Chapter One
“SO, DID Y’ALL fuck?”
Saint tore his gaze from the prospect polishing chrome on his motorcycle and found Gator plopping his wild ass on the opposite bench of the picnic table outside their clubhouse.
The crazy fucker had his signature red bandana tied around his head like a headband.
Dirty blond hair in desperate need of a trim poked out in every direction above and below the fabric, like he’d lost a fight with a leaf blower.
Sticking with his classic style, he wore a white beater under his cut and the ridiculous cut-off jean shorts they’d teased him about since he’d prospected three years ago.
Gator loved nothing more than showing off the missing chunk of his thigh and the jagged scar left by a hungry alligator on his family’s Florida wildlife farm.
He propped his scarred leg up on the bench like it was a trophy. “You got that post-sex glow, brother. I can see it from here. Shoulda worn my damn sunglasses.”
Crazy fucker.
Saint raised an eyebrow at his smirking brother, who threw his head back and laughed his loud, infectious laugh that always got at least one other person chuckling, whether they wanted to or not.
“Oh yeah, you fucked her,” Gator declared, pointing at Saint with the neck of his beer.
Saint had not, in fact, fucked her or anyone last night. “She was a sorority girl wearing a pink skirt made of fucking sparkly feathers.”
Still snickering, Gator shook his head. “And? You don’t like the skirt, you rip it off before you fuck her. Problem solved. The feathers float away, and you concentrate on the important shit like getting your dick wet.”
Her skirt had been the least of Saint’s issues.
Sure, she’d been hot and obviously down to fuck, but she’d been as high maintenance as they came, wearing shoes that cost over eight hundred dollars according to her equally prissy friend.
She’d pouted when she found out they didn’t have chilled champagne stocked behind the bar at the clubhouse or any champagne, for that matter.
His dick didn’t get hard for prissy anymore.
When he’d been younger and less discriminating, he wouldn’t turn down a fuck from any pussy, no matter how high maintenance, but he’d learned to be a little choosy in his early thirties.
Prissy women tended to be stage-five clingers who never left and cleaned out his wallet.
“Sorority girls aren’t my type,” he said.
Gator’s face screwed up in exaggerated confusion. “She got a pussy?”
Saint shrugged. “Assume so. Didn’t ask. Was too blinded by the glitter.”
Gator slapped the table. “Brother, you don’t ask the pussy questions, you just appreciate it.”
Rev, the newest prospect, finished polishing Saint’s bike and moved on to the next and most important.
At fifty-something, Copper was as formidable an MC president as he’d always been.
The man’s Harley was a beast, all gleaming chrome and matte black, and every brother knew better than to breathe too hard near it.
“Careful with that one,” Gator called to the skinny kid. “Fuck it up, and Prez will shove the whole bike up yer ass.”
The prospect’s eyes widened, and he froze an inch away from touching Copper’s bike with a microfiber cloth. “Really?”
That set Gator off in a fit of laughter. “You’ll see. As they say, fuck around and find out, little buddy.”
The poor kid’s face turned a sickly shade of green.
Saint could have jumped in and rescued him, but he kept his mouth shut.
Prospects got hazed, that’s just how the game was played.
Many prospects had been tortured before Rev and lived to tell the tale, including him and Gator.
Some of those prospects had been fantastic, and some had been absolute shit, but Copper had yet to shove his bike up someone’s ass despite threatening them all.
“Not seeing the problem here, brother,” Gator said, turning back to Saint. “She has a pussy, she should be your type.”
“Sorry, I’ve got standards, man.”
Grunting, Gator shook his head. “All standards will get you is blue balls and a tired right hand.”
Maybe. But they’d also keep Saint from ending up with a girlfriend he didn’t want who demanded he buy her next feather skirt. “And having none will get you burning piss.”
“Eh, nothing a little pill won’t fix right up.” Gator winked.
“Classy.”
“That’s me, baby. All class.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer, then belched so loud the prospect glanced over again. “The ladies love it.”
Saint snorted. “Sure, they do. Nothing gets the panties wet like acid reflux and a diseased dick.”
Before Gator could issue another snarky comeback, the clubhouse door swung open, and Copper and Thunder, Saint’s brother-in-law, strode out carrying a bucket with ice and a bunch of frosty beers.
