I lifted my goggles and inspected the weld. Beside it, along the length of the motorcycle’s fender, the paint was burned off from the many times I’d made the same repair.

“It’s a good-looking weld.” I looked at Cash. “Might hold this time.”

Sitting backward on his Harley Wide-Glide wearing a doubtful look, he glanced at the repaired fender and shook his head. “You said that the last four times you welded it. Needs a buffer between the fender mounts and the fender, if you ask me. Gonna keep breaking over and over. It’s old technology. Come on over to the twenty-first century. Bikes have shocks now.”

I set the goggles aside. “I’ll just keep welding it back together.”

He waved a dismissive hand toward me. “Time to get rid of that piece of shit. MC President with a shitty old bike makes you fit a stereotype. Every MC President has a dilapidated hardtail. It’s not like you to conform to society’s expectation. Get rid of the motherfucker.”

I’d never conform to society’s expectations. The Sportster was different. It was sentimental. I looked it over. It was ugly, but I couldn’t ever see getting rid of it.

I raked my fingertips along the worn gas tank. “I’ve had it forever.”

“Time for a change. Fucker looks like shit. Fucker runs like shit. Fucker sounds like shit. It’s a pile of shit, Baker.” He gestured toward the dozens of motorcycles that the six of us owned collectively. “See anything else that resembles that junkety fucker?”

I didn’t need to look. My Sportster hardtail was one of a kind in all respects, including ugliness. It was the first Harley I’d ever purchased, and the one that ignited my love of riding. I grinned. “Nope.”

“Maybe it’s what’s giving you the headaches. Probably got your spinal cord pinched between a couple of slipped disks. I’m tellin’ ya, get a Dyna or a bagger.” He snapped his fingers. “Headaches will disappear just like that.”

I hadn’t had a headache since I started fucking Andy. I didn’t want to admit it, but it appeared Cash’s belief in whacking off was spot-on. I lifted my leg over my seat and sat down on the vintage bike. “Have you ever fucked a chick that had a pussy that drove you mad?”

“All pussy drives me crazy. What do you mean?”

“Pussy that’s just, I don’t know, better.”

He leaned against his handlebars and swept his hair out of his face. “Thought we were talking about you gettin’ a new bike. What, now we’re on to twat talk?”

“Just asking a question.”

He rubbed his jaw and gave me a serious look. “You know what they say about pussy, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“All puss is good puss, some’s just better than others.”

“I was trying to ask you a serious question. Never mind.”

A confused look washed over him. “What was the question?”

Cash was an integral part of the club, and my best friend. On the job, he was all business. A true professional. During the day-to-day course of living life, however, he had the attention span of a gnat.

“Focus, Cash.” I snapped my fingers twice in hope of gathering his attention. “Have you ever fucked a chick that had voodoo pussy?”

His eyes narrowed. “Voodoo pussy?”

“It’s the only way I know how to describe it. Little bitch has got the tightest little puss I’ve ever fucked. And, it’s not just tight, it’s…I don’t know. It’s like it casts a spell on my cock. I stay hard forever when I’m fucking her, and when I come it feels like I’m losing my fucking mind.”

“She got a narrow little waist and wide hips?”

Andy had a small waist and very wide hips. So far, he was batting a thousand. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Got an ass like an apple?”

“Like an apple?”

He formed his hand into the shape of a ‘C’. “Is it shaped like this if you look at it from the side?”

“It is.”

“Short?”

I squinted. “Her ass?”

“No, motherfucker. The chick with the magic twat. Is she short?”

“I don’t know. Kind of. Maybe five foot three or something.”

He sat up straight and widened his eyes. “Twat the size of a dime, and deeper’n fuck? Clenches your cock no matter how hard you pound or how long you hit it?”

So far, he’d described Andy. I nodded, eager to hear what else he had to say. “Sounds like her, yeah.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Got golden-colored eyes?”

My heart stuttered. The taste of bile tickled the back of my tongue. I hopped off my bike and crossed my arms. “What the fuck, Cash.” I looked him up and down. “You been following me?”

He glared. “You skittish prick. What are you talking about? Why the fuck would I want to follow your dumb ass?”

“If you haven’t been following me, how the fuck do you know so much about her?”

Mimicking me, he got off his bike, puffed his chest, and crossed his arms. “Who’s her?”

“The girl with the voodoo pussy.”

“It ain’t voodoo pussy, dip shit. She’s Brazilian.”

I looked at him as if he were crazy. “What?”

“Brazilian. You know, from Brazil. They’ve all got wolf eyes, small waists, big asses, curly brown hair, tiny pussies, and big tempers. Best sex on the planet is a Brazilian bitch. Looks like you ran into one. What’s her name?”

I was relieved that he had no idea who she was, but I wasn’t about to tell him her name. “Fuck I don’t know,” I snapped back. “I fucked her a few times. That’s it.”

“I fucked a Brazilian bitch once. She lived next door to One-eyed Pete. Stayed with her cousin for the summer in that little white house. Year before last.” He exhaled heavily. “Name was Natalia Silva.”

I remembered her. Other than having a fantastic ass, she looked nothing like Andy. I rolled my eyes. “I remember her. Dark skin. Curly brown hair. Big ass.”

His mouth slowly twisted into a smile as memories of her came to mind. In a moment, his eyes widened as if telling the tale of a battle he’d fought in and narrowly escaped death. “Bitch had a twat so tight it felt like I was trying to butt fuck a bird when I screwed her. When I came, it was like a fuckin’ geyser. Made me dizzy for about ten minutes after, too.”

I couldn’t help but wonder why Cash stopped fucking her if her pussy even came close to resembling Andy’s. “Why’d you quit fucking her?”

“Didn’t want to. She found out I was fucking that stripper, and she clocked me in the head with a skillet while I was sleeping.” He chuckled as he touched a z-shaped scar on the side of his forehead. “Then, the crazy motherfucker pulled out a knife and tried to cut me. Left my best pair of jeans and my favorite boots on the floor at the foot of her bed. Ended up leaving in my wife beater and boxers. Rode the ‘Glide home half naked. Brazilian bitches are good pussy, but they’re crazy.”

“I thought you got that scar in a fight?”

“I did,” he said. “A fight with Natalia about that stripper.”

I laughed. “Getting the truth out of you is damned near impossible.”

“You want the truth? All you gotta do is ask.”

Having a woman in my life would put the club at risk. It was my duty to protect the men, not put them in harm’s way. Therefore, I didn’t do relationships. I never had, and I never would. Not having Andy’s pussy to fuck wasn’t something I wanted to think about, though. Nevertheless, ridding myself of her was a requirement, not a recommendation.

“Ever miss fucking her?” I asked. “Now that she’s gone?”

“All the time. Fucking her was like riding one of those Panigales.” He sat down on his motorcycle and gazed blankly at the sea of motorcycles parked beside us. “If I took yours and sold it, do you think you’d ever find another bike that’d perform like it?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. There was nothing on earth that could perform like the Panigale. “Nope.”

“Panigale pussy. That’s what you ought to call it.” He gestured toward the six Italian race bikes. “Nothing compares.”

If he was right, and I feared he was, severing my ties with Andy was something I needed to do immediately.

I hoped hitting me in the head with a skillet wasn’t her reaction.