I take a seat and slowly turn my black leather swivel chair in our clubhouse meeting room. It’s too fucking early for this shit. Silas, our MC president, didn’t even call this meeting. His old lady, Sabrina did. And for a reason I already know will piss me off. I could be getting a couple more hours of shuteye and instead, I’m here, about to engage in a discussion we’ve already had a few times.

Si smooths back his shoulder length jet black hair and takes his seat at the head of the table, his ice blue eyes landing on me first, as though to warn me to watch what I say. Sabrina sits at his right and spreads out the armful of files she brought with her. Tate, Cole and Dean stroll in at the same time, and they all look from Si to Sabrina to the files on the table, then to me. We’re all thinking the same thing, but sometimes, I’m the only one who has the balls to speak up. Si used to appreciate that shit about me. Now, not so much. Not with Sabrina in his ear.

It’s not that I dislike the woman. She’s from good stock, with solid ties to the Italian mob, yet as straight-laced as they come. She even has an education in everything law-related. And sure, the brunette has been good for Si. In a lot of ways, she’s also helped to clear a path for our Satan’s Saints MC to go from outlaw motorcycle club to engaging in mostly legitimate business dealings. Mostly. But there’s a limit to how much change anyone can handle in a short time. A rubber band can only stretch so much before it breaks, and when it does, the sting from its recoil is pretty fucking painful, if you’re not ready.

Reaching my arms up, I lace my fingers together behind my head. I won’t sweat this meeting. I’m still pretty zoned out from a long night of poker and drinking with my brothers. So today, if Si wants his old lady to lead us all around by the balls, he can go right ahead.

Within reason.

Except, within twenty minutes of the meeting start time, I’ve changed my mind. Someone needs to object to this crap. No one does, though, and at the end of it, Tate, Cole, and Dean make tracks faster than two shakes of a whore’s tail.

Whatever. Deciding to deal with this later, I drag my swivel chair backward and jump out of my seat. This meeting is over as far as I see it, but it seems like Si and Sabrina have other plans for me. It doesn’t help that Si’s old lady, Sabrina, keeps pushing one particularly fucked up issue too. What they’ve just proposed to me from their seats across the clubhouse boardroom table is ludicrous.

“Security clearance, my ass,” I tell them. “We have no business shelling out money and time to bid for government security gigs that we have no chance in hell of winning.”

“Knightsbridge Protection and Security does have a chance,” Sabrina says firmly. “We’re on their shortlist, and it’s the third round of the selection process.”

I scratch my beard as I consider how to tackle this situation without getting into a screaming match with Silas while Sabrina is in the room. If Si hadn’t practically dragged me out of bed at seven this morning for a meeting that so far is a waste of time, I would have shaved by now, and I’d have coffee in my hand—the two morning rituals that help me think more clearly.

“The thing is, we’ve made it to the third round of other contract bids before. Four or five times, if I remember correctly. We didn’t win any of those gigs. Not even one.”

“True,” Sabrina agrees. “Still, that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.”

“I get that part, but with all these talks with the Los Diablos and the Mongols MC, time is tight. Think of it this way. We have a horde of extra clientele for the personal protection side of the business. We’re not hurting for money, and there’s a shitload of gigs we passed up that we should’ve accepted. Those jobs didn’t need clearances. Like those protection jobs Jordan Bain told us about. We took two, and turned away two or three. I still don’t know why. The way I see it, leaving a potential client on the lurch should never happen. Those referrals will just dry up.”

“Hang on, Axe,” Sabrina says, leaning forward. “Jordan’s my closest friend. Do you think it was easy for me to tell him no? The fact is those jobs we turned down were not a fit.”

“Why not?”

“You fucking know why,” Silas shouts. “Read my lips, Axe. We’re not providing daytime security to power brokers trying to keep a low profile. Not Vincent Belmont, not anyone. We’re not taking on anyone contentious, period.”

“Fuck, how many times do I have to tell you that they’re not all evil soul-sucking parasites?”

