~ 1 ~
Battle.
I pulled up to the gates of the Highwaymen clubhouse, my Fat Boy rumbling between my thighs. Fighter waved at me as he strode out of the door and headed my way.
I’d been a Highwaymen for going on ten years. Loved this life. Loved this club. And loved these men. My grandfather had told me on his deathbed to go out and seek my fortune, and I’d found mine in this club. I had everything I could want; respect, loyalty, money and women. Nothing else had ever mattered.
I pulled my bike to a stop and dragged off my helmet, wiping a hand through my sweaty hair. It was hot as balls in Georgia, but it was the last couple of weeks of summer before things started to cool down. Thank fuck.
I climbed off my bike and rolled my shoulders. I’d been riding all day, the sun hot on my back and I was more than ready for a cold beer and a woman on my lap. I pulled out my smokes and lit one, pulling the nicotine deep into my lungs and exhaling in one long blow.
“Got visitors,” Fighter said, pulling out a joint and lighting it.
Man didn’t drink or smoke cigarettes, but he smoked enough weed to keep most grow farms in business. He took a couple of hits and handed it to me, and I threw my cigarette to the side and took the joint instead. His weed smoking was one of the many reasons we got on so well. I took a long hit as we started to walk inside, and Fighter filled me in on our guests.
“Ripped from the Burning Eights stopped by with a couple of brothers. Wanted to speak to Hardy about business, says shits slowed right down and they’ve had shipments going wide.”
I handed the joint back to him and frowned. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this. In fact, I’d just gotten back from a two-day trip into Atlanta to help the Backstreet Bangers out on a drop. They’d had a couple of shipments go missing in transit, brothers and bikes vanishing on route like they’d never been there. It was bad business all round, but more so was that the only way those drugs and our brothers could go missing was by dying. Because there wasn’t a man in any of these clubs that wouldn’t give every last breath of theirs for their clubs.
“Not likin’ the sound of this, brother,” I said.
“Neither is Butch,” he replied as we pushed inside the clubhouse. “He’s been in a meeting with Hardy and Ripped for a couple of hours. Think they’re taking it to church soon, once they nail out some details.” He shrugged. “Hardy doesn’t seem to think much of it. Thinks brothers are turning yellow and hightailing it with our shipments but Ripped’s inclined to believe something else is happening.”
“Like what?”
“Like a new crew is in town on the down low. Shit makes more sense than a bunch of bikers fuckin’ running.”
“I hear that,” I replied.
To be a biker you committed body and soul. Ain’t no way brothers were running from this life. And I hated the thought of Hardy or anyone else thinking that. No man signed up to a club lightly. When you signed in, you signed in for life, giving everything to it. It wasn’t the life for everyone, but there was more than enough time to get out before you patched in.
The clubhouse was busy with both men and women from both clubs. Everyone had a place to be and a job to do, but it looked like they’d all taken the afternoon off to hear what Ripped had to say. Man like that didn’t make a trip like this, reaching out to another club, if he didn’t feel it was important, and I guess everyone else had gotten that same vibe.
Hardy was our president and he, Butch and Ripped were still in his office talking. The blinds were open and no one was yelling, so I guessed the real talking was going to be done when we all went to church. I made my way to the bar and Rose placed a cold beer on the counter before I’d even had chance to order it.
“Thought you’d need this,” she soothed, placing a soft hand on mine and smiling.
“Thanks, darlin’,” I winked and leaned forwards. “You ever need anything, you know my door is open, right?” I winked.
She laughed and patted my hand, her gaze straying to Pops at the other end of the bar and then back to me before moving off to clean some glasses. Her and Pops had been a thing for as far back as I could remember. His unofficial old lady given that he already had an old lady by the name of Angela, or Angel. That bitch was fierce as hell and beautiful to match, even if her and Pops were getting on a bit now. She still had it. Still, Rose was something else and if the man had any sense he’d cut and run from Angel and get himself a younger model while he still could. Sooner or later another man was going to take her for their own if Pops didn’t claim her.
The door to Hardy’s office opened and the three men piled out. Hardy looked angry. Like a man on the brink of losing his barely contained rage. A look we were beginning to see more and more recently. He grabbed Butch’s arm as he started to walk away, and Butch looked back, leaning in so Hardy could say something in his ear.
“Would love to be a fly on that wall,” Fighter said from his place next to me.
“You and me both,” I replied, before taking a long drink of my beer. Fuck it tasted good and I looked over at nodded at Rose in thanks.
“Fighter, Clipper, Drake, get your asses over here,” Butch called and stepped back inside the office. I patted Fighter on the shoulder as he put down his beer and headed over.
