Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“And?” what did it matter?
“And they are the reason our boys are in Lake Charles. I saw Idaho, bottom rockers. What did you see Maddie?” Red asked, waiting on her reply before she finished her message.
“Same.” Maddie replied simply, leaving me wondering what in the hell they were talking about.
“Hey!” I snapped, aggrieved that they were speaking as if I wasn’t in the car. “Speak English.”
“The bottom rocker they wear tells us what state they are from. These guys were from Idaho, which tells us that their threat to call in reinforcements wasn’t bullshit.” Well, that made sense.
“What was up with the way you were talking to them?” I asked, realizing how close I had come to be too friendly.
“When someone from a club addresses you, always refer to your ol’ man. When you introduce yourself, unless you want to be friendly, never let them know your name, just your ol’ man’s title and that you are his property. We showed no form of disrespect and we didn’t lead them on. Never lead them on. You don’t want them thinking your man ain’t givin' it to ya good enough at home.” Wow. This club shit was a lot more complicated than I had thought. The idea of me being addressed by another club never even came to mind. “That’s why we wear property patches, to avoid shit like this. But, we can’t wear a property patch everywhere we go,” Red said, her frustration getting the better of her, as she pulled out a cigarette and lit up. I started to say something about her smoking in my car, but then Maddie lit up too. Who was I to crush their spirits at a time when a cigarette was much needed? The rest of our ride was made in silence, all three of our heads spinning with thoughts of what would happen when the Metal and Madness MC came face to face with the Devil’s Renegades.
It was after two in the morning when we finally arrived at the clubhouse located in the middle of Lake Charles. It was once a building that housed several offices, but was now the property of the Devil’s Renegades, Lake Charles chapter. Even though the outside still looked like that of an office, the inside had been transformed to look similar to the one in Hattiesburg. Pool tables, couches, and a bar long enough to seat twenty, filled the front area. Behind the cinderblock wall, at the back of the building, were rooms where the club stayed when they couldn’t go home, or where other chapters were housed when they were in town. Behind that was the meeting room, where church was held, which was equipped with a long table, a lot of chairs and shadow boxes filled with fallen brothers’ cuts. When we walked in, I was surprised to find the place packed with people. Women danced on the bar, men gathered in circles talking, and the music was almost deafening. Maddie and Red left me to fend for myself as they floated around the room like social butterflies, reacquainting themselves with the ol’ ladies. My eyes scanned the room, looking for those ocean-blues I had not seen in several days.
“Hey baby.” I turned to the familiar sound of Ronnie’s warm voice greeting me. He stood tall, his legs bowed and a Bud Light dangling from his ring-clad fingers.
“Hey, Ronnie!” I eagerly accepted his hug, and was flooded with warmth as he kissed my cheek. There was something calming about his presence.
“Luke is around here somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you find him.” I followed Ronnie as he made his way through the crowd at a slow pace. My eyes were constantly searching; looking twice at every orange and black cut to be sure I didn’t miss him. I was so busy searching that I had not noticed Ronnie had stepped around a man blocking our path, until I ran into the back of him. The impact was so hard and sudden, that I felt myself falling back before his powerful hand grabbed my arm to hold me upright. My eyes dragged up his huge frame until they found his face, which was hard as steel, much like the rest of his body. This was the guy people pictured when they put a face to the word “biker.” He was more than intimidating, he was downright fucking scary. He wore a hat just like the one Luke often wore; black and turned backwards, with the letters DFFD stitched in orange on the back panel. His French Fork goatee was long and dark, and the whites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot, while the irises were a dull cornflower blue. His thick neck was covered in tattoos that laced through one another, creating a beautiful design that disappeared under the collar of his black t-shirt. I envisioned them continuing down his rock hard body, past his navel and to his V that I would have paid good money to see. I swallowed hard at my perverted thoughts, not believing that this man that oozed bad-boy, biker, killer, womanizer, fighter, thug-life, gangster, and panty-wetter all wrapped up in one, could have such an effect on me. I looked down at his hand, which still had a firm grip on me, and noticed the tattoos continued down his arms and to the tips of his fingers. I wasn’t sure if I was fascinated by him, scared of him, or turned on by him, but I was going to convince myself that I was scared. I had to be. Why else would my heart be hammering so hard against my chest that the sound of the music couldn’t even overpower it?