~ 1 ~
Battle.
I pulled up to the gates of the Highwaymen’s clubhouse, my Fat Boy rumbling between my thighs. Fighter waved at me as he strode out of the door and headed my way.
I’d been a Highwayman for going on ten years. Loved that life. Loved that club. And loved those men. My grandfather had told me on his deathbed to go out and seek my fortune, and I’d found mine in the club. I had everything I could want: respect, loyalty, money, and women. Nothing else had ever mattered.
I pulled my bike to a stop and dragged off my helmet, wiping a hand through my sweaty hair. It was hot as balls in Georgia, but it was the last couple of weeks of summer before things started to cool down. Thank fuck.
I climbed off of my bike and rolled my shoulders. I’d been riding all day, the sun hot on my back, and I was more than ready for a cold beer and a woman on my lap. I pulled out my smokes and lit one, pulling the nicotine deep into my lungs and exhaling in one long blow.
“Got visitors,” Fighter said, pulling out a joint and lighting it.
Man didn’t drink or smoke cigarettes, but he smoked enough weed to keep most grow farms in business. He took a couple hits and handed it to me, and I threw my cigarette to the side and took the joint instead. His weed smoking was one of the many reasons we got along so well.
I took a long hit as we started to walk inside, and Fighter filled me in on our guests.
“Ripped from the Burning Eights stopped by with a couple of brothers. Wanted to speak to Hardy about business, says shit’s slowed right down and they’ve had shipments going wide.”
I handed the joint back to him and frowned. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. In fact, I’d just gotten back from a two-day trip into Atlanta to help the Backstreet Bangers out on a drop. They’d had a couple of shipments go missing in transit, brothers and bikes vanishing en route like they’d never been there. It was bad business all around, but more so was that the only way those drugs and our brothers could go missing was by dying. Because there wasn’t a man in any of the clubs that wouldn’t give every last breath of theirs for their clubs.
“Not likin’ the sound of this, brother,” I said.
“Neither is Butch,” he replied as we pushed inside the clubhouse. “He’s been in a meeting with Hardy and Ripped for a couple of hours. Think they’re taking it to church soon, once they hammer out some details.” He shrugged. “Hardy doesn’t seem to think much of it—thinks brothers are turning yellow and hightailing it with our shipments—but Ripped’s inclined to believe something else is happening.”
“Like what?”
“Like a new crew is in town on the down low. Shit makes more sense than a bunch of bikers fuckin’ running.”
“I hear that,” I replied.
To be a biker you committed body and soul. Ain’t no way brothers were running from the life. And I hated the thought of Hardy or anyone else thinking that. No man signed up to a club lightly. When you signed in, you signed in for life, giving everything to it. It wasn’t the life for everyone, but there was more than enough time to get out before you patched in.
The clubhouse was busy with both men and women from both clubs. Everyone had a place to be and a job to do, but it looked like they’d all taken the afternoon off to hear what Ripped had to say. Man like that didn’t make a trip like this, reaching out to another club, if he didn’t feel it was important, and I guess everyone else had gotten that same vibe.
Hardy was our president, and he, Butch, and Ripped were still in his office talking. The blinds were open and no one was yelling, so I guessed the real talking was going to be done when we all went to church.
I made my way to the bar and Rose placed a cold beer on the counter before I’d even had chance to order it.
“Thought you’d need this,” she soothed, placing a soft hand on mine and smiling.
“Thanks, darlin’.” I winked and leaned forward. “You ever need anything, you know my door is open, right?” I winked.
She laughed and patted my hand, her gaze straying to Pops at the other end of the bar and then back to me before she moved off to clean some glasses. Her and Pops had been a thing for as far back as I could remember. His unofficial old lady, given that he already had an old lady by the name of Angela, or Angel. That bitch was fierce as hell and beautiful to match, even if her and Pops were getting on a bit now. She still had it. Still, Rose was something else, and if the man had any sense he’d cut and run from Angel and get himself a younger model while he still could. Sooner or later another man was going to take her for their own if Pops didn’t claim her.
The door to Hardy’s office opened and the three men piled out. Hardy looked angry, like a man on the brink of losing his barely contained rage—a look we were beginning to see more and more. He grabbed Butch’s arm as he started to walk away, and Butch looked back, leaning in so Hardy could say something in his ear.
“Would love to be a fly on that wall,” Fighter said from his place next to me.
“You and me both,” I replied before taking a long drink of my beer. Fuck, it tasted good, and I looked over and nodded at Rose in thanks.
“Fighter, Clipper, Drake, get your asses over here,” Butch called, and stepped back inside the office.
I patted Fighter on the shoulder as he put down his beer and headed over. “Stay alive, brother,” I joked, and he gave me the finger as he walked away.
Fighter and I had been friends since we were kids. Brother had saved my life more than once. We were kids from the wrong side of the tracks, and were always up to no good. Neither of us had what you could call happy families—though mine was better than his, we’d both drawn short straws in the family department. That was until we’d been nine years old and watching a group of fearsome bikers ride through our small town. It was all we had thought about afterwards, and we’d both known where our futures would lie.
We’d prospected together and then we’d joined the Highwaymen together. He was the closest to a blood relative as I’d ever get since my grandfather had passed. I had brothers, but none of us were close since we’d been split up as kids. Barely knew the men that shared the same blood as me, but that was all right by me. As for Fighter, I was all he’d ever had.
