Chapter 1

Brat

The Roost was our kingdom, a dive bar fortress on the outskirts of Seville, Florida the place the Hell on Heelz MC reigned supreme. Neon indicators flickered like beacons for misplaced souls, and the jukebox performed a symphony of traditional rock and riot. My sisters and I claimed our typical spot, a battered spherical desk that had seen extra brawls and laughter than most locations see in a lifetime.

Razor leaned towards the desk, her boot tapping towards the picket leg. “So, Brat, heard from pricey previous dad recently?”

I snorted, swirling the final of my beer within the bottle. “Hell no. He’s nonetheless ruling his patch of desert like some sort of outlaw king. Too busy for his prodigal daughter.”

Pixie fiddled together with her lighter, the sparkle casting shadows throughout her colourful tattooed arms. “You ever remorse leaving Tucson?”

“Each rattling day,” I lied, catching Tank’s eye. She knew the reality. I didn’t look again. Not anymore.

Tank, the mountain of muscle and ink, chuckled, her voice gravelly. “Brat right here’s an excessive amount of of a Heel to accept any man’s kingdom. Similar to her mama. Ain’t that proper?”

The refrain of settlement from across the desk warmed me greater than whiskey burning its manner down my throat. These had been my individuals, my fierce household, sure not by blood however by the highway and the liberty it promised.

Tonight, our spot on the clubhouse pulsed with victory, the latest rating towards the Seville Slayers MC, the opposite one percenters in our neck of the woods. The laughter and chatter across the desk had been extra than simply the same old noise from us biker bitches, as these males favored to name us. They had been the sounds of triumph.

Razor’s eyes glinted with mischief below the dim mild. “Did you see the seems to be on their faces? Utterly bamboozled by a few harmless ladies,” she mentioned, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she air-quoted the final phrases.

Her slight body hiding her explosive nature, Pixie snickered and flipped her pink hair over her shoulder. “Harmless, my ass. We had them wrapped round our fingers from the second we walked into that strip membership. Simple pickings.”

Tank threw again her head and laughed, the sound booming round us. “Watching you three sweet-talk these Slayers out of their pants and into opening their wallets was higher than any heist film. They didn’t stand an opportunity.”

I couldn’t assist however smile massive, pleasure swelling in my chest for my sisters and the con we’d pulled off. Enjoying the unsuspecting females to a bunch of burly bikers was our MO. The rewards had been too candy to cross up. In spite of everything, we had been the Hell on Heelz MC, and hazard was our center title.

With a sly smile, Razor raised her glass. “To the very best rattling thieves on two wheels. These Slayers gained’t know what hit ‘em until they’re making an attempt to pay for his or her subsequent spherical of beers.”

We clinked our brews, the sound sharp within the charged ambiance of the Roost.

“To us,” I echoed, feeling that acquainted rush of adrenaline and camaraderie. This was what we lived for. The fun of the trip, the bond of sisterhood, and outsmarting any man silly sufficient to underestimate us.

Pixie rubbed her tiny palms collectively, her grin infectious. “You suppose they’ve figured it out but? That we helpless ladies took them for every thing they’d?”

Tank snorted, downing the remainder of her drink. “In the event that they’re as dumb as they appeared, they’re most likely nonetheless ready for us to return again from the liquor retailer.”

Laughter burst from our desk, drawing curious seems to be from the opposite patrons of the Roost. There wasn’t solely our membership right here. However that didn’t matter. We had been the Hell on Heelz MC, queens of the highway. This was our clubhouse, and tonight, we celebrated one other victory in a protracted line of conquests.

However as our laughter died down, and the evening wore on, I couldn’t shake the sensation that our recreation would possibly quickly be catching up with us. Swindling the Seville Slayers wasn’t simply one other rating. It was a declaration, one that would very nicely chew us within the ass if we weren’t cautious.

The Slayers weren’t recognized for his or her forgiving nature, and we’d simply made them seem like fools. I used to be positive our president may need one thing to say about it. It wasn’t technically towards our guidelines. However it was by no means sensible to poke a nest of vipers.

The subsequent evening on the Roost was like some other. Tonight, I used to be again in my head-to-toe leather-based, inclined over a recreation of pool, lining up my shot, when the unmistakable sound of hassle crashed by the ambiance.

Voices raised in anger and the heavy thud of shoes on picket flooring signaled an unwelcome intrusion. My grip on the cue tightened, a gust of vitality spiking. I straightened up, scanning the room for the supply of the disturbance. Nonetheless, it was my title being referred to as out that froze me in place.

“Brat!” It was Rage, our president, her voice resonating above the noise with authority and a contact of concern. I deserted the pool desk, pushing my manner by the gang to search out her standing inflexible, her gaze locked on the entrance door the place a gaggle of unfamiliar bikers had made their entrance.

A menacing presence urged previous Rage. The biker appeared like he stepped out of each dangerous woman’s dream. Six-foot one thing and 2 hundred kilos of swagger, he was all decked out in tattoos that snaked up his arms and disappeared below the rolled-up sleeves of his tight black tee. And that Harley emblem inked on his hand positive screamed badass.

His muscle groups, outlined by the ink and the tight cloth of his shirt, of his denims, spoke of battles fought and gained. His options bore the marks of many laborious roads traveled. He was a narrative I hadn’t learn. And rattling if I wasn’t inquisitive about each rattling phrase. Then my eyes traveled to his lower. I learn Riptide and practically gasped. The notorious president of the Slayers stared me down as if I used to be his prey.

Earlier than I may react, he was on me, his hand encircling my throat with a steely grip. What was worse was the chilly barrel of his gun urgent towards my temple. The room fell silent, each eye mounted on the lethal standoff.

“Inform me why I shouldn’t pull this set off, Brat,” the biker hissed.

My mouth hung open as I used to be caught in a whirlwind of concern and, bizarrely, a touch of pleasure. Asshole thought he had me, however I knew at any second I may slip away. And I knew my sisters had my again, it doesn’t matter what. However this biker’s eyes, darkish and delightful, held me in place extra securely than his iron grip on my throat. Darker than the depths of the ocean, his eyes sunk into mine, sending a wave of shivers and one thing else.

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