Hawk's Property: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 1) by Chiah Wilder Page B
Authors: Chiah Wilder
Ads: Link
door, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor. The two had been through so much. They’d met when Sherrie’s mother moved to Pinewood Springs after Sherrie’s parents split up. Sherrie was in junior high, didn’t know anyone at the school, and everyone had their clique; it was miserable. Cara befriended her, and they had been best friends ever since.
When they went out, Cara usually picked up the tab, and Sherrie appreciated it because she was always broke. Being a lead teacher at the Little Tykes Day Care Center didn’t pay enough, but she loved the kids and the work.
Sherrie knew Cara was in deep with her sexy biker, and she didn’t believe any of Cara’s excuses or denials of her feelings for Hawk. She knew Cara, and Cara was scared shitless to open her heart to another man. Going out with Luke didn’t pose any danger because he was so not Cara’s type, and Sherrie knew he was just a safety net, even if Cara didn’t know that yet. Sexy Biker was a different deal altogether. During their lunch conversation, and the way Cara brightened when Sherrie talked about Hawk’s attraction to her, Sherrie detected that she had a primal pull toward him. Sherrie was rooting for Sexy Biker, because she knew her friend needed a real man to free her heart from the self-imposed prison she’d put herself in four years back. Sexy Biker would be the perfect liberator.
* * *
Stay in a motel. Why the fuck would I do that? Even though it was early August, there was a chill in the air. Fall was going to come early this year. The crickets’ symphony reverberated from the oak and maple trees as Hawk sped around the curves. Craving solitude, he took the back road to the clubhouse.
The wind whipping around him and the hum of his bike’s powerful engine always made his troubles disappear. Out on the road, nothing mattered except for the asphalt and the ride. Fuck, it’s better than sex. Well, almost … At least his Harley didn’t talk back to him the way bitches did. Like Cara. She had a mouth on her. Must be the lawyer in her, always ready to argue. And she was so goddamn bossy. Who needed that shit? No, his love was a kick-ass, chrome powerhouse.
Hawk loved customizing his bike; it was his obsession. He and his bike were one—it was for the ride—it was always about the ride. The only ones who got it were bikers—true bikers—not those fucking weekend assholes who wore leather pretending they were bad. God, he hated them. Those jerks would come out with their buddies and ride around the mountain passes, acting tough, but they were just sniveling ass-wipes. They didn’t know shit about the ride, the life, the brotherhood. He gritted and leaned low around the curve on Ghost’s Pass, his shin inches from touching the road. This was freedom.
He came around the backside of the clubhouse. A thirty-foot, chain-link fence with barbed wire on the top surrounded it. The Insurgents had bought an old, three-story, red brick schoolhouse back in 1976. The founding president, Stinger Gaitlan, wanted a big enough place that could accommodate the growth of the club and the neighboring charters.
The clubhouse was twenty-five miles outside of Pinewood Springs. The front door bored the logo of the club—a flaming skull with two smoking pistols on each side—and the name “Insurgents” in large, red and yellow lettering.
There was a big parking lot in front of the fence, and evergreen, pine, and aspen trees surrounded the clubhouse. The Colorado River ran alongside the back of the club’s property, and the river’s swift, dangerous currents mirrored the craziness of the club’s parties most weekends.
Hawk parked his Harley near the fence as he spied a couple of prospects cleaning out the trash cans from the previous night’s party. Seeing a patched member, they scrambled out of the way so Hawk could pass. Prospects were vying to also become patched members and had to go through a probationary period to prove they
When they went out, Cara usually picked up the tab, and Sherrie appreciated it because she was always broke. Being a lead teacher at the Little Tykes Day Care Center didn’t pay enough, but she loved the kids and the work.
Sherrie knew Cara was in deep with her sexy biker, and she didn’t believe any of Cara’s excuses or denials of her feelings for Hawk. She knew Cara, and Cara was scared shitless to open her heart to another man. Going out with Luke didn’t pose any danger because he was so not Cara’s type, and Sherrie knew he was just a safety net, even if Cara didn’t know that yet. Sexy Biker was a different deal altogether. During their lunch conversation, and the way Cara brightened when Sherrie talked about Hawk’s attraction to her, Sherrie detected that she had a primal pull toward him. Sherrie was rooting for Sexy Biker, because she knew her friend needed a real man to free her heart from the self-imposed prison she’d put herself in four years back. Sexy Biker would be the perfect liberator.
* * *
Stay in a motel. Why the fuck would I do that? Even though it was early August, there was a chill in the air. Fall was going to come early this year. The crickets’ symphony reverberated from the oak and maple trees as Hawk sped around the curves. Craving solitude, he took the back road to the clubhouse.
The wind whipping around him and the hum of his bike’s powerful engine always made his troubles disappear. Out on the road, nothing mattered except for the asphalt and the ride. Fuck, it’s better than sex. Well, almost … At least his Harley didn’t talk back to him the way bitches did. Like Cara. She had a mouth on her. Must be the lawyer in her, always ready to argue. And she was so goddamn bossy. Who needed that shit? No, his love was a kick-ass, chrome powerhouse.
Hawk loved customizing his bike; it was his obsession. He and his bike were one—it was for the ride—it was always about the ride. The only ones who got it were bikers—true bikers—not those fucking weekend assholes who wore leather pretending they were bad. God, he hated them. Those jerks would come out with their buddies and ride around the mountain passes, acting tough, but they were just sniveling ass-wipes. They didn’t know shit about the ride, the life, the brotherhood. He gritted and leaned low around the curve on Ghost’s Pass, his shin inches from touching the road. This was freedom.
He came around the backside of the clubhouse. A thirty-foot, chain-link fence with barbed wire on the top surrounded it. The Insurgents had bought an old, three-story, red brick schoolhouse back in 1976. The founding president, Stinger Gaitlan, wanted a big enough place that could accommodate the growth of the club and the neighboring charters.
The clubhouse was twenty-five miles outside of Pinewood Springs. The front door bored the logo of the club—a flaming skull with two smoking pistols on each side—and the name “Insurgents” in large, red and yellow lettering.
There was a big parking lot in front of the fence, and evergreen, pine, and aspen trees surrounded the clubhouse. The Colorado River ran alongside the back of the club’s property, and the river’s swift, dangerous currents mirrored the craziness of the club’s parties most weekends.
Hawk parked his Harley near the fence as he spied a couple of prospects cleaning out the trash cans from the previous night’s party. Seeing a patched member, they scrambled out of the way so Hawk could pass. Prospects were vying to also become patched members and had to go through a probationary period to prove they
Similar Books
