Page 4 of Broken Pact

“Prez said someone’s coming to fix it tomorrow.” I jerk my head toward the giant metal clock in the middle of the wall. “It’s nearly quittin’ time anyway, so just wrap your shit up and let’s get the hell out of here.”

He sends me a droll look over his shoulder. “In other words: stop bitching and get to work?”

I shrug, rolling my shoulders back to ease some of the tension. “You said it, man, not me.”

He scowls with a huff. “Remind me why the fuck we live here then. Because these summers are getting fuckin’ old. It’s too hot to do anything outside unless you have a pool.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I’m gonna bring that to the next meeting. Fuck the AC, we’re gonna get a pool,” he crows. “Imagine a killer pool behind the compound. We have plenty of space.”

“Yeah.” I nod my agreement, feeling a bead of sweat roll down my temple. It’s not a bad idea. Actually, it’s a pretty fucking good one, and I’m not sure why we never brought it up before.

“Nah, dude. Imagine all the girls at the pool. We’d get so many more bunnies, we wouldn’t be able to keep up.” He has a goofy sort of look on his face now, all traces of his earlier frustration gone like they were never there.

Club bunnies have been around for as long as clubs have, but their place in our world is a little different depending on the club and its prez.

When our current prez, Silas St. James, took over the Rosewood Reapers six years ago, he made some big changes. Including nixing the rule about club bunnies needing to fuck every single brother.

Not that I ever participated in that particular Reaper requirement. But I know a lot of the old timers did. Lots of those motherfuckers took advantage of it too. But most of those guys are gone now, dead or otherwise.

I stopped asking questions I didn’t want to know the answers to years ago. Some shit doesn’t need to be wrapped up in a tidy little ribbon, ya know.

Now the bunnies have a choice. They can sleep with whoever the fuck they want, whenever they want to. And the only thing they’re required to do is be respectful of the clubhouse and everyone in it. And in return, they can stay for as long as they want. It’s a pretty good fucking deal if you ask me.

The only thing that will never change is the seemingly widespread belief that fucking a brother or several brothers equals a spot on the back of someone’s bike.

It’s never happened.

That shit is sacred. No matter how straight-laced we are now, giving someone a permanent spot on the back of your bike is akin to proposing.

Silas did a lot of great things for the Reapers since he took over, but cleaning up our clubhouse has to be one of the best things.

That and keeping us on the straight and narrow.

Mostly.

More like we’re on the legal side of shit now, but we’re not afraid to dip our toes over the line if necessary. Like last year when some assholes from another club wanted to incite war by attempting to kidnap Prez’s girl. The club never jumped over that legal line faster in our lives.

“You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you, man? Goddamn, I know I am.” Hawke wistfully sighs.

I wasn’t but now I am. Only it’s not bikini bunnies that come to mind. The image of a pool materializes before my eyes like some kind of mirage. But instead of a horde of bunnies, there’s only one girl that materializes.

Long hair, dark as midnight that sparkles like blackened copper in sunlight. Wearing three tiny black triangles and a smirk that promises she’s gonna make me work for it.

Yeah, I’d be down for a fuckin’ pool if it meant I’d get to see her.

I’m almost embarrassed by the fact that I have to rearrange my dick at just the thought of her in a bikini. Hundreds of willing girls over the years, and yet this asshole only ever genuinely perks up at the mere thought of her.

The one woman who fucking hates me.

I must be some kind of masochist or some shit. Or maybe it’s the chase?

Except I fuckin’ had her, and then I lost her.

A dirty rag hits me in the shoulder, and I glance over to see Hawke grinning like a loon.

“I fuckin’ knew you’d be into it. Hurry up and get your shit done. You gotta sell it to the guys.”

I swipe the rag off the floor, ball it up, and shoot it across the room to the workbench. It lands on top of the pile of rags with a soft thwump.

“Me? It’s your idea, man.”

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