The easy chatter dipped for half a second. Nothing obvious, nothing stiff, but the subtle shift always happened when their president stepped up to his men—respect without fear, loyalty without question.
“Hey, boys, mind if we crash your party?” Copper asked as he lifted the bucket. “We brought gifts.”
As if they could or would say no to their president.
Saint didn’t have a death wish. “Of course,” he said, sliding over to make room for Thunder.
Copper settled his giant body next to Gator, making the bench groan under his substantial weight. Even nearing sixty, the man was muscular as hell, all thick shoulders and corded forearms covered in ink. He carried his power with ease, like he’d been born wearing the patch and running the circus.
Gator scooted a fraction of an inch away. “Careful, Prez. This bench collapses, I’m blaming your old ass, not mine.”
Copper snorted. “You blame me, you better be ready to run laps around the clubhouse until those chicken legs fall off.”
“Joke’s on you,” Gator said, lifting his scarred thigh. “One’s already halfway gone.”
Thunder chuckled as he sat, reaching immediately for a frosty beer. Copper set the bucket in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, gentlemen.”
Saint grabbed his first of the day while Gator went in for a refill, humming some off-key country song as he fished around in the ice.
“Fuck,” Thunder said after drinking a long pull from his beer. “Been a day.”
“You ain’t shittin’,” Copper said as he popped the top off his bottle.
Saint recognized the tone and casual words, but the muscle in Copper’s jaw flexed.
The past few years had been smooth sailing as far as rivalries or problems with other clubs.
The Hell’s Handlers owned the Smoky Mountains, and anyone who was anyone knew it.
Other clubs respected them and didn’t fuck around in their area.
Until recently.
Over the last three weeks, they’d spotted bikers in cuts no one recognized riding around town, setting off alarm bells in their president’s head. Saint didn’t like it. This was his family, and the idea of anyone fucking with them brought out his murderous side.
He’d grown up protecting his siblings at all costs, taking the belt when his little brother was too exhausted to keep up in the fields, drawing the elders’ attention to himself so it didn’t land on the younger ones.
Makenna claimed his protective streak for those he loved was a trauma response or some shit like that.
Good for her for getting all healed in therapy, but he was fine, living his life, ready to fuck up anyone who side-eyed his family.
The philosophy served him well as he worked with Zach and one day hoped to take on the role of club enforcer.
“Think they’re gonna be a problem?” he asked.
Thunder grunted. “Too early to tell.”
“But you don’t like it?” Saint pushed.
“I don’t fucking like it,” Copper agreed. The quiet certainty in his voice held more weight than a shout ever would.
Copper understood the need to keep his family safe at all costs. Hell, he’d built an empire around that need.
“And I really don’t fucking like them being sneaky about it,” Copper added.
“What do you mean?” Gator asked, beer at his lips and interest sharpening his usually joking expression.
“He means we’ve seen three separate riders with the same cuts, but no one seems to know who they are or where they’re holing up,” Thunder said. “If you don’t have anything to hide, you don’t bother hiding.” He set down his beer and shrugged. “And they’re hiding.”
Shit, it did sound shady. “Need help tailing them?” Saint asked. His knuckles itched for the weight of brass and a good confrontation.
Copper nodded. “Probably. Execs are gonna meet tomorrow to come up with a plan, and I’ll fill in the whole club at church.”
“Got it.” Saint resisted the urge to crack his knuckles. Been a while since he’d roughed up anyone. He could use the release.
Shit, maybe Gator was right, and I should have fucked the feather-skirt woman last night.
Gator rubbed his hands together as a slightly psychotic grin curved up his lips on one side.
His sharp blue eyes lit with an eager gleam that Saint had seen one too many times.
It usually led to an uncomfortable conversation with the local police.
Luckily, they’d had the chief in their pocket for the past decade, though rumor had it he’d be retiring soon.
“Been too long since I’ve kicked a motherfucker’s ass,” Gator said. “My joints are starting to squeak.”
“Pretty sure that’s all the cheap beer in your system,” Thunder muttered.
Before anyone could respond, the purr of an engine had their attention shifting to the lot where Shell was parking the monstrosity of an SUV Copper insisted she drive.
“Shit,” Copper muttered, glancing at his watch. When he looked back up, concern radiated from his green-eyed gaze, undercutting the gruff word.