Page 1 of Hot Doggin'
CHAPTER
ONE
STILES
“Order me another root beer.I’m gonna go hit the head.”
McCormick pushes to his feet, and I watch him amble toward the bathroom, his gait affected by his prosthetic leg. I flag the server and order another round, and pull my phone from my pocket to check my notifications while I wait for him to return.
The Bitches with Stitches group chat is in full swing today. I keep it muted, otherwise the constant dinging would drive me crazy. It was nothing important, just the usual BS. Nash wants to know how often he has to change the soil in his plant, Leif. Mandy is asking if anyone has an extra pair of pantyhose. I don’t even want to know what he’s gonna do with them. Why in the fuck would we have pantyhose? Brandt is planning another group karaoke night.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I glance up to see McCormick striding toward me with a lopsided grin. He’s striking, with his burnt orange hair and short beard, the scar across his right cheek, and the sheer size of him. He’s not as large as me, but he‘s hefty for sure.
“What could he possibly want with pantyhose?” he asks, and I laugh, knowing he checked his messages in the bathroom.
“Beats me. If you find out, let me know. I’m not gonna ask.”
The server delivers two glasses of root beer. McCormick takes a sip and frowns. “This shit’s flat.”
Spokes and Smokes isn’t our usual hangout. We normally hang at the Black Mountain Tavern, but this motorcycle dive bar on the outskirts of town, just off the highway, is a popular spot for bikers to pop in before they reach Maggie Valley, or head up to The Dragon, two of the best riding spots in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The place is packed with my fellow brethren from the ALR, the American Legion of Riders, a veteran motorcycle club.
Almost every Sunday, we get together and ride with no particular destination in mind. It isn’t about the destination, though, it’s the journey. The unity, and just feeling the wind on your face. It feels like… Freedom.
A feeling I don’t get anywhere else other than from my bike, racing down the highway, going seventy miles an hour, feeling the powerful vibration between my thighs. I love that shit. Also, I don’t look half bad in my leather jacket. McCormick likes to wear a vest covered with patches. He looks badass in it because it shows off his thick biceps to perfection.
One of the ALR, a big guy with a loud mouth named Bruce, shouts across the bar. “Hey, McCormick, you walk about as fast as you ride!” He laughs uproariously at his own joke.
“Says the guy with two good legs,” Mac mumbles.
Bruce is a fucking idiot.“Don’t listen to him. He’s drunk.”
“Yeah, and he’s riding.” McCormick rolls his eyes at the man’s stupidity and carelessness. We never drink when we ride. It's our number one rule.
A slim brunette, wearing painted on jeans and a crop top, plops down beside me. “My drink ran dry. What’s a girl gotta doaround here to get a refill?” she asks, draping her arms around my neck.
Her cheap perfume smells like rubbing alcohol and potpourri, and under that is a layer of stale cigarettes and sweat. I cringe, wrinkling my nose as I pull my face back from hers.
McCormick’s face draws tight. “Why don’t you go ask your old man, Barbie, and leave mine alone?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, McCormick.”
She says it with a nasty bite, because everything about Barbie is nasty, starting with her tongue and her attitude. Nothing about her resembles her namesake.
He shoots her a glare that makes most people shrivel. “Well, I’m sure as shit talking to you, girl, so get gone.”
The last time she hit on me, her boyfriend tried to pick a fight with me, like I instigated it or something. Mac had to step in, and it became a whole shit show. We’re not doing that today.
“God, you two are so gay for each other.” With a hiss like a rattlesnake, she slithers off.
“Thanks, lover.”
Mac grins. “No problem, cupcake.”
“Do you wanna get out of here?”
Mac nods and tosses back the last of his drink. “Yeah, it’s getting crowded in here.”
