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I don’t even attempt to get off my ride. I’m almost 60. I know to pick my battles. And looking at the goddamn giant coming this way I know this ain’t a battle I want. I mean, I won’t let Rider get his ass beat, but I know that kid and where he came from. He’s a lot scarier than people give him credit for.

“Get the fuck off our turf,” the ogre growls in a shockingly high voice.

Rider turns to look at me, eyes full of glee and I know how this is going to go.

“Come again, Goliath?” Rider says, the grin still on his face.

“I said: Get. The. Fuck. Off. Our. Turf.”

“I thought that’s what you said, it was more the way you said it I’m having trouble with.”

Goliath’s brow pulls low. “What? Are you fucking simple?”

“Holy shit, when you get mad your voice gets even higher!” Rider says before he doubles over in laughter. “Oh shit, my bad, do you like, have a medical condition or something? I mean, if you do, I totally apologize,” Rider says sobering up.

“What the fuck is he on about?” Squeaks McGee asks me.

“Your voice. I think he’s asking about your voice,” I helpfully offer.

“What about my fucking voice?” Goliath kind of growls.

“Nothing. I’m proud of you. This ain’t an easy life talking like that and yet here you are, big man in leather with a girly voice. You’re killing it,” Rider says genuinely. “Quick one, you think you can stop peddling your shit?”

Goliath doesn’t speak. Just stands there, getting redder and redder, fists balled and I know shit’s about to fly. He raises his fist shockingly fast and it sails through the air toward Rider. And that’s where this MC goon has made a big mistake. Rider grew up with a mean drunk father and two older brothers. He comes across as laidback and goofy but he’s got a mean right hook and ain't afraid to fight dirty. Which he does when he dodges Goliath’s fist and latches on to the much larger man.

Rider’s fingers go straight to Goliath’s eyes at the same time his teeth sink into Goliath’s left ear. An unholy screech is torn from the largest, ugliest man I’ve seen in a while as Rider jerks his head back, taking half an ear with him. He shoves Goliath off him as shouts and boots hitting the pavement come our way.

“Aw shit, we’re just having a friendly chat,” I say, gun pointed at the men standing behind Goliath. Who is now on the ground, eyes clenched shut, blood pooling on his lids.

The men all pull their guns and I almost want to laugh. Looking at their patches two of them are prospects. There is one patched member wearing the Road Cap patch, and Goliath who’s name I can now see is “Doom.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” I say, still seated on my bike. I’m not one for posturing too much when I know I got these assholes beat.

“Sorry boys,” Rider says, hands in the air. “I get a little wild when I feel threatened. We’ll be on our way.”

“Yeah, you better,” Road Cap growls and I try to hide my eye roll.

Rider waves his bloody hands to everyone, red staining his fucking teeth and beard as he grins before flipping them the bird and sitting his ass on his sled. I don’t even hear what else they say to us, the growl of my engine drowning them out. I pull out, leading Rider away from their compound, the wind in my beard, sun on my face. Rider pulls even with me, this time his grin meeting his eyes.

“Did good, Son.” He gives me a salute and I shake my head.

He may be a little shit, but he’s my little shit and he’s just found out more in that one moment than we could have found out after hours of stakeouts. The Quarter Mile MC is a new MC trying to flex muscles they don’t have. Shouldn't be too hard to run them outta town or put them down. Whichever will make our lives easier.

Willa

Shaking out my hands I reset my room. Again. For the third time. My next client isn’t due for another 10 minutes but if I sit down I’ll give myself an aneurysm overthinking everything. Like the two bikers who had a stand off on my lawn three days ago. Thankfully, I’ve seen neither of them since Diesel roared away from my house and Mad Dog was called into church. It's not because I’ve been hiding. Nope. Not at all.

“Pull your shit together, girl,” I mutter to myself as I plant my palms and lean over the table where I keep my oil warmer.

Taking a deep breath I stare at myself in the mirror that hangs above it, taking note of the dark circles under my eyes.

“Well, you try looking refreshed with two damn bikers on your doorstep,” I tell my tired reflection. The bitch gives me a judgey look and I roll my eyes at her.

I should cut Mad Dog some slack. The way he handled it was surprising, but not unwelcome. He didn’t take over the situation. He waited for me to call the shots and for that I’m thankful. Confused. And a little irritated because why the hell does he have to be so damn hot and thoughtful when he’s not throwing his weight and bossing me around? It’s not just physical attraction either. The restraint he showed lit my vagina up like the Fourth of July. Turns out she’s a whore for a respectful man. And then there was Diesel. Fuck my life.

I fiddle with my music system, changing from the whale song that seems to be amping up my blood pressure, and settling for a little Stevie Nicks. I mean, sure she ain’t gonna get you through a massage, but I need a little something to get out of this funk before my client arrives.

Rose Grove has been good business since I moved here a little over two years ago. Not only are the people here welcoming, they also like to avoid me a little in the street. I mean, there is a certain level of intimacy when you perform massage on a person. But you then don’t wanna stand in the grocery store having a conversation after said therapist has spent hours rubbing your lumpy bits or hairy ass crack.