Page 6 of Outlaws of Tulsa

“I was going to say bitchy.”

“Because he’s Dragon,” he says with a shrug. “For some damn reason, he thinks the motorcycle club life is better for him than the dance club life. Though I beg to differ.”

Sure, Dragon is a fucking metrosexual if I ever saw one with his perfect hair and celebrity smile and stupid tight leather pants, but he’s lethal. A pussy magnet killing machine. And the fucker is brilliant with social media. He’s one of my best assets, though I’d never fucking tell him that. His head’s big enough as it is.

“Tell him his sister wants her perfume back,” I grumble, walking over to my bike to inspect the damage. I’ve had this bike for three fucking weeks. Three weeks. How Nees’s wrench managed to come in contact with it is beyond me.

“You can tell him yourself,” Filter retorts. “That fucker bites.”

Unfortunately, when that asshole gets drunk, he turns into a fucking wannabe vampire. Starts fights and finishes them with his teeth. He and my buddy Drake from Savannah could be best fucking friends. But the world has enough assholes who are one bromance away from serial killer partners status. No need to set loose more crazies into the world, and I know if those two fuckers got together, the world would be a much darker place. Definitely not encouraging that shit.

“You ready for Church tonight?” Filter asks as we walk out of the club garage on my property and into a copse of trees that open up to a fucking amazing view.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Lots of shit to go over.”

I cross my arms over my chest, staring out at Keystone Lake. Ellie would have loved this place. She wasn’t the city girl I turned her into. I should have fucking settled with her in Beaumont rather than moving her to Houston. So many should haves…

“Everything okay, man?” Filter asks, drawing me from thoughts that will only grow darker if I let them. He pulls his Marlboro reds from his pocket and offers me one. I push it between my lips and wait for him to light it. After I take a long drag, I blow it out and finally answer him.

“Fucking peachy.”

He snorts. “I think you meant to say, ‘Hey, Filter, let’s go shoot shit up so I can relax.’”

“Can Nees run around holding the target?” I ask, smirking. I inhale more of the smoke that calms my fucking soul—another bad habit I picked up after that night.

“Why don’t you ask Copper if that’d be okay?”

The crunch of a big-ass truck on gravel sounds as my brother makes his way up the long road to the compound. I had this place built about five years ago, moving our location from a shithole in Tulsa to Sand Springs where we could fucking breathe.

Copper’s Ford Super Duty King Ranch truck is gold with chrome trim. He rides around in that thing like he’s the fucking god of the roads. Filter and I walk over to him as he climbs out. My brother has been with the FBI for over twenty years. But, in the last ten, his views on justice have changed. The night those fuckers took my family, I was no longer Jared and he was no longer Jeremy. The Koynakov brothers died that day along with the sweetest girls on earth. Vengeance became what we talked about over turkey dinners. We became Koyn and Copper.

“Where’s my boy?” Copper asks, a wide grin on his face that used to match mine. Mine now bears scars from Ranker.

“Fuckin’ Prospect dinged up my bike,” I grumble, my cigarette bouncing between my lips as I talk. “Take his useless ass back with you.”

Copper just laughs and runs his fingers through his nearly black hair that’s sporting a few grays lately. “You’re such a dick, Jared. You’re his uncle. Cut him some slack.”

“You know I can’t save you if he blows a fucking gasket when you poke him, right?” Filter asks, giving my brother a playful slap to the back.

“I’ve been poking my baby brother for sport since I was four years old. He’s used to it.” Copper flashes me an arrogant smile, his dark brown eyes glinting with amusement. “He likes it.”

“I also like cutting the throats of fuckers who talk too much,” I remind him, glaring. I toss my cigarette at my feet and stub it out with my black boot.

Copper shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at the bright yellow FBI logo on his navy long-sleeved shirt under his matching jacket. “And I’m bound by duty to arrest you if you do.”

We share a knowing look. He’s my fucking brother. Blood over everyfuckingthing else.

“While this has been a touching moment,” Filter jokes, “let’s head over to the range. I’m feeling ragey since my bitch is on the rag and didn’t feel like giving head.”

I lift my brows. “Stormy’s always on the rag.”

“Better than being fucking pregnant,” he bites back.

True fucking story. I can’t be losing my VP to a pregnant bitch who I’m pretty sure gives it up to half the other Royal Bastards when he’s not looking. They’re not exclusive, so it’s not like he’ll kill anyone for touching her, but he’s the kind of guy who lives by some sort of moral code that most of us are missing. If Stormy gets knocked up, he’ll father the fuck out of that kid.

“Let’s roll then, assholes.”

I can hear Bermuda, my club treasurer and the big fucking redneck of the group, trying to explain to Nees how to hold his weapon. Filter gave Nees a little Glock that his green ass should be able to handle. I mean, I know the kid’s fresh out of high school, but this is common knowledge bullshit. I blame Copper for letting Nees spend so much time with Krista the cunt. It made him a fucking pussy. If I’ve learned anything in this lifetime, it’s that if you want to survive, you can’t act like a goddamn vagina.

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