“Jennifer.”
“I’m not—”
She cuts me off, staring down at my arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me patch you up.”
“Not necessary. I’ve got a woman who’ll handle that.”
She recoils like I smacked her. “You’ve got an OL’ Lady?”
“Here you go, Ruthless.” Squid hands me a cold one. I take the beer and a few napkins, pressing them to my arm.
My eyes fall on Amos “Greaser” Trent, new prospect and club mechanic. He just finished touching up the Royal Bastards logo on my bike. “Hey, Greaser.”
“What’s up, Ruthless?”
“My bike looks good, man.”
A broad grin spreads across his chocolate-hued cheeks. He's about six foot two. Normally, there's at least one club slut vying for his attention. He must have just gotten here. They're always drawn to his amber eyes, as they often mention.
“Glad you like it.”
I jerk my thumb at Jennifer. “She’s looking for a Royal Bastard to give her some attention.”
Greaser eyes her over his beer.
I sip my beer and hold the napkins to my bloody arm. As soon as this meeting is over, I’ll wake up my woman and have her bandage me up.
Jennifer whines. “I want your attention, Ruthless.”
I lift my bottle. “Sorry, darling.” I wink before stalking toward the Prez’s office.
Our clubhouse sits on the corner—a two-story, steel-gray warehouse ringed by a black-metal privacy fence. Out back, a cavernous garage is where our mechanics tinker on bikes and cars. We park the club cars and trucks in the back parking lot for special runs. A sturdy awning is attached to the clubhouse. Perfect place to fire up the grills. Rows of picnic tables are ready for bikers and their families to congregate. It’s our refuge.
Inside, it’s fully tricked out: a jukebox stands in the music area where a live band kicks off every Sunday, and just outsideis the game room, complete with plush couches, pool tables, dartboards, and even a private poker den. At the heart of the building stretches a long bar backed by rows of liquor bottles, with tables and chairs for bikers to gather. A few living quarters occupy the first floor, but the rest are up on the second, along with rooms for club “sluts” to hook up with whoever needs entertaining.
I rap my knuckles against the heavy door.
“Come in,” Prez barks.
His office feels like the ultimate biker man-cave. To my left is a gray upholstered sofa; in the corner, a poker table for the real private games. On the right stands a custom bar just for Prez, and smack in the middle is his desk, papers strewn around like he’d thrown them in a rage. A staircase in the back corner leads up to his private quarters.
I not at Bryan “Brillo” Farms, our Sergeant at Arms. He lounges in a chair by the desk—legendary for scraping skulls across asphalt as if he’s power-sanding concrete.
Always makes great conversation over drinks afterwards.
I drop onto the gray sofa and take a long pull of my beer. My gaze drifts to Barlowe “Viper” Smith, our thirty-two-year-old VP, nursing a neat whiskey. His medium-length black hair looks like he’s run his hands through it a few too many times. His cold blue eyes lock onto mine. “Hey, Ruthless,” he says.
I nod.
His thoughts are clearly elsewhere—probably on that crazy chick he’s been seeing.
“Ruthless, what the fuck is going on?” Prez snaps. His six four frame is perched on the edge of the desk. He runs his fingers through his golden brown low cut strands.
“You were supposed to watch the asshole until he led us to the stolen weapons. And now I hear you stole his girl?”
My jaw tightens. “She’s not hisanymore. She’s mine.”
His big, burly arms cross his massive chest. His gray eyes stare into mine. “So she’s your OL’ Lady now?”
