Page 1 of Boulder's Weight

PROLOGUE

Boulder

A Few Months Ago…

Ol' ladies are a fucking dead weight, and I say that with every fiber of my being.

Every man sitting around this table in Tart has heard me say it before.

They'll probably hear me say it again, but as I look around at the other prospects from the Montana charter, I notice how a couple of them have wedding bands on, or they’re tied down by a woman already.

Luckily for me, I'm too smart to get caught up in that trap.

"All I'm saying is I don't see the appeal," I continue, taking a big swig of my black coffee. It's bitter as shit, but somehow it hits the spot today. "The moment you get an ol' lady, you're weighed down. Your freedom's gone. And as prospects, we hardly have any freedom to begin with. Why would I waste it on some bitch?"

Ripper, who's been a prospect a few months longer than me, rolls his eyes while scrolling on his phone. "Says the guy who has a different chick in his bed every weekend."

"That's the point," I tell him, a cocky grin taking over my face.

Ripper isn't wrong.

I've earned my reputation. "I keep it simple. We both get what we want, and then she goes her way, I go mine."

The only reason I'm in Montana is because my baby sister, Joslynn, just had a kid.

A little girl named Melanie.

She's cute and all, but I'm not one to sit around making baby noises.

After two days of pretending I know what the hell to do with a newborn, I called up some of the boys from the club to meet me here and shoot the shit.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I was prospecting for the mother charter instead of down in Chihuahua.

Tart is a café owned by the club, though you wouldn't know it looking around.

It's all exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and fancy light fixtures dangling from the ceiling.

The kind of place where soccer moms come for their morning fix, completely unaware they're putting money in a club's pocket.

The Billings charter has a lot of legit businesses now. It’s a lot different than how things are going down in Mexico.

"You saying you've never thought about it?" Bama asks, setting his coffee down. "Never had a girl make you wanna stick around longer than a night?"

"Fuck no. Have you seen how the patched guys with ol' ladies act? Like they're on a leash." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "They're pussy-whipped. No freedom to do shit without checking in. Always got a honey-do list a mile long."

As I say it, there’s a movement from the corner of my eye, and I feel this unnerving need to stop what I’m doing and turn.

And that’s when I see her.

She's moving between tables with a pot of coffee in one hand, notepad in the other. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling around her face like she couldn't be bothered to fix it.

She's not trying hard with her appearance—just jeans and the café's black t-shirt—but there's something about the way she carries herself.

It’s like she's trying to blend into the background but can't quite manage it.

When she turns, I notice the shiner.

Her right eye is sporting a nasty bruise, the kind that's a few days old—yellow and purple around the edges.

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