Hot Doggin’ (Bitches With Stitches #1)

Chapter 1Stiles

CHAPTER

ONE

STILES

“Order me another root beer. I’m gonna go hit the head.”

McCormick pushes to his feet, and I watch him amble toward the bathroom, his gait affected by his prosthetic leg. I flag the server and order another round, and pull my phone from my pocket to check my notifications while I wait for him to return.

The Bitches with Stitches group chat is in full swing today. I keep it muted, otherwise the constant dinging would drive me crazy. It was nothing important, just the usual BS. Nash wants to know how often he has to change the soil in his plant, Leif. Mandy is asking if anyone has an extra pair of pantyhose. I don’t even want to know what he’s gonna do with them. Why in the fuck would we have pantyhose? Brandt is planning another group karaoke night.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I glance up to see McCormick striding toward me with a lopsided grin. He’s striking, with his burnt orange hair and short beard, the scar across his right cheek, and the sheer size of him. He’s not as large as me, but he‘s hefty for sure.

“What could he possibly want with pantyhose?” he asks, and I laugh, knowing he checked his messages in the bathroom.

“Beats me. If you find out, let me know. I’m not gonna ask.”

The server delivers two glasses of root beer. McCormick takes a sip and frowns. “This shit’s flat.”

Spokes and Smokes isn’t our usual hangout. We normally hang at the Black Mountain Tavern, but this motorcycle dive bar on the outskirts of town, just off the highway, is a popular spot for bikers to pop in before they reach Maggie Valley, or head up to The Dragon, two of the best riding spots in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The place is packed with my fellow brethren from the ALR, the American Legion of Riders, a veteran motorcycle club.

Almost every Sunday, we get together and ride with no particular destination in mind. It isn’t about the destination, though, it’s the journey. The unity, and just feeling the wind on your face. It feels like… Freedom.

A feeling I don’t get anywhere else other than from my bike, racing down the highway, going seventy miles an hour, feeling the powerful vibration between my thighs. I love that shit. Also, I don’t look half bad in my leather jacket. McCormick likes to wear a vest covered with patches. He looks badass in it because it shows off his thick biceps to perfection.

One of the ALR, a big guy with a loud mouth named Bruce, shouts across the bar. “Hey, McCormick, you walk about as fast as you ride!” He laughs uproariously at his own joke.

“Says the guy with two good legs,” Mac mumbles.

Bruce is a fucking idiot. “Don’t listen to him. He’s drunk.”

“Yeah, and he’s riding.” McCormick rolls his eyes at the man’s stupidity and carelessness. We never drink when we ride. It's our number one rule.

A slim brunette, wearing painted on jeans and a crop top, plops down beside me. “My drink ran dry. What’s a girl gotta do around here to get a refill?” she asks, draping her arms around my neck.

Her cheap perfume smells like rubbing alcohol and potpourri, and under that is a layer of stale cigarettes and sweat. I cringe, wrinkling my nose as I pull my face back from hers.

McCormick’s face draws tight. “Why don’t you go ask your old man, Barbie, and leave mine alone?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, McCormick.”

She says it with a nasty bite, because everything about Barbie is nasty, starting with her tongue and her attitude. Nothing about her resembles her namesake.

He shoots her a glare that makes most people shrivel. “Well, I’m sure as shit talking to you, girl, so get gone.”

The last time she hit on me, her boyfriend tried to pick a fight with me, like I instigated it or something. Mac had to step in, and it became a whole shit show. We’re not doing that today.

“God, you two are so gay for each other.” With a hiss like a rattlesnake, she slithers off.

“Thanks, lover.”

Mac grins. “No problem, cupcake.”

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

Mac nods and tosses back the last of his drink. “Yeah, it’s getting crowded in here.”

It isn’t, but I know what he meant. He’s had enough, and so have I. “Come on, I’ve got somewhere better in mind.”

Bikes of every make and model are lined up outside Spokes and Smokes. McCormick straddles his Harley Super Glide, and with his prosthetic leg, nudges the kickstand and fires her up. He wore his patriotic leg today, airbrushed with the stars and stripes of the flag. It’s decorated with the signatures of his brothers-in-arms and fellow vets in Sharpie . McCormick usually wears shorts, because he never gives a fuck about showing off his leg. It’s just part of who he is. Take it or leave it.

He’s like that with everything. His personality is louder than his orange hair. He has a big mouth and an even bigger heart. I can’t understand how someone like him, who lacks total common sense or self-preservation instincts, has made it this far in life.

Why had the Army given this man a gun and grenades?

