Page 14 of Blood

Fuck yes.

“Let’s do it.”

When we get back to our table, everyone begins filing out of the bar. Kitty hugs a jug of beer to her chest and gestures with her head for me to follow her to the exit.

“I’ll bring the jug back, Ray,” she hollers to the older guy shaking his head at her behind the bar.

The summer-night air is thick, immediately coating my skin in a film of sweat. My hair clings to my neck and the outdoors offers no relief when we step out. No one seems to be in a rush to leave as they chatter and finish their drinks, gravel crunching under their feet. A wall of Harley-Davidson motorcycles line the entire stretch of the car lot, which wraps around the detached bar like the sea around an island.

“You can ride with me if you want, sweet cheeks. We can talk more about this golden shower you offered me,” the man named Dodger booms, noticing me and wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

The stench of sweat assaults my nostrils and clings to the back of my throat. He smells like rotting burgers. Curious eyes, including Callan’s, watch our interaction. My heart rate accelerates under his scrutiny. His eyes flitting between me and the brute who has me captured in his hold. Kitty snorts and lifts the jug to her lips, the various flashing bar signs reflecting off her hair making it appear as if she’s glowing.

Removing myself, I scrunch my nose. “Hard pass, you smell like you avoid all types of showers.”

A chorus of booming laughter rings out into the night. Not Callan’s, though. He stands away from everyone else with the blond guy. Callan’s watching me, however. His face a wall of stone, as he talks to the blond. A nod of Callan’s head, and then he’s turning. I can’t take my eyes from his ass when he strolls across the parking lot and throws his leg over his bike. The blond guy whistles and, like trained soldiers, everyone falls into action mounting their bikes.

“Rogue,” Kitty calls out. “Ride with us.” She waves a hand for me to follow her to a Jeep. There are a couple of girls already seated in the back. “Squeeze, girls,” she tells them before shimmying her butt between two, leaving the passenger seat for me. “This is Tim.” She grins.

I lift myself into the seat, nodding to the guy who looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin. He grips the steering wheel like it will fall off if he doesn’t and has a prospect badge on his cut.

“He doesn’t have a road name yet, poor baby,” one of the girls hoots.

“Tim, nice but dim.” The other snorts, cracking herself up. Gaining herself a flash of menace from Tim in the rearview.

“Is Tim really your name?” I ask. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Tim.

“All prospects are Tim. To. Initiate. Member.” He nods, turning over the engine. “And you bitches better shut the fuck up, or I’ll make you walk,” he warns and I immediately like him.

Prospects get shit on by the brothers while trying to earn their patch. Getting shit on by drunk women who will be fawning over him when he gets patched in? Yeah, that’s beyond his duty.

“Might get there quicker. Are you going to go or what?” one whines, waving her hand at the road.

“I’m waiting on my VP,” he growls.

The highest-ranking brother always leads. My eyes drift to the man in question, nervous energy bubbling inside me. The symphony of bikes roaring to life warms my chest. It feels like home.

I’d half expected Kitty to mount Callan’s bike and refuse to acknowledge the relief when he pulls away without anyone on the back.

A hushed silence falls over us. As soon as we pull out behind the wall of bikes, I breathe a victory sigh. I did it. They’re taking me to their club.

I’m in.

CHAPTER6

CLUBHOUSE

We drive for around ten minutes before turning onto a road with aClosedsign beside it. A little farther, a Private Property sign with bullet holes stands in warning. The car finally slows in front of a huge metal gate, staying back from the bikes in front. Unlike our clubhouse, there are watchtowers on either side with men holding assault rifles standing guard. “This a club or a prison?” I jest, giving Kitty a skeptical look over my shoulder.

She types away on her phone, lifting her head once we’re inside and the gates are closing behind us, but it’s Tim who answers. “It’s for the club’s safety. Someone took out our pres a couple weeks back.” His eyes blaze.

Kitty kicks the back of his chair and the car swerves. “Is that her business or club business?” A pink tinge creeps over his cheeks, and his eyes flit to hers in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I lie, offering her a soft smile. “Do you know who did it?”

“If we did, they’d be hanging from the gate, minus their insides,” she spews, hate and anger wrapped around her tone. I get it. It’s what’s going to happen to Harley’s killers.

“Way to kill the mood, Tim,” one of the women hisses. Pushing the door open, she climbs out as he brings the Jeep to a stop.

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