“Good enough. I love you.”
“Love you too, sis.”
I hang up, power the phone off, then slip it beneath the floorboard next to the bed. Phones are tricky. They could be taken off you at a moment’s notice to check who you’re calling and why you’re calling them. This prepaid burner is my secure way to contact Rae.
I pull my cut, the leather vest that declares my allegiance to the club, over my shoulders. It’s protection, like the gear I used to pull on for the long walk to an explosive device. The Iron Outlaws patch makes me feel more powerful than my ATF badge. They’re both symbols I believe in, even though one contradicts the other.
There’s still enough ATF in me to realize I’m trying to protect communities from violent criminals and criminal organizations while being a member of the Iron Outlaws MC.
It doesn’t make sense.
I lock the door as I leave and climb onto my bike.
To match cover, my Fat Boy is old, but man, is she a sweet ride. I’m sure a psychologist could explain why riding down the highway with your legs on either side of a powerful vibrating machine is the closest thing to heaven that a guy can get, outside of sex.
I embrace it, letting the freedom of it soothe me. Sun on my face, cares left behind for a few precious moments.
“Preacher man,” Halo, the club’s perpetually tanned road captain says as I pull up at the clubhouse. He spends his life outdoors, hates being penned inside. The former navy SEAL is watching a prospect clean his bike. “You want yours done?” He tips his chin in the direction of my bike.
“Sounds good.”
Halo looks at the guy on his knees polishing chrome with a rag. “Better hop to it, prospect.”
I don’t miss being one of the grunts, but I’m no closer to truly being one of the members either.
Three hours later, as I lie on my bed in the clubhouse, I’m still thinking about how the hell can I get what I want from the rest of my life.
“You seem distracted,” Jessica, one of the club girls, says as she strips.
She’s right. I am, even as my dick hardens.
“Club business, babe,” I say—code fornone of your fucking business.
The words roll off my tongue with ease.
In truth, I wonder how much longer I can last undercover. It’s not because I’m at risk of being found out. My cover is rock solid. With his father’s permission, I’m using the name Phillip York, a dear friend and army chaplain assigned to my battalion who died at forty-two from an undiagnosed heart condition, two years after he got out of the service. Most of the outlaws will do just a quick military check on members, and a search for Chaplain Phillip York will prove that he served.
The spiritual side is covered—my brutal preacher father had a passion for whipping his unrepentant children who couldn’t repeat Bible verses. I enlisted as soon as I could to earn cash and get Mom and Rae a place of their own, so they weren’t financially dependent on Dad.
Rae left, taking her scars and nothing else with her.
Mom stayed.
Last time I saw Mom, she had a bruise on the side of her face, which she said came from walking into a door. She’s walked into at least a hundred of them over the years.
With an army chaplain as cover, I can pick and choose what I do that skirts the law.
My ability to create a believable background is unquestionable. I know what I can legally do versus what constitutes entrapment. Problem is, I’m following those rules less and less. Worse, I’m enjoying it.
“Well,” Jessica says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “Technically, I’m club business.” She pushes her tits together, knowing how much I like to fuck them. “How about you take care of me?”
This part of the role is easy to get into and, honestly, a distraction from the whirling thoughts in my head. I’m naked. My dick is hard.
She’s here willingly, and club girls know what they’re getting into.
“Then get on up here,” I say, patting the bed.
She slips her panties down her legs and straddles me, her thick thighs wide across mine as she rubs her pussy up and down my dick.
