1. Cupid
CHAPTER ONE
CUPID
When you have a road name like Cupid, you take a lot of crap during your prospect years.
Not the case when you’re the President of the Royal Bastards MC for the Loveland, Colorado chapter.
There have been a few fools who dared to snicker at my name, and I made them kiss the asphalt with their teeth for disrespecting me.
It’s not about lacking tolerance. It’s about setting an example for others who dare to overstep our MC.
Royal Bastards are not to be fucked with, and it’s my job as the Loveland Chapter President to discipline those who try.
It’s not like I chose the name on my leather cut. That honor belonged to my biker brothers when I patched into the Royal Bastards years before.
Do I enjoy being named after a damn cherub?
Fuck no, at least not in my early days of club life.
Sure, I was pissed for a spell when the crew started calling me Cupid.
But the name wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I.
Besides, when your surname is Amor, you know a ridiculous amount of Roman mythology from your dork adolescent days, and you have a knack for setting up your brothers with their ole ladies, the name Cupid fits.
What doesn’t fit is the illusion of weakness my road name gives others.
While cupids are depicted as sweet little angels, I’m anything but.
One look at my mean mug makes that abundantly clear to anyone assuming otherwise.
It’s just an obnoxious, oxymoronic joke my brothers like to tease me about and others test against me.
Could I have protested the name choice my biker brothers had chosen?
Not without taking a lot of shit from the club and a beating.
Instead of being a whiny bitch over a joke, I did the only thing I had power over—I embraced my road name.
Hell, I even had the Roman god’s other half—a butterfly representing Psyche—tattooed across my chest with Cupid’s arrow pierced through it, sort of like the creature is pinned to me forever, filling the void of a woman’s place beside me, one I know I’ll never have.
There is no woman who could bring me inner peace while accepting the life I lead.
Thank fuck for that. This life is hard enough without love mucking it up. I’m content being a matchmaker and never the matched, and I don’t intend to give up bachelorhood if I can help it, not unless Miss Perfect zips on by, lassos my attention, and drags me after her.
Fat chance it will happen.
No hate against women. They’re positively lovely most of the time. I’m just not one to be tied down.
Oaks—our MC’s Vice President—says it’s because I haven’t found the right partner yet.
Maybe he’s right. Or maybe it’s because I’m too damn busy setting roots for our new chapter here in Loveland to give time to a willing woman of my choosing.
Jameson—our MC’s National President—needed a man he could trust implicitly to establish the Loveland chapter, someone he knew who could get the job done while assisting with the transportation of guns created by our National Chapter in New Orleans.
“What better bastard to run Loveland than Cupid himself?” Jameson stated, chuckling at his own pun and knowing full well I would never refuse him.
At first, Loveland took some adjusting getting use to.
The elevation is a big modification on the body, moving from below sea level in New Orleans to living at the gateway to the Rockies.
The air is thinner here, yet fresh, unlike the thick and sharp tang of the Big Easy.
Not to mention the music scene being vastly different.
Acoustic guitars and banjo folk rock replaced brassy jazz and electric blues.
Bison steaks and Palisade peach pies traded places with Creole gumbo and beignets.
And the gritty, mysterious characters that give New Orleans its infamous paranormal vibes were swapped with western artists and hiking hipsters.
In the two years my crew has been in Colorado, we’ve handled all the changes well aside from the snow.
The fluffy white crap is no joke, and there’s enough of it when you live near the mountains.
Not only is it fucking cold, it’s a slippery hazard to ride on.
Nearly took me and my hog out early this spring when I got too cocky with the throttle on a slush-filled road, unaware ice was still stuck to the pavement.
Never again will I assume the roads are fine when snow is present. It was a hard lesson learned.
And that’s the reason I’m here with Oaks and Crypt—our enforcer—inside Buck’s Garage in downtown Loveland.
The warm days are approaching and I need my hog in tiptop shape for the long runs this summer.
The tune-up was necessary. Although I had my bike repaired after my wipeout, the handlebars looked crooked when my front wheel was straight.
It wasn’t acceptable, and it needed to be repaired—stat.
A week without my motorcycle has made me one grumpy bastard. Presentation is half the battle when establishing turf. Driving around in my pickup truck doing club business is not ideal when I’m a Royal Bastard President trying to establish dominance in this city.
We’re not the only motorcycle club in these parts.
