Down the narrow gray hallway, Butch could see the square of light that signaled freedom. The hot summer Mississippi sun—something he’d been seeing every day around noon for his scheduled yard time—suddenly looked different than he ever remembered. Excitement welled up in him, but he kept it under wraps. Metal doors clanged behind him and the guard ushered him toward the shaft of light.
Butch glanced down at himself—still hard to believe he was in jeans and a black t-shirt, the standard attire of his former life. After so much time spent in white and gray striped prison jumpsuits, even thirty seconds in his regular clothes made him feel like a normal person again.
The guard pushed at his shoulder from behind. “You got your pick-up, right?”
Butch grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “Sure do.” His pick-up was his best buddy from his prison sentence: Zebra, the Vice President of the Carvers MC, Butch’s newest club. He wasn’t a huge fan of MC’s, and wasn’t even looking to join one. But when he saved Zebra’s ass—and life—one day on the inside, Zebra insisted he join the MC and promised to patch him in personally. Butch couldn’t say no.
And today, among other things, would also be his patch-in day.
Butch stepped outside into the bright light, the sweltering August heat nearly crippling him. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. Beyond the chain-link fence of the perimeter, Zebra sat on the back of his Harley. Another bike sat next to him, the black beauty he’d been promised.
Butch looked back at the guard. “Hope to see you never.” He hurried toward Zebra, the dusty, warm air filling him, making him dizzy for a moment as he headed to his next future. The Carvers. He’d spent enough time with Zebra on the inside to know everything about the damn club. Hell, he could practically write a book about them.
Zebra clutched at the chain-link fence and rattled it as Butch came near. He cackled, his trademark shaved stripes down his head shining under the sun.
“There you are. My man.” Zebra clapped him on the back as Butch came through the doorway. His leather cut was riddled with patches, looking worn and well-loved.
“It’s been a while.” Butch squeezed his shoulder. Zebra had sprung the joint two months before him, but two months might as well have been a lifetime. Part of Butch had worried Zebra wouldn’t show today like he’d promised.
“Too damn long. But now, the rest of our lives begin.” Zebra grinned, reaching for something draped over the seat of his bike. He shoved a leather cut into Butch’s hands, his grin widening. “Like I promised you. Full membership. You’re a Carver, brother.”
Butch stared at the cut for a moment, letting the news sink in. He’d worried this wouldn’t happen, only because he was secretly looking forward to it. MC’s weren’t his style, but maybe it would get him back on track. He’d never given it a shot before, and it had to be better than drifting. The lone wolf thing was getting old—and maybe part of the reason he kept finding himself back in prison.
“I can’t believe it.” Butch blinked down at the intricate letters spelling out “Carvers MC” spanning the back of the cut. Down at the edge, his name appeared. The rest was new leather, still pleasantly reeking. Inside, a handgun was tucked away. He looked up at Zebra, nodding, then shoved it in the back of his pants. Then he shrugged on the cut and it settled into place nicely.
Zebra nodded. “Looks good on you, bro.”
“Feels good, too.” He stood a little straighter, just seeing over the top of Zebra’s caramel head.
“Got your hog, too.” Zebra nodded toward the extra bike. “Had it dropped off so we could ride back together.”
Butch smiled briefly, smoothing his hand over the black seat. He hadn’t seen this precious thing in a full year. One of the few possessions in his life that really mattered.
“You clean her up for me?” He looked back at Zebra, who nodded.
“Sure did. Like I said, you’re a brother now. This is what you have to look forward to. We take care of each other.”
Zebra’s words sparked something inside him, something that Butch usually fought to ignore. It was just an MC…but maybe it would be more than that. Maybe it would be the thing he’d never had in his life, not since he was a little boy: something resembling family.
“When we get back, you’ll meet the rest of the brothers,” Zebra said, swinging a leg over his bike. “I think Geo, our president, has already got something in mind for you.”
Butch lifted a brow as the roar of Zebra’s bike filled the air. Curiosity spread through him. Being new to the MC life, who knew what ‘something in mind’ could mean? As the newest recruit—from inside the slammer, no less—they might use that to their advantage, send him on the shitty assignments.
Time would tell. Zebra snapped his helmet on and Butch followed suit. He made the motorcycle roar to life and backed out slowly. Following Zebra down the long pathway leading away from the prison, he looked up at the sun, basking in the warmth. It was hot as hell but he was free. Free again, and hopefully that was the last damn time he ever saw the inside of that prison.
Zebra’s bike kicked back a few times as they revved up on the main street. But then it straightened out and they accelerated, Butch keeping a close trail. The two-lane road wound through forests, lushly green and fragrant. Over the roar of the bike, Butch could almost imagine the twittering of birds, the scuff of dirt against his hands. High Mississippi summers reminded him of the few good moments of his childhood…free reign to run around his mom’s rural property, building treehouses, roughing up the neighbor kids.
Zebra’s bike backfired, and he slowed down a bit. Butch kept pace beside him, keeping an eye on his exhaust. Zebra glanced down at his bike, shaking his head. He slowed down further, revving weakly.
