Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1) by Justin Morrow, Brandace Morrow
Authors: Justin Morrow, Brandace Morrow
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we use the drones. I know I can’t hack a predator, but I can hack a shadow.” Mac referred to the much smaller drone that resembled an R/C airplane from the late ‘90s. “The predators we can take with fly-by-wire from the Colombians. Or maybe even the General.”
Disbelief washed over the table as Mac mentioned the General, someone we weren’t supposed to talk about at the table just in case we were bugged. If the General went down, we were all dead. A lot of outlaws used the General, not just us.
“Maybe one day bro,” I broke the silence and slowly heating up stares. “But for the near future, we need to get used to being underground.”
Another pause. I didn’t know if Harvey was about to flip shit on Mac, and after a few uncomfortable moments, Harvey spoke up.
“I think this is settled, then. For the short-run, we’re going to be underground. Enough of this, boys. We’ve been away from home for too long. Take the night to unwind. We’ll convene tomorrow at 1600. Have fun, boys.” Harvey snapped the gavel up and gave it a couple taps on the table before letting it go.
We filed out of the room and bellied up to the bar for our customary shot of Jameson.
“To the fallen,” the club recited in unison as they tipped a sip out on the floor and slammed the rest. A few chest thumps and bro-fists later, we were out in the bright, New Mexico sunlight.
“Hold up, guys. I need my smokes,” I called out as I opened my saddlebag.
“Ah, fuck me.” I looked inside with discontent. It was empty. I needed smokes.
“Better find you an old lady, guy,” Harvey mocked as he grabbed a fresh pack from his saddlebags and tossed it to me. “I never run out.”
Of course, he was talking about how Lola always kept his saddlebags stocked with smokes, snacks, and whatever he liked while we were out at the rig doing jobs. We walked the three hundred foot trek to the saloon together. Mac peeled off and headed for the motel, while the rest of us headed for whiskey and pussy. I couldn’t even picture having an old lady, or letting anyone in on all my shit. I wouldn’t do that to a woman. I was more of a gentleman than that.
We stepped into the bar and they already had some nice tunes set up for us. The song that was on was a new female fronted metal band. They made great strip tease music. The lead singer was so fucking hot. I used to think about her as I’d whack it in my jack shack in Afghanistan. I would close my eyes and picture a beautiful chick, dressed to kill in black leathers with studs, high heel booties, and fish net stockings straddling my lap and singing dirty songs into my ear.
I could relate to the fucked up feelings that were buried in this music. The writers may never had gone to war, but they sang to my heart and I loved it with both my heart and dick.
The Soiled Doves were primed and ready for us. A couple hang arounds sat at the bar. They weren’t part of the club, but they weren’t unwelcomed there. These were guys that would help the club when we asked, but never wanted to embrace the life. We didn’t blame them. Being an outlaw wasn’t for everyone, and the military requirement was mandatory for a full patch. The Soiled Doves were dressed especially to my liking. All my usuals were there, and I liked my usuals. I didn’t like breaking in a new Dove. It was awkward and fucking annoying. Taking a seat near the stage, one of my Doves sat next to me with my whiskey and beer at the ready.
“Thanks, love.” I nodded and raised my glass to her and the girl that was dancing on stage before taking a mouthful of smooth, cool whiskey, aged in what tasted like a hickory barrel. I sat against the back of the chair, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and tried to unwind. I didn’t like the flashbacks, and I sure as hell didn’t like the sticky sweat that coated my shirts in their aftermath.
I for damn sure didn’t know what was the right thing to do about the Mac situation. I loved him. He was
Disbelief washed over the table as Mac mentioned the General, someone we weren’t supposed to talk about at the table just in case we were bugged. If the General went down, we were all dead. A lot of outlaws used the General, not just us.
“Maybe one day bro,” I broke the silence and slowly heating up stares. “But for the near future, we need to get used to being underground.”
Another pause. I didn’t know if Harvey was about to flip shit on Mac, and after a few uncomfortable moments, Harvey spoke up.
“I think this is settled, then. For the short-run, we’re going to be underground. Enough of this, boys. We’ve been away from home for too long. Take the night to unwind. We’ll convene tomorrow at 1600. Have fun, boys.” Harvey snapped the gavel up and gave it a couple taps on the table before letting it go.
We filed out of the room and bellied up to the bar for our customary shot of Jameson.
“To the fallen,” the club recited in unison as they tipped a sip out on the floor and slammed the rest. A few chest thumps and bro-fists later, we were out in the bright, New Mexico sunlight.
“Hold up, guys. I need my smokes,” I called out as I opened my saddlebag.
“Ah, fuck me.” I looked inside with discontent. It was empty. I needed smokes.
“Better find you an old lady, guy,” Harvey mocked as he grabbed a fresh pack from his saddlebags and tossed it to me. “I never run out.”
Of course, he was talking about how Lola always kept his saddlebags stocked with smokes, snacks, and whatever he liked while we were out at the rig doing jobs. We walked the three hundred foot trek to the saloon together. Mac peeled off and headed for the motel, while the rest of us headed for whiskey and pussy. I couldn’t even picture having an old lady, or letting anyone in on all my shit. I wouldn’t do that to a woman. I was more of a gentleman than that.
We stepped into the bar and they already had some nice tunes set up for us. The song that was on was a new female fronted metal band. They made great strip tease music. The lead singer was so fucking hot. I used to think about her as I’d whack it in my jack shack in Afghanistan. I would close my eyes and picture a beautiful chick, dressed to kill in black leathers with studs, high heel booties, and fish net stockings straddling my lap and singing dirty songs into my ear.
I could relate to the fucked up feelings that were buried in this music. The writers may never had gone to war, but they sang to my heart and I loved it with both my heart and dick.
The Soiled Doves were primed and ready for us. A couple hang arounds sat at the bar. They weren’t part of the club, but they weren’t unwelcomed there. These were guys that would help the club when we asked, but never wanted to embrace the life. We didn’t blame them. Being an outlaw wasn’t for everyone, and the military requirement was mandatory for a full patch. The Soiled Doves were dressed especially to my liking. All my usuals were there, and I liked my usuals. I didn’t like breaking in a new Dove. It was awkward and fucking annoying. Taking a seat near the stage, one of my Doves sat next to me with my whiskey and beer at the ready.
“Thanks, love.” I nodded and raised my glass to her and the girl that was dancing on stage before taking a mouthful of smooth, cool whiskey, aged in what tasted like a hickory barrel. I sat against the back of the chair, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and tried to unwind. I didn’t like the flashbacks, and I sure as hell didn’t like the sticky sweat that coated my shirts in their aftermath.
I for damn sure didn’t know what was the right thing to do about the Mac situation. I loved him. He was
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