Page 36 of Thug

Many men rode their motorcycles carefully, cautious of the inattentive drivers of “cages” who often crashed into them, completely unaware of their existence. Others rode them rebelliously, not caring who or what may be sharing the road.

I rode mine without an ounce of concern whether I lived or died in the process.

The motorcycle shot off the curb and landed in the middle of the outside lane with a crunch. The frame slammed against the concrete, sending a stream of sparks flying from beneath the motorcycle.

With the throttle twisted back as far as it would go and my chest pressed against the gas tank, I shifted through the gears as quickly as I was able, exceeding a hundred miles an hour before I cleared the first block.

Tucson, Arizona’s summer weather exceeded 100 degrees in May and stayed at or above 100 until September. The only exception was at night, when the temperature in the desert dropped to around 70 degrees. As brutal as the day temperatures were, the nights were quite comfortable.

At just after midnight, the temperature was perfect.

I didn’t have a mortgage on my home or the clubhouse, and I didn’t owe any money on my motorcycle. My only monthly bills were electricity and water, and taxes on the two pieces of property I owned were due once a year. I didn’t subscribe to cable television, and I didn’t partake in the social media craze.

I was as free as any man could be.

The only time I truly felt free, however, was when I was on my motorcycle. That feeling of freedom was exactly what prompted me to start the Hard Eights MC.

I careened off the high edge of the ramp into the Tumbleweed’s parking lot and shot across the asphalt. My back tire screeched to a stop a few feet from the entrance, just beside the sidewalk.

When Brisco pulled into the lot, I was sitting sideways on my motorcycle’s seat, leaning against the handlebars—like I was taking a nap.

He rolled beside me and came an uneventful stop. “How long you been here?”

I sat up and shrugged. “Five minutes.”

“Hard keeping up with that ugly little fucker of yours,” he complained. “It might not be comfortable, but it’s fast as greased lightning.”

My hardtail Harley was what most people considered a bar hopper—a motorcycle unsuitable for everyday riding. It wreaked havoc on my spine, was uncomfortable as fuck, and unreliable for anything but an all-out full throttle run.

“It suits me just fine,” I said.

“You deserve a new bike.” He looked my bike over as if disgusted with its presence. “When you gonna buy one? I know you can afford it.”

“I don’t need a new bike.”

“If anyone does, it’s you,” he said. “When you gonna stop punishing yourself?”

It was a damn good question, but one I couldn’t accurately answer.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “But I’m giving the matter some serious thought.”

11

Gray

Things were much different in the bar. A steady stream of bikers—not all of which were members of the Hard Eights MC—were in and out during all hours of the day. In short, my daily revenue was almost twice what it was during the Rebel’s tenure.

I hadn’t seen Price since the night I left him standing in front of the donut shop. Members of his MC, their friends—and even a few girlfriends—had been to the bar, but Price hadn’t shown up once in the six days that had passed since we last saw each other.

I had no idea if he was mad about what I said, if he was busy, or if he simply didn’t get out as much as the rest of the men. I knew prying into his business wouldn’t be warmly welcomed by the other members of the club, so I didn’t ask any questions.

Maybe being president of the MC was a much more demanding job than I expected. I tried to think of just what it was that he might have to do over the course of a normal day. Regardless of the time I invested thinking about it, I always came up with the same thing.

Absolutely nothing.

It troubled me that Price left such an impression with me, but I couldn’t seem to dismiss the way I felt about him. I hadn’t fallen in love—or even in lust for that matter—but being in Price’s presence made me feel like I was walking along a razor’s edge. I’d been with many alpha males, a handful of bikers, and a few criminals throughout my sexual endeavors, but no one had left me feeling the way Price did. In his absence, I yearned for the butterflies in my stomach, the irregular heartbeat, and the aching in my nether region.

I slid a bucket of Budweiser to the center of Brisco’s table. “Here you go.”