Silas stares at me with a threatening look in his eyes that tells me his patience is wearing thin. “Just because your best friend is one of few big shots who doesn’t prey on other people’s tragedies, that doesn’t mean we’ll start catering to them.”

“Whatever. In any case, I don’t see how we’ll swing the security clearances. Some of us have done time.”

Silas shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest. “Not buying it. Your record is squeaky clean, Axe. Don’t try to feed me that bullshit. Why don’t you tell us what’s the real issue here?”

Scowling, I head to the door. “I need coffee in me before I can continue, and not that weak, burned as fuck crap we have at the bar. Si, if you and Sabrina feel we can make it, I’m behind you one hundred percent. Just don’t put my name down as a team member on your candidate list. They’ll smell me from a mile away. I don’t want to be the weak link here.”

Silas swivels his chair to face me at the door. “Good thing I didn’t bring up the psychological evaluation, huh?” he says, eyes on me but clearly speaking to his woman.

“Probably,” Sabrina agrees. “You think he’ll agree to it?”

“I told you he wouldn’t be up for this,” Silas answers.

“Dudes. I’m standing right here. And no. Just no. I am not subjecting myself to a psychological evaluation with some shrink who’ll want to make me talk about my feelings. Get another pansy.”

“Who then? We can’t send Tate. He’s certifiable. Cole’s done time, so he’s out. That leaves you and me.”

“Well you’re right about Tate and Cole,” I agree. “Though Tate would probably kill to get on these gigs, with all the money he’s looking to save for Aiden’s college fund.”

“The kid ain’t even a year old,” Silas adds. “Isn’t this a little early for going all out?”

“Try to tell him that. He’ll bite your head off. Anyhow, back to this question. We’ve got Dean.”

“He’s already said yes. We need three names.”

“What about one of the officers?” I give a quick knock on the doorpost, turning to check the members sitting at the bar. There’s got to be one of them who can sit in for me. “Like Davies. He’s got to be perfect for a psych eval. I’ve never met anyone who’s more…chill. He sure couldn’t have a record.”

“No,” Silas barks. “We’re the leadership for both Satan’s Saints MC and for Knightsbridge. This commitment has to start and end with us.”

“Yeah, well… I’ve got to do my coffee run. Be back in twenty.”

I grin to myself as I leave, lighting up a hand-rolled cigarette. With any luck, they’ll move on to some other issue by the time I get back. Damn, if I don’t need it. Sure, this interference has everything to do with Vincent Belmont, my oldest friend since childhood, and the only influential person I know and trust implicitly. The fact that Si let Sabrina call the shots and turn down Vincent’s request for us to take him on as a Knightsbridge home security client still has me ticked off. It’s one of the simplest gigs that had come our way. Yet Sabrina got in Si’s ear and convinced him the gig was in conflict with some other clients who are already on our Knightsbridge roster.

Si would’ve probably accepted the gig, but a rumor started spreading that the attack which left Los Diablos President, Antonio Vasquez near death and injured Tate was not MC related. Some were saying that it was an order sent down from someone powerful. From old money, like the circle of people Vincent rubbed shoulders with. That gossip pushed Si’s level of trust in Vincent from barely there to nonexistent.

And now, this idea of having me undergo a psych eval. Hell, no way am I about to lie back on the couch of some over-educated, stuck up brat to go over my childhood and bring up all that crap. Not unless the brat is a sexy little number with a thing for inked up biker types like me. If that's the case, the couch will come in handy. Otherwise, fuck no.

By the time I make it to my Harley out front, my stomach is already aching from hunger and caffeine withdrawal. Finishing my smoke, I stub out the tip under the sole of my boot, crack my knuckles and climb on my bike. A short trek to Desert Java, the closest half-decent coffee house in Beaver Dam, is in order. Yes. A double shot of espresso will do the trick. The tiny mom and pop spot is just ten minutes away, so I’ll have a few minutes of me time and can feel warm desert air on my face and enjoy the open road before I have to get off the I-15 again.

