Page 25 of Her Obsessed Biker
“Then let’s get this shit rolling.”
The air inside the clubhouse is thick with sweat, smoke, and engine grease. Pool tables, bar stools, faded photos of our early days on the walls…it’s home. Warped and wild, but ours.
I move through the space, nodding at brothers as I pass—men that I’ve bled with, fought beside, buried secrets for. Some crack open beers as I go by, some slap each other’s backs. But no one steps in front of me.
Because I’m not just their president. I’m their hammer.
I push open the doors to the meeting room, and the low hum of conversation cuts off. Seven men sit around the long oak table—patched members only. The leadership crew. At the far end sits Deadeye, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
“Prez,” he says with a nod.
“Let’s get started.”
I drop into my chair at the head of the table. The rest follow suit, and the silence settles thick.
Diesel, our sergeant-at-arms, is the first to speak. “Cameras on the north lot picked up that blacked-out SUV again. Same one from last week. No tags. No movement.”
“They’re watching us,” I mutter. “Still not making a move.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Deadeye says. “Feels like a recon pattern. Military-style.”
“Rival crew?” asks Colt, lean with mean eyes and a knife fetish. “Or feds?”
“If it was the feds, they’d be more subtle,” Deadeye replies.
“Unless they want us to know they’re coming,” Diesel adds.
Silence. Then Viper speaks up. Gray beard, wiry frame, ex-Army intel, voice like gravel in a blender.
“Could be the Sons of Decimation sniffing around again. They’ve been getting bolder. Trying to push in on our territory.”
A low murmur spreads. The Sons of Decimation are no joke. No codes. No limits. Burn and pillage types.
“They come sniffing around here again, we light ’em up,” I say.
“Just say the word, Prez,” Cruz grunts, cracking his knuckles.
“Not yet,” I say, firm. “We don’t strike blind. We gather. We wait. And when the time’s right, we cut out the rot.”
The table goes quiet. There’s a shift in the room. No one questions me. Not because they’re scared, but because they trust me. I earned that.
“We up security,” I continue. “Rounds every hour. North and south lots. Double up cameras. No one gets in or out without clearance. No club girls overnight till we know what we’re dealing with. Tighten our fuckin’ circle.”
“Aye,” they echo in unison.
“Second order of business—new recruit,” Deadeye adds. “The kid, Tyler. Think he’s ready to prospect?”
“Let him sweep floors and haul trash a little longer,” I say. “He’s got fire, but no discipline yet. This isn’t a game.”
“Roger that.”
I lean back, tapping my fingers on the table, mind drifting to Piper for a second. Her voice, her soft, oh-so-responsive body and breathy moans. The sadness in her eyes when she told me about her past. She’s bruised but not broken.
My brave little kitty. She’s too good for this life. But she walked into my world, and now she’s under my protection.
“I want a full sweep of all known rival crews within a fifty-mile radius,” I say. “Background checks, new tattoos, new bikes…anything that smells wrong, I want it flagged.”
“Aye.” Diesel nods.
