Page 1 of Holley Jolly Biker

Prologue

Saint – 1999

“I’m goin’ to tell you this one time, and one time only. You better go ahead and pray to whatever god you believe in. Cause once I get my hands on you, you won’t be recognizable.” I snarled at the little punk-ass bitch.

The little punk ass bitch who had the audacity to spit in my face because I shoulder-checked him for bumping into a younger boy.

A younger boy whose only misfortune was being born into a family of crackheads who didn’t give a fuck.

Whether it was the look he saw on my face or something else, I couldn’t tell you, but I inwardly smirked when he moved away from me.

And by moved away from me, I meant that he moved to the other side of the room.

The side of the room that housed sixty-four teens for our four-hour period rec time.

Where were we?

We were all in juvenile detention for one reason or another.

I turned on my heel to go sit back down when I saw Kase Richards walking over to me.

I stopped and clenched my fists just in case.

I had no issues with Kase. None. He was a good guy. As far as I was concerned.

The moment he reached me, he held out his hand, and I placed mine in his and shook it, once we released, I let my hand fall to my side, and then he said, “Got somethin’ I want to run by you. You got a minute?”

Seeing as we still had two and a half hours of this rec bullshit, I nodded.

He jerked up his chin, “Seein’ as society has labeled us as troubled youth for failin’ to conform to their standards, I’m thinkin’ about startin’ a motorcycle club.”

He took in a breath, then he said, “There will be a few laws, rules if you will. The first is we don’t hit women or kids. The second is that we don’t cheat when we find our one. Third, you have your brother’s back, always. Unless he fucks up. Fourth, we don’t deal in human traffickin’, fuckin’ ever. Fifth, no drugs. Sick of seeing good men bein’ brought to their knees by it.”

I thought about it.

Anyone who would hit a woman or a kid needed to have their hands cut off and shoved down their throats.

Anyone who cheated needed to have their dicks cut off and shoved up their ass.

It would be alright to have a group of people that I could trust, ones who would go to bat for me, never fucking had that.

And anyone who dealt with sex trafficking needed to be wiped from the fucking map.

And I agreed unless it was pot because pot never caused anyone to kill someone.

I nodded, “Sounds alright to me.”

Kase nodded, “Almost all motorcycle clubs assign road names. Thought about what yours should be. Thinkin’ it ought to be Saint. Cause every single time someone pisses you off, and let’s face it, it doesn’t take much. You tell them they better pray to whoever they believe in. It’s the shit.”

I thought about it. Saint. Benjamin ‘Saint’ Christopher. Yeah, it definitely had a ring to it.

Therefore, I nodded and said, “And I have the perfect name for you. You wanna talk about how easy it is to piss me off? You’re the opposite. You're calm and calculated, but you get even. And when you get even, it’s almost as if a nuclear bomb went off. So, I’m pleased to know you, Nuke.”

He stood there, his face expressionless, and then, in a split second, I watched a slow grin form on his face, he nodded, “Sounds alright to me.”

He jerked up his chin, then he looked to the far corner, my eyes moved to where he was looking and saw Michael Weathermen, “Think his road name should be Grey. Ain’t never met a single soul at the age of sixteen who already has that much grey hair.”

I smirked, then muttered, “Fittin’. And seein’ as he’s smart as all get out.”

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