“Shit, brother.” Zebra’s engine cut and he coasted along the road. “My bike stalled!”
Butch slowed alongside him, but the roar of motorcycles behind them snagged his attention. A line of bikes crested the curve, what looked like one bike leading a long parade of other riders. Zebra and Butch navigated off to the side. The roar of the motorcycles grew deafening as they approached, and after the first one whizzed by, Butch recognized the patch on the back of the cut.
“That’s a Carver!” Zebra’s eyebrow knit together as four bikes whizzed by. They weren’t in parade formation, either—it was a hot pursuit.
“Shit, them are Skulls!” Zebra pointed at the disappearing bikes. “Butch, you gotta go help the brother!”
Butch accelerated without another word, leaving gravel dust in his wake. The hog responded nicely, like it had been waiting for the chance to spin its wheels. He was only fifteen minutes a Carver but he knew by now, especially after being by Zebra’s side in prison, that Skulls were their mortal enemy.
And one Carver against four skulls didn’t bode well.
Butch gunned it, catching up to the tail end of the procession. The Carver was still safely in the lead, but the group of Skulls edged up close, too close for comfort. Trees whizzed by as he clocked the pace of the pursuit—85 mph.
And maybe this was his first chance to initiate into the Carvers…see how he handled a hot and heavy pursuit. Had they set this up? Now wasn’t the time to figure it out. His hand vibrated on the handlebar, reaching with the other for the gun inside the cut.
Passing the Skulls and riding with the Carver in front of the pack…not an option. There was only one way to handle this situation. He had to take out the Skulls.
He eyed the riders in front of him, the garish skeletal heads of their patch leering at him as he kept pace. A couple glanced back at him—he had to act fast. He brought out the gun and aimed as steady as he could.
Pow. Pow. Pow. He aimed for the back tire of each of the Skulls riders. The first shot missed, but the second and third hit the back tires of two of them. Their tires hissed and flapped as they lagged behind the pack. Butch shot at the other two riders’ tires—success—and they sank behind. Gruff shouting whizzed past him, followed by a bullet.
He blazed ahead and caught up to the Carvers rider, trying to dodge the bullets that chased them. The rider glanced back, and it was the first time he noticed blonde hair sneaking out from under the helmet. Wispy, thin, and silky. Is this a girl? They took a few curves, and once they put enough space between them and the Skulls, he jerked his head to the side, to indicate they pull over.
The Carver shook her head and accelerated, pulling ahead of him. This is fucked up. He didn’t know much about MC’s but the type of rescue like that deserved at least an acknowledgement. A how do you do after the fact.
He caught up to the Carver again and motioned to the side of the road. The girl shook her head, wisps of blonde hair fluttering in the air. This has gotta be a club girl. Butch revved and stayed astride, mind reeling as he figured how to play this. He had to get her to stop. To find out who she was; where she was going; what the fuck that scene was about. And to get their game plan straight. He didn’t even know where the goddamn club house was, and who knew if Zebra had gotten his bike to work?
Butch carefully maneuvered closer, closer, closer still to the girl, imperceptibly. Sweat stained his back in the heat, under all the pressure of keeping his bike steady. When he was close enough he reached out for her handle bar and grabbed it, holding tight. Over the whoosh of the air, he heard her shouts.
He slowed down a little, and then a little more. She was following his lead finally. He eased off the road, guiding the two of them onto the gravel shoulder. Dust kicked up behind them. Butch rolled to a stop and cut the engine, slinging his helmet over the handlebar while pushing off the bike. The Carver ride cut the engine too, and then tore her helmet off.
Blonde hair fanned into the air. She turned to him, icy blue eyes on fire.
“Who the fuck are you?” She stepped toward him, shoving at his shoulder. She came up to about his shoulder; a straight nose over pink, plump lips.
“I should ask you the same question.” He steeled himself easily against her shove, straightening his back. “What the hell were you doing with three Skulls chasing you?”
“I was taking care of myself,” she spat. She crossed her arms, the leather Carvers jacket crinkling as she did. It was zipped up halfway, showcasing two deliciously round breasts in a low-cut tank top. Her makeup was immaculate, despite the high-speed biker gang chase. Who the fuck is this hellacious beauty?
“You wouldn’t have lasted much longer,” he said. “And besides, what would have happened if they’d pulled you over instead of me? Huh? Four big Skulls against you?”
Her gaze narrowed to a slit. “And do you even know who I am?”
“A Carver girl who needed a little help,” Butch said, balling his fists. If the club girls were this sassy in his new MC, then he would need a crash course in handling them. Or maybe this was just the transition from life behind bars back to the real world.
She scoffed, her gaze raking up and down his body. She was quiet for a moment, long enough for the birds chirping nearby to break through. “I know every Carver in the world and I’ve never seen you before. Who the fuck are you?”
“Butch.” He held her gaze, the blue eyes boring a hole through him. She was too hot to think straight, but that acid mouth of hers shook him out of the fog. “And you?”