“Stay alive, brother,” I joked and he gave me the finger as he walked away.
Fighter and I had been friends since we were kids. Brother had saved my life more than once. We were kids from the wrong side of the tracks, and were always up to no good. Neither of us had what you could call happy families—though mine was better than his, we’d both drawn short straws in the family department. That was until we’d been nine years old and watching a group of fearsome bikers ride through our small town. It was all we had thought about afterwards, and we’d both known where our futures lay.
We’d prospected together and then we’d joined the Highwaymen together. He was the closest to a blood relative as I’d ever get now my grandfather has passed. I had brothers but none of us were close since we’d been split up as kids. Barely knew the men that shared the same blood as me, but that was alright by me. As for Fighter, I was all he’d ever had.
Ripped came over to the bar and shook a couple of hands, said some hellos and ordered a beer for himself. I put my beer down and shook his hand too. We were similar men in height and build, and we stood eye to eye giving each other curt nods.
“Ripped,” I said as he pulled me in a patted my back.
“Battle,” he replied letting me go. “Hot as balls in that office.”
“Yeah, well that’s Georgia for you. Don’t help that the AC’s on the blink.” I’d noticed it as soon as we’d walked in and I was intending to go up on the roof of the clubhouse to take a look once I finished this beer and gave my report to Hardy.
“Heard you just got back from Atlanta? Any news?” Ripped asked.
“Same as what I’m hearing about the Burning Eights—brothers vanishing, missing shipments and shit going misplaced from busts. Should probably speak to Hardy about that first though,” I replied. “No offence.”
Ripped was a big bastard. With shoulders bigger than boulders and fists the size of sledgehammers. He used to compete in competitions until a couple of years ago when he blew out his back and couldn’t compete anymore. Man still trained like a machine though from what I could see. I’d met him quite a few times over the years and I liked him, though he had a messed-up temper that got out of hand all too often, he was a relatively good man.
He smiled. “No offence taken. You’re loyal, I like that. Can’t buy loyalty like that.” His gaze went over to his own men and he gave a soft shake of his head. “Not many men like you left.”
“A lot of people get into this life not realising how serious the vows you take are,” I agreed.
It was why there was such a long wait to join a club. You started as a hangaround for a couple of years, proved how useful you could be to the club, then you turned prospect and paid your dues doing grunt work and taking orders before you patched into the club. Because once you were in, you were in for life. The club became your family. Your blood. And your life. Nothing and no one beyond the club mattered. And if they did, then this wasn’t the life for you.
“Vows to the club are like marriage vows,” he replied gruffly as if reading my thoughts, “not to be taken, or given, lightly.”
His big hand was still on my shoulder, his jaw twitching as he looked over the club in quiet contemplation. Clearly the man had something on his mind other than just club business.
“You thinkin’ of claiming a woman?” I joked, picking up my beer and taking a drink.
Ripped laughed. “Between you and I?” I nodded, and he continued. “Claimed me a good woman already, beautiful little thing named Quinn but I don’t think she’s ready for this life yet, not fully.”
“Civilian?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“Not totally. She’s actually from around here though she moved away a while back after some family shit went down. Got a friend of hers that introduced her to club life. We started seeing each other a month or so back and things are getting serious, but I think she’s holding back on me.” He got that pissed off look in his eye again. “She’s in my bed and no one else’s, but I want more.”
“Damn, brother” I said in surprise. “You really want to marry her?”
“Woman’s got somethin’ special about her. Can’t explain it.” He grinned widely, looking like a fox in a hen house as he rubbed his hands together and ran his tongue over his lips. “Gotta keep the good ones close, right? Like I said, she’s the hottest thing on two legs and I want her by my side, always. If I don’t make a claim to her, someone else sure as hell will.”
Didn’t think I’d ever see Ripped like this; pining after a woman. Women normally flocked to him, spreading their legs or dropping to their knees before he’d even asked and I had no doubt they’d be signing on the dotted line before the ink was dry on the papers if he asked. Ripped was the feared president of the Burning Eights, a powerful club that ran coke and weed out of Savannah. To be his old lady was to be the Queen of Savannah.
And this Quinn was turning him down?
Woman must be crazy.
No wonder he was so fucked up about it.
He laughed again. “Don’t go getting your dick in a knot over it, I’m not. She’ll submit sooner or later. They always do, right.” He winked and patted my shoulder again before heading over to his own crew.
I thought about that, wondering what woman could be so hot that the president of the Burning Eights was willing to marry her? And more so, what woman could be so dumb that she thought she had any say in the matter.