“Listen.” I give him a violent shake and then slam him on the asphalt. “What’s your name, asshat?”
He glares at me. “James.”
I nod, taking in his shiny new riding gear. “Not sure where you’re from, but we do things differently in Holly Beach.”
James doesn’t seem to give a shit. He staggers to his feet, obviously buzzed, and spits on the ground half an inch from my steel-toed boot. “Clean it up,” I demand.
“What?”
“Clean. It. Up,” I repeat very slowly so he understands.
His gaze zigzags nervously around the parking lot, stopping on the entrance to the bar.
“Don’t worry about your pussy friends,” I say. “Pay attention to me.”
“Fuck you.”
I laugh, maybe a little too ominously. James makes a run for it—headed to the parked motorcycles. I catch him by the arm. “Listen, princess.” I slide my other hand up his back, to the base of his neck. I lead him to the spot where he spat and force him to his knees. “There’s a strict code of honor around here.”
He gazes up at me. “For who? Those patches on your vest don’t impress me.”
Does he have a death wish? “They should.”
Should I break bones? He’s younger than me, maybe twenty-one. Out for a ride with his rowdy, piece-of-shit friends.
If the Iron Norsemen were another MC, this guy would be dead already. But I follow different rules. We don’t kill unnecessarily. It’s bad for our image and definitely bad for our community. Though the gators would take care of any evidence.
“It’s your lucky night, princess,” I say as my brothers file outside, dragging James’s friends with them.
I wait to continue until they’re standing around me.
“You have two choices, James. Fight me or lick my boot clean.”
“What the fuck?” James stands up and straightens his clothes.
I outweigh this prick by thirty pounds or more. He’s under six feet, I’m over six-three. Giving him a moment to think about it, I look at Tonsils. “Any damage inside?”
“Nope.”
“Is Birdie okay?”
“Grateful to get these little douchebags gone.”
I snicker. “What’s it gonna be, James?”
He’s sweating now. But I know it has nothing to do with the summer humidity. He’s scared, and should be.
“I’ll go,” he offers.
“You’ll do more than that,” I say. “You’re the leader of your group, right?”
“We’re not a gang,” he says.
“Neither are we,” I assure him.
His gaze shoots around the semicircle of men behind us. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“No? Which one of your friends dared you to come in here like you owned the place?’