I make it to Desert Java in good time, but it’s the morning rush and all the parking sport outside are taken. I end up parking my baby in a free spot behind the public library across the street. Sticking to my usual practice, I take a look inside through the front window, just in case there are any members from the Los Diablos or Mongols MC. We’re all under a strict ‘no contact’ policy these last few months. Not that their patronage at Desert Java will stop me from getting my brew, but I like to know what I’m walking into.

Well, hello.

I catch sight of the round, delicious ass of a curvy, buxom blonde who looks like she stepped out of a fifty’s pinup calendar. She’s in the middle of a lighthearted conversation with another patron while she waits in line. The stunning woman throws her head back and laughs a few times as I watch her through the window. I feel better about leaving that meeting with Si already. Picking up a sexy blonde is sure to perk me right the hell up.

All I have to do is work my magic.

Play it cool.

Enjoy the chase.

And it’s all the more interesting that she isn’t one of our MC groupies, chicks we call ‘sack demons.’ The problem with sack demons is pretty much the same reason we keep them around. They’re sweet-looking little sex kittens, but the reality is they’re easy prey. Half the time they don’t know whose dick they’re even riding. For them, any patch-wearing member will do. I bet this curvy blonde is different. Judging by her nicely put together outfit, a short-sleeved, all-black skirt suit, a white camisole that draws my eyes to her ample cleavage, leopard-print sky-high pumps and some designer handbag she probably bought for a ton of cash, she has her shit together too. Bonus points.

With a half-smirk stuck on my face, I crack my neck and head inside, keeping an eye on the woman who’s about to be my prize. Little Miss Gregarious is standing six or seven patrons ahead of me when I get to the door. Inside, the line hardly moves at all, which today I don’t mind. It gives me time to check her out among the cramped horde of people waiting around.

The little bell dings at the top of the door, and I muscle my way into the tight space with a small grunt. The blonde eventually makes it to the front of the line and puts in her order, then digs her hand into her purse, retrieving a ringing smartphone. She takes the call, but tells whoever it is to hold on. Sashaying her hips, she walks right past me, her blonde hair bouncing with every step, and that dark office suit only adding to the contrast of her creamy skin as her high heels shoes click on the tile floor. A trail of her floral perfume wafts up to my nose as she steps outside to have her conversation.

Damn, girl.

She’s fucking hot.

Definitely my type.

My eyes are locked on her for the entire phone call. Not a word she says makes it to my ear because my eyes are busy feasting on every morsel of her. I continue to eye-fuck her when she zips by me again and stops at a table that has opened up near the far corner of the shop. Smart girl, choosing to sit it out. The wait for coffee orders is killer around this time. Blondie cleans up the crap left behind by the previous patron and sits down, eyes already glued to her phone screen as she starts checking text messages or emails. I’m sure I have just the thing to get her off that phone. Were it later in the day, I might have flat out offered a dose of rough, dirty, up against a wall, back alley sex. But it isn’t even nine in the morning. Blondie doesn’t seem like the type to waltz into work with her hair messed up, or looking as though she was taking the walk of shame anywhere.

The line eases forward. At this rate, she’ll be packed up and gone before I can grab a hot cup. I’m not about to approach her empty-handed only to be forced to leave mid-prowl for my coffee order. She runs a manicured hand along the side of her gorgeous throat, and a small shiver licks down my spine. I wonder what it would be like to taste her skin there, right above her pulse point. Maybe she’s a screamer too.

A minute’s chat will be more than enough time to find out whether she’s game. I hope she is, considering the way she’s already captured my attention. When it comes to the opposite sex, I’m not the most focused man around. I like my women the way I enjoy fast food. Quick, hot, and gone within minutes. Fuck and run. That’s my style. At least is was, right up until five minutes ago.

I fold my arms and clear my throat as I inch forward in the line. Why the fuck am I acting as though I’ve had a five-year dry spell, when in fact I just tapped two sack demons at once only two days ago? I’m having the hardest time keeping my mind free from this sexy, curvy distraction. Fuck if I know why.

Not that my mind is ever calm or in a neutral state for long.