Hell, the Mercy Ravens MC is thirty minutes up the road in Fort Collins.
They may not be one-percent like us, but they’re a group of former Navy SEALs turned mercenaries.
The MC has a reputation in these parts for walking the line for the greater good, and they’ll ignore that line for enforcing peace.
They’ve locked down their territory like a military base, running their club like they’re still active duty, and they sure as hell ride hogs when they can.
It wouldn’t look good to other MCs if they don’t see me riding with my crew.
I need my motorcycle—now.
What was supposed to be a quick pay and pickup has turned into an hour’s wait as Buck wraps up business with another client on the far end of the garage, out of my eyesight. Every now and again, I hear Buck’s boisterous laughter and what sounds like the faint sound of a woman talking.
My molars grind together. Motherfucker better not be wasting my time—club time—flirting with some chick.
While Buck is across the garage shooting his shot, I’m wearing a damn trench into the oil-stained concrete pacing in my biker boots.
“The fuck is taking so long?” My nostrils flare as I come to stand in front of my brothers. “We need our own mechanic.”
“Or—just hear me out before biting my head off—maybe you can get another bike,” Oaks suggests, his tone extra soothing to calm me down.
I roll my eyes. “Not this again. I’m not replacing my motorcycle.”
“It wouldn’t be a replacement,” Oaks clarifies, throwing his hands in the air. He’s equally annoyed waiting while dealing with my ornery ass. “More like a backup for when shit like this happens. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
“I don’t want another bike,” I huff. “I like my bike.”
“And I like it when I don’t need to listen to you piss-whine about not having two wheels,” Oaks shoots back.
“I’ve got a solution,” an eerie, low voice says right behind me, making me jump in my biker boots.
“Dammit, Crypt! How many times do I need to tell you to stop creeping up on me like that?”
“Sorry, Prez,” he says, taking a big step back to give me space. He leans against the wall, pulling out his knife from his pocket to fiddle with—his fidget of choice. Crypt often stims when he needs to self-soothe, and my startled reaction triggered it.
Feeling like an asshole, I try to do damage control. “What’s your suggestion?”
“You could just not ride your bike in the snow,” Crypt offers, not bothering to look at us as he uses his switchblade to pick at the dirt underneath his nails.
“Not an option, buddy,” I say, hoping he drops the subject now. I’m too cranky to tolerate much today.
Crypt’s brows pull together, his dangerous manicure forgotten. “What’s wrong with driving a truck when the weather is shit?”
Oaks motions with his hands for Crypt to shut up, slicing the air quickly at his neck.
Too late. The cork popped.
“What’s wrong with it? Be fucking for real. We’re bikers, Crypt. We ride.”
Crypt shrugs, not caring if I chew his head off. “Yeah, we are. But Mother Nature doesn’t give a shit about it. Driving a vehicle is necessary sometimes. It’s not like it’s a clunker. You’ve got a nice truck with the big ole monster wheels and bucket seats.”
With my irritation already at max, I run a hand down my face. “If it’s such a nice truck, then piss off with it back to the club. Oaks will ride back with me.”
“I kind of have to drive the truck back,” Crypt says plainly, unfazed by my impatience. “I rode with you here so you could ride your bike back. Remember?”
Pretty sure steam is shooting out of my ears. But of course, Crypt isn’t picking up what I’m putting down. His autism sometimes makes it hard for him to read social cues or sarcasm. He’s best at doing what he knows—ensuring club rules are followed and handling discipline when they’re not.
As far as enforcers go, Crypt is a damn good one.
What he lacks in social skills, he more than makes up for by intimidating those whom the club deems need a reality check.
If I didn’t know him personally, I’d be wary of him, not because of his Goth appearance or obsession with death, but the way he conducts business, as if he himself is the Grim Reaper.
If not for his autism humanizing him, I’d think Crypt was Death.
“Crypt, buddy,” Oaks says, throwing him a lifeline. He nods at my truck. “Get out of this doghouse while you can.”
“Sure thing, Oaks,” Crypt says, heading towards my truck. Before climbing in, he turns back toward us. “Can I take it off-road, Cupid? I promise to hose her down afterward.”
Beside me, Oaks’ shoulders shake with silent laughter. He knows my temper can’t take much more.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I rein myself in. “Fine. Just go.”
“Thanks, Prez.”