Page 18 of Single Mom for the Bikers

The Burnout's not the biggest bar. A bit smaller than our place, The Eagles’ Roost, but it’s plenty busy. There’s eight of us. I count at least a dozen guys with cuts from the Sons, and that might not be all of them. Sluts are circulating between them, and one's half-naked up on stage, swinging around a pole to a slow, grinding rock song. Behind the bar's a stocky guy who's pure muscle, bald on top, nearly as wide as he's tall, and wearing aleather vest. I don't see a patch on him, but I'm pretty sure who he'll stand with. Not looking forward to that part.

Well, maybe a little.

Everyone looks up when we come inside. I tense, expecting someone to make a move, but when the Sons start standing and getting each other’s attention, it feels more wary than hostile. Strange for a club that seems to be itching for a fight, but I doubt they expected us to show up here, on their turf.

“You boys lost?” The big guy behind the bar eyes us curiously. “You seem to have flown a bit far from home.”

“Maybe,” Phoenix says, pushing his way to the front. “We got your message and have one of our own.”

The obvious threat in his tone has several of the Outlaw Sons pushing their girls out of the way and forming a bit of a wall between us and the rest of the bar. The girl dancing on the pole scrambles off the stage and out of sight, and the beefy bartender crosses his massive arms over his chest.

“Oh?” The flat tone of his voice hints that he doesn’t see this going anywhere good. “What sort of message?”

Shadow steps forwards, his officer patch visible. “That if you fuckers want to renegotiate borders, you fucking take it up with us through the normal channels. You don’t go after our men in neutral territory or we'll bury you fuckers. We don’t give a fuck about who you have connections with, that’s not how things are done.”

Turns out it's not the bartender we have to contend with first. An Outlaw Son with his long, dark hair tied back and built like a fucking mountain pushes his way to the front. He’s got an officerpatch too. “I gotta admit, I'm impressed. It takes balls to come into our territory—into our fucking home—and think you can threaten us? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but this is bullshit. What are we supposed to do? Roll over and beg?” His voice is deep and he speaks like he's used to people listening.

“If it walks like a dog, talks like a dog, and sticks its tail between its legs like a dog…” Phoenix trails off, but he's said enough.

One of the Sons roars and charges, his fist already swinging.

Wild Child lets out a war hoot like a fucking madman, and Shrapnel swipes a bottle by the neck from the bar. The party's begun.

I get the guy lunging for Phoenix just a moment before Sledge gets there. Not that Sledge is slow, I'm just closer. My fist connects with the guy’s core, right underneath his ribs. He collapses into a wheezing pile on the floor. I give him a good kick to roll him the fuck away.

Phoenix launches past me, catching a Son in the face with the full weight of his momentum. The guy's knocked back so hard his feet come up above his head when he crashes backwards into a table. Him, the table, and all the half empty beer glasses on it smash into the floor like a fucking explosion.

Shrapnel and Reaper form a front line, charging right into the mass of Outlaw Sons as if there aren't twice as many of them as there are of us. They box a guy between them, a one, two, three, four combo before he drops to the floor, but they don’t have time to celebrate before they’re back to back, defending themselves from the next wave.

With a bloodcurdling roar, Wraith spins a guy around and slams him into the bar before being punched in the face. Wild Childjumps clear over a table and throws himself straight onto the asshole who swung. The whole place is fucking chaos.

Reflexes have me dodging before I even know why, and a beer bottle sails past my ear, crashing into the wall, scattering glass shards and beer. The guy who threw it yells something, then charges, throwing himself against me while I'm still off balance. The air's knocked outta me, but I suck in a pained breath and bring him down so that when we hit the floor, I'm on top. He grunts as the back of his head bounces off the hardwood, but he’s already swinging. With only a moment to dodge, I dive in, instead of pulling away, and slam my forehead into his. This time, when his head hits the floor, he lies still and I can get back to my feet. Fuck, that’s going to hurt in the morning.

I take stock of the fight. Shadow’s got a guy bent backwards over one of the tables, slamming his fist into the guy’s arms as he tries to protect his head. Reaper staggers my way, off balance and knocking into one of the tables. I jump in to catch him. He nearly bowls both of us over, but I get him back on his feet. With a nod of thanks, he charges right back in there.

Wild Child runs by with what looks like a bottle of high end vodka, the bartender right on his heels, his ham shank fist raised and ready to pound him. I stick my leg out, tripping the bartender. He doesn't go down, but it pisses him off, and he sends his fists my way instead. Wild Child bounces off the wall, laughing, and throws himself right back into the fight, jumping onto the back of a guy that's about to drop his fists onto Shrapnel’s back.

I dodge the first swing from the bartender, but the second one sends me reeling. Holy fuck, that guy can punch, and he's still coming for me. I try to shake the cobwebs outta my head and getmy brain to stop spinning. I know I'm not gonna be able to block the next one, though.

Fuck.

Sledge charges in like a fucking tank, his fists living up to his name. The first one he buries in the bartender's gut, making him bend over, and then the second one comes up from below, straightening the big guy right back out. He goes down like a sack of potatoes. “You alright?”

I wave him off. “Yeah. Fucking peachy.”

He gives a nod of acknowledgement, then jumps back into the melee. His hands are bleeding, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. Fuck, I'm glad he's on our side, because he's a fucking machine in a fight. It's like his fists don't miss, and when they connect, someone's going down. But I'm not gonna let him have all the fun, so I get back in there, just as Wraith sends a guy spinning my way. I drop him to the floor with a boot to the gut and he rolls over, groaning.

For being outnumbered, we're holding our own, that's for fucking sure. Phoenix takes a hit to the jaw that sends him reeling, and even Sledge gets stopped for a moment when two of the Outlaw Sons work together, throwing themselves at him from over a table. Shadow picks up a chair and smashes it over the back of a guy that's got a chokehold on Reaper, and then Wraith follows up with a boot stomp that has the guy out cold.

One of the fuckers pulls a knife, but I get myself behind him just in time, grabbing his wrist and slamming it into a post until there's a crunch of broken bone. He screams and the knife drops point first into the floor. Not giving the guy a chance to pull anything else, I whirl him around and slam him into the wall.

Brutal? Sure. But my heart is pumping and I’m feeling no pain. Not yet anyway. These fuckers almost killed Phoenix, so I'm not exactly bubbling over with sympathy or compassion today.

It takes both Sledge and Wraith working together to take down their big-as-a-fucking-mountain officer, but down he goes, his head slamming into the floor so hard I can feel it in my feet all the way over here. He should stay down, but he struggles to his feet and spits blood. “Enough! Say what you’ve come to say and get the fuck out,” he snarls.

I check the clock. We've only been here ten fucking minutes, even if it feels like a fucking eternity in the moment, but those ten minutes were enough to get our point across. The more time that passes, the greater the chance that reinforcements show up, and they won’t be friendly.

“The message is this.” A guy by my feet starts moving like he wants to get up, but I pin him with my boot to his back, and he doesn't have the strength to fight back. “Park Glen is and will stay neutral territory. You want to shake things up? Don’t take cheap shots at us unless you want to start something. The Screaming Eagles had no beef with you until now. Leave us alone, and it stays with this. Try to take this further, and we will fucking tear down your club house, stone for fucking stone, and then bury your asses under it. Got it?”

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