CHAPTER ONE
Raff
Look.
I didn’t mean to start the bar brawl.
Sometimes, shit just happens.
Did shit happen a lot around me? Yeah. Sure. Especially since I started doing the lion’s share of the trips through the South to procure weapons for the club by myself. I liked being on the road. The others weren’t as big a fan.
I’d been laid up for a long time with a knife wound to my thigh. I had some extra steam to blow off.
Besides, could I even be blamed for this one?
The woman climbed up on the bar herself.
She spread the line of salt between her tits, set the tequila shot glass on her bellybutton, and the lime between her teeth.
Was I really supposed to not lick, sip, and bite?
How was I supposed to know her boyfriend would walk in and get all butt hurt about it? It wasn’t like she was branded with his name.
Fine.
She was.
But it was a tramp stamp.
How was I supposed to see it until she climbed off the bar?
By then, I had a fist the size of a fucking catcher’s mitt in my face.
And, hey, it’s hard to apologize when you have a mouth full of your own blood, y’know?
The problem was, the dude came with a whole group of his friends. And his friends got into it with my friends. Bones were breaking. Blood was flying. The distant sound of sirens was drawing closer.
“We gotta go. We gotta go,” York said, snagging my wrist and dragging me up off the floor and pulling me toward the door.
Velle and Dixon followed us out the door, the Florida heat slapping us in the face as soon as we stepped outside, the humidity making sweat bead up on my brows and scalp as we ran toward the bikes parked in the lot. Mine was borrowed since I came to Florida with an old beater sedan that was outfitted to hide the guns I purchased from various shows or private sellers.
Our engines roared to life, and we pulled out of the lot and down the street just as the cops made their way into the bar parking lot, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing.
My face was throbbing in time with my heartbeat as we drove through the swampy backroads on our way back toward the clubhouse in Golden Glades.
I swallowed back more of my blood and ran my tongue across the gash on the inside of my lip where the punch made my teeth bite into the sensitive flesh.
“The fuck happened?” Huck, the president of the club, asked as we pulled into the driveway and parked.
“Bar fight,” York admitted.
Huck’s gaze slid right to me. “What’d you do?”
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, smiling with blood in my teeth.
“Because Coast and Remy are retired from the bar life,” Huck said.
“You gonna tell on me to Daddy Slash?” I asked, meaning my club chapter president.
