down my spine and makes me think about what I’m running from. I take a breath and step further inside. Despite his foreboding appearance, his eyes are kind when he glances up.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I clear my throat and answer anxiously, “My name is Natalie. I’m looking for Rick Mullins.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Natalie,” he says extending his hand. “I’m Rigs.”
I shake his hand, and glance around nervously.
Rigs studies me a second longer and then turns his head towards the back of the bar. “Rick,” he calls in a deep voice. “You have a visitor.”
I freeze, too nervous to move without permission. I’ve only seen pictures of Rick on the club’s website. He helped out with a charity cookout several months ago. I’ve been searching for him for years, and the moment of truth has finally come. I don’t know the rules here. I don’t want to embarrass him in front of his club brothers or annoy him before I even get a chance to tell him what I came to say.
Hurried footsteps approach from the back. A man comes into view with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, like me. He has a certain kind of restless energy I recognize written all over him. His sharp eyes land on me and jump away just as quickly. He seems wary, but I’m practically vibrating with excitement because it feels like I’m looking at a masculine version of myself.
“Yeah?” he says to Rigs. “What’s up?”
