Page 4 of Coveted By Cupid

“What’s wrong with it? Be fucking for real. We’re bikers, Crypt. We ride.”

Crypt shrugs, not caring if I chew his head off. “Yeah, we are. But Mother Nature doesn’t give a shit about it. Driving a vehicle is necessary sometimes. It’s not like it’s a clunker. You’ve got a nice truck with the big ole monster wheels and bucket seats.”

With my irritation already at max, I run a hand down my face. “If it’s such a nice truck, then piss off with it back to the club. Oaks will ride back with me.”

“I kind of have to drive the truck back,” Crypt says plainly, unfazed by my impatience. “I rode with you here so you could ride your bike back. Remember?”

Pretty sure steam is shooting out of my ears. But of course, Crypt isn’t picking up what I’m putting down. His autism sometimes makes it hard for him to read social cues or sarcasm. He’s best at doing what he knows—ensuring club rules are followed and handling discipline when they’re not.

As far as enforcers go, Crypt is a damn good one. What he lacks in social skills, he more than makes up for by intimidating those whom the club deems need a reality check. If I didn’t know him personally, I’d be wary of him, not because of his Goth appearance or obsession with death, but the way he conducts business, as if he himself is the Grim Reaper. If not for his autism humanizing him, I’d think Crypt was Death.

“Crypt, buddy,” Oaks says, throwing him a lifeline. He nods at my truck. “Get out of this doghouse while you can.”

“Sure thing, Oaks,” Crypt says, heading towards my truck. Before climbing in, he turns back toward us. “Can I take it off-road, Cupid? I promise to hose her down afterward.”

Beside me, Oaks’ shoulders shake with silent laughter. He knows my temper can’t take much more.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I rein myself in. “Fine. Just go.”

“Thanks, Prez.”

As Crypt pulls away in my truck, Oaks slugs my arm playfully. “Look at you being all nice and shit.”

I glare at my VP, knowing damn well Oaks is pushing my buttons on purpose. He motions to my mouth with his finger. “Next time, smile. It makes you look less of an asshole.”

“You’re lucky you’re my best friend. No brother disrespects me.”

Oaks snorts, brushing off my threat as if it’s nothing. “And you’re lucky I don’t beat the crap out of you for being a giant dick. Speaking of dicks, maybe you’d be less of one if you got yours wet once in a blue moon.”

“My dick is just fine,” I snap back.

“You sure ‘bout that? A guy who routinely gets laid is a hell of a lot happier than your miserable ass.”

My eyes nearly roll to the skyline. “Pussy doesn’t fix everything.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Oaks objects. “At a minimum, test that theory. When’s the last time you got some?”

His question catches me off guard. When was the last time I had sex with someone other than my hand?

Launching the new chapter in Loveland has been a freedom killer. Any downtime I’ve had has been getting lit with the crew in the clubhouse bar or sleeping as much as I can to make up for all the hours I’ve gone without.

When I realize the last time I got laid was prior to moving northwest to Loveland, I try to control my facial expressions from giving anything away.

“Yeah, whatever date you have echoing in your head, it’s been way longer than is good. Do me a favor, will ya? Take this up with one of the club bunnies.”

Hard pass.

I shake my head. “You know I don’t tap club ass. Bunnies get too clingy, thinking they have a right to you.”

“Would it be the end of the world to have an ole lady?”

Oaks is one of the many brothers I set up with a woman. Marlene was the sweetest barista, selling coffee and pastries out of a pop-up food truck near the French Quarter in New Orleans. She had hearts in her eyes for Oaks every time we stopped by her truck to grab a cup. Setting the two up was easy enough. I asked Marlene to take a break and sit with us. A little prodding on my end had the two of them talking like fated mates before our coffee went cold. Oaks wifed up within six months.

My hand rubs at my chest over my butterfly tat, the muscle suddenly aching. “Not everyone gets a Marlene, Oaks.”

“Well, you sure as hell won’t if you don’t look.”

I’m about to retort with something snarky when Buck finally ambles his way across the garage toward us.