Because of one fucking night during my childhood.

One night that fucked up the rest of my life.

Those demons have a way of sticking around, playing on repeat. Without fail, the distant memory always comes back, clawing at my brain, needing, wanting, hungry to rise to the surface, no matter how much I bury them with all manner of vice. Sex, brawling, MC work, more sex, and the kinkier the better. Whatever it takes to keep my mind operating at surface level.

Casually looking on as the blonde continues to use her phone, I rub the back of my neck to forcefully push the thoughts down. Nothing I’ve tried before works to keep a lid on this shit. It eventually reaches up from the back of my mind, making my temples pound. On bad days, all the effort in the world won’t help me keep my shit together. Like right now, which is fucked up timing. I press my eyes closed and my jaw clenches. That fucking night is like chalk being dragged across the blackboard of my sub-conscience—annoying, uncomfortable and unrelenting.

“What can I get you, sir?” asks the teenager wearing a ball cap and a Desert Java uniform.

“Coffee, black,” I say. “Two pumps of vanilla and three extra shots of espresso.”

“And your name for the order?”

“Axe.”

“For here or to go, Mr. Axe?” the kid asks.

“To go.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thanks.”

My usual caffeinated drink of choice has more than enough kick to get my brain function in gear. It’ll help just in case Silas and Sabrina are still waiting to corner me at the clubhouse again. I run my thumb and index finger down my goatee and shift my weight from one foot to the other as I wait for the barista kid to quit it with the pleasantries and take my money. I have a blonde to make a move on before she gets her morning drink and walks out, for fuck’s sake. This fucking kid. Can he choose another time to be social? No wonder the line is a mile long behind me, and it’s the same at the pickup counter too.

Bubbly barista boy finally rings up the sale and prattles out the price. Nodding, I slap my cash down in front of the cash register and tune out the kid’s overly friendly rant about how hot the weather is. Of course, it’s hot. It’s summer in northwest Arizona, in the middle of the fucking desert. The kid picks up on my irritable mood, because he doesn’t add more irrelevant drivel when he hands over the change.

Returning the change to my wallet, I shove the dark leather in my back pocket and maneuver my big, broad frame through the crowd to find an open area and wait for my brew. Not too difficult to do, given that I tower over everyone in here, and am even more menacing looking in my faded jeans, white t-shirt, black leather cut and all this ink on my exposed skin. Like most crowds they’re quick to part for a tattooed badass like me.

“Order up for number two-sixty-four!” shouts an even younger female barista. She finishes steaming some milk on an industrial espresso machine, closes the lever and slowly pours the milk into the awaiting cup of brew.

Slow as fuck.

I’m growing more impatient by the second. When my phone buzzes in the inner pocket of my cut, I groan out my frustration. It’s probably a text from Silas. Figuring I might as well use some of this waiting time semi-productively, I dig into my pocket and snag my cell.

Si’s message reads, “Your little tantrum worked. Sabrina’s talking to Vex Vincent ATM.”

I reply with, “He’s Vex Vincent now? Really?”

Si: Have you seen his face? The fucker never smiles.

Me: Don’t smack-talk him. He’s my people. What are you, five? BTW it’s about fucking time you got your old lady in line.

Si: Go fuck yourself. Oh, I added one condition to taking on Vex V.

Christ, I can already guess what it is.

Me: “No way in hell. Fuck the security clearances.”

I’m not interested in arguing by text like a high school princess, so I turn off my phone screen, return the damn phone to my cut, and let the next few message alerts buzz in my pocket.

“Order up for number two-sixty-seven. Coffee, black, two shots of vanilla, and three extra shots of espresso!” The server hollers to the waiting patrons. “Come and get it!”

I shuffle through the crowd again, this time to pick up my order. I’m not sure how they prepared my brew so quickly when so many customers are still waiting, but to be honest, I’m not fucking complaining.

Except, what the fuck?

The sleek, well-manicured fingers of a woman’s hand wraps around my cup at the same time that I reach to pick up my brew.