Page 61 of Doozer

“You look like her, ya know?”

“Shut up!” she yelled, slapping my chest.

“What did I say wrong? Demi Moore is smokin’ hot.”

“Of course, she is,” Trouble said. “Demi’s the reason I cut my hair short. Because of how she wore it in Ghost. I would have done anything to look like her when I was a little girl.”

“Well, youdo.”

“Stop saying that,” she said, again playfully hitting at me.

“I’m serious,” I repeated. “And you look beautiful tonight.”

“I’ve been in civilian clothes for too long,” she said. “I feel naked without my kutte.”

“You wanna wear mine?” I asked.

“Yeah, right. It’s only five times too big for me.”

“Good, cause I kinda like seeing you dressed up for a night on the town.”

“That’s because you normally see me in a dirty pair of jeans and a t-shirt.”

“Everything I see you wear becomes dirty in my mind.”

“Shut up,” she said, her cheeks now bright pink.

“How about you make me shut up,” I said, leaning down for a kiss. Trouble’s lips met mine and I pulled her close to me, my thumb going to her pulse. I deepened my kiss and Trouble moaned, loosening her grip on her helmet, causing it to fall to the ground with a loud crack. Not that we cared. My hand went to Trouble’s ass, pulling her even closer, but before I could lean down for another kiss we were interrupted.

* * *

Trouble

“Excuse me. Hey! Is this guy bothering you?” a voice called out from behind us.

I turned to see Rabbit, Tackle, Jette, Boots, and Graves approaching us en masse and grinned. “Hey guys.”

I introduced Doozer to the team, well, except Rabbit. They already knew each other, and bro hugged a little longer than most bikers typically did. As tough as my man was, he had a deep appreciation for his friends and never took them for granted. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was sweet, and I loved him for it.

“I need to drink,” Jette said. “Especially since I’m not paying for any of it.” She grinned at Boots and he sighed.

Boots was the Sergeant at Arms of the Bakersfield chapter of the Killing Jokers out of California. He knew everything there was to know about every type of firearm ever manufactured, but it seemed like his true joy in life was blowing things up. When he’d met Jette, he’d gone hard at her, making it clear that although he thought she was ‘hot as fuck,’ she couldn’t possibly be smart enough to get one over on him.

Anjenette Smith, or ‘Jette’ as everyone called her, looked like Stevie Nicks circa 1972, and was pegged at eleven on the hippie scale. She was probably the smartest person I’d ever met and could hack anything anywhere. It was why she was here training with us. It was either that, or federal prison. Her brother, Rabbit, rode with the Dogs of Fire out of Savannah, and had also been roped into Taxi’s schemes.

Boots had bet Jette that he had his personal data locked down ‘tighter than a nun’s asshole,’ via the most sophisticated firewall software money could buy. He was certain, because he’d paid a moonlighting NSA security code writer to design it specifically for him, and she’d never be able to fuck with it.

Boots had been schooled, hard, by the petite hippie.

Jette had not only broken through his firewalls and protections, she’d done it in less than four minutes, her finger hovering over the keyboard with a grin before she dropped the digit on the enter button. “Done.”

“Done, what?” Boots asked.

“I have just transferred all of your assets into an untraceable offshore account in the Caymans that may or may not be held by one of my many aliases.”

“What the fuck?” he rasped, leaning down to look at her laptop screen.

“Hold on there, big man,” she warned. “I could press this button and you could make a sizable charitable donation to the campaign to repeal the second amendment of the Constitution.”

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