Maybe I look at him with rose-colored glasses because he’s my best friend, my brother to the soul. As much as he aggravates the fuck out of me, I still love him right down to my core.

“Follow me,” I call, pulling out in front of him.

We ride for nearly thirty minutes before pulling off the highway. If you blink, you’ll miss the narrow gravel drive that turns off the road. We park and walk the short distance to an outcropping of large, smooth boulders.

”Fuck, you can see the whole damn valley from here!” McCormick snaps off his sunglasses, taking in the view. The setting sun paints the sky in a wash of pastel colors: baby blue and pale pink, yellows and oranges, and even lavender. It’s gonna be a beautiful sunset tonight.

“This is my spot.”

“You have a spot? How come you never told me?”

He sounds genuinely offended and I laugh. He can’t imagine that I don’t share every fucking thing with him. “I’ll let you borrow it,” I wink, laughing again when he scowls.

We stretch out on the rocks, and I breathe out a deep sigh, settling in to watch the sun set over the Ridge. Nothing takes my breath like these mountains. They remind me how small I am in the grand scheme of things, and how Mother Nature always has the last word.

Beside me, McCormick breathes out a similar sigh, but I know he’s just gearing up. He can’t stay quiet for long, it’s not in his nature. Unlike me. I love the quiet. My mind works so hard to hold on to recent memories, and the silence is like a balm, a break from the chaos in my head.

“How would your life be different if you hadn’t gotten hurt?”

“Jesus, Mac. That’s a loaded question. I don’t fucking know. You can bet I probably wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now.”

He frowns. “I think about that shit all the time,” he admits. “If I hadn’t lost my leg, who knows? Maybe I’d have finished out my contract, or maybe I would have died with both legs intact.”

“Who fucking cares? It don’t change a damn thing. I always figured I would be a mechanic, and that’s what I am.”

“Really? I thought that was just something you fell back on.”

“Maybe it is. What’s the difference? Growing up, all I knew how to do was work on bikes. Always imagined I would work in a garage. I’m happy with where I ended up.”

“Do you think you want to own your own garage someday?”

Cracking my knuckles, I lean back and cross one boot over my knee. “Nah. Too much responsibility.” McCormick laughs. “I can’t remember shit. I don’t think I could run a business successfully.”

“Bullshit! You can do anything,” he swears. That’s my best friend, always coming to my defense, even if it makes both of us liars.

“Yeah, but the point is, I don’t want to do it. Don’t want to come in on my day off and work. Don’t want to put up with customers’ bullshit. Don’t want to deal with the rules and regulations of running a business. I just want to go in, get my hands dirty and feel like I accomplished something by fixing the bike, and then go the fuck home. More time for this.”

The sun dips lower, partially obscured behind a mountain peak. I can feel the temperature beginning to drop and zip up my jacket.

“I thought I would be career Army.”

“Really?” I laugh, not meaning to snort.

He looks offended. “Yeah, why not? I loved that shit. I don’t know. I guess it worked out for the best. My Sergeant fucking hated me. I’d never have gotten promoted.”

I’m laughing now, I can’t help it. He’s such an ass. “Is there something you’re not doing that you want to do?”

McCormick sits around on his ass all day, waiting for me to get off work so we can ride or hang. He has a little side gig, where he helps vets qualify for disability and fill out their forms, and he makes a couple of bucks doing it, but mostly he lives off his disability pension.

“Nah, just this. Ride or die.”

He raises his fist, and I bump it with mine.

“Ride or die.”

That was our pact. We ride together, we die together, and generally annoy the fuck out of each other on the days in between. There’s no one I would rather have by my side. In the most unlikely ways, McCormick and I are perfectly suited for each other.

He’s the sunshine to my grumpiness. I have common sense to his impracticality. He reminds me of all the little shit I forget. I try to get him to eat healthier and take better care of himself. He finds all the best shows on TV for us to watch. I keep up with the maintenance on his bike. He handles all of my endless and exasperating VA paperwork. I do my best to be his wingman so he can get laid more than once a year.

We’re perfectly in sync in the most imperfect ways. But I wouldn’t change a thing.

I glance over at him, admiring the way the setting sun behind him appears to make a glowing inferno around his head, setting his red hair on fire.

“Quit worrying about what you were and what you’re not and just be who you are.”

“Yeah?” He looks at me with this small smile that’s contagious.

“Yeah. Ain’t a fucking thing wrong with you, besides everything.”

He grins, his bright white teeth a stark contrast against his orange beard. “You fucking love me.”

I do.