Page 153 of Beautifully Reckless

Spinning on his heel, he storms from the barn, shouting for Celina.

“Jesus. Maybe someone should warn her?” JD mutters and Spud chuckles.

“Nah. She’s used to getting brutally railed by Smitty.” Spud smirks, turning his eyes to me. “You look well fucked.”

My fucking brows shoot up, and JD steps in beside Spud, nodding like the smug bastard he is.

“He’s right, man. Fuck. It’s a good look on you.”

I can’t fucking help it. I laugh.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Flipping them the bird, I walk around the bar and grab myself an energy drink from the fridge.

“What do you think? Was Leo right?” Turning back to eye my VP and my mate, I crack open my drink. “Were Satan’s Rebels involved in the warehouse killings?”

“Makes sense.” Spud shrugs one shoulder. “The pigs wouldn’t have done it themselves. They obviously hired help to hit the warehouses while they stepped foot onto our fucking compound.”

JD and I lock eyes.

Fuck.

It does make sense, which means, this isn’t fucking good.

Not for our club. And not for my Angel.

“Spread the word amongst the men. We need to be on the lookout for Satans as well as cops,” I tell Spud, and he gives me a nod. “So what’s the plan? When are you fuckers leaving?”

“We’ll hit the road in a couple of hours. Smitty has to be at the new property by mid-arvo to meet the first delivery of shipping containers. And I’ll lead the others up north. Get that bitch Wendy out of your hair.”

“Good fucking idea.” I nod before taking a swig of my drink.

With all the fucking lockdowns happening in the city and Metro Melbourne, moving our club out to regional Victoria is a strategic move. It gives us the space to run and expand our operations without Metro Police breathing down our fucking necks, and with regional restrictions not as severe, it will save us from having to endure continuous lockdowns.

The shipping containers will be turned into those tiny fucking homes, converting the acreage into our own little estate. At least until some fucker dobs us into council, and then we’ll need to worry about permits and shit, or who we need to threaten to keep living the way we want.

Some of those shipping containers will be buried underground, to help hide some of our less savoury business activities.

“How many men are you leaving here?” I ask, something which has been fucking bugging me. Especially now knowing Satan’s Rebels might be hunting us as well.

Since Smitty wants me on site at the new location most of the time, I’ve gotta man up and do my job. But I can’t take Abbey there. Not yet. Not until the new compound has somewhere safe for me to house her.

So for now, she’ll stay here with my ma and sisters.

It’s one thing for my club brothers and Doxies to slum it in tents, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting my pregnant wife sleep on the cold ground under a piece of fucking fabric.

“We can only spare four men. That gives you two on shift at all times,” Spud explains.

“Who?” I bark, and Spud raises an impatient brow.

“Tucker. Mule. Stoner and Brody.”

My fucking brows shoot up. “Tucker is old and fucking slow. And Brody should have been kicked by now.”

“Watch your fucking tone, brother,” Spud snarls. “We are leaving who we can. Half our fucking MC has to go north because of this bullshit. You get what you get, and when Smitty can spare the both of you, you can come here and fucking check in on your girl.”

“Wife,” I bark and he rolls his eyes.

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