Chapter 2
two
JUDE
I stare at the contact in my phone, tempted to text.
The usual “Good morning, gorgeous” feels shallow and cheap with her.
Not that I’ve bothered with it for other women.
The words are lost in my tired brain, nothing seeming to fit just right.
With only yesterday’s momentary meeting, I know Greer is special.
Something deep inside of me came to life the moment I saw her.
When I caught her checking me out at the red light, I knew I wanted her.
The primal urge to conquer and claim pulsed through my veins as I followed her mile after mile until at last she surrendered.
Sure, she put up a little bit of a fight about it, but she did it while eye fucking me.
It’s a safe assumption that she wants to find out the color of my sheets just as badly as I want to discover what’s hiding under the loose fitting top that drapes over her dainty shoulders.
The out-of-state area code on her phone, paired with the Georgia license plate, put a lump in my throat. If she tries to take off, I'll find a way to make her stay. I have a craving for her that won't be satiated easily, if ever.
T-Boy, the new prospect, passes through the room before heading into the open kitchen.
I lock my phone screen and shove it into my pocket before settling back onto the love seat.
Archer, the only other person in the room, tends to be oblivious when a gaming remote is in his hand, but this guy notices everything. I don’t want my woman on T-Boy’s radar.
I’m not sure what causes this newfound protectiveness, but it’s there, making my blood pressure rise.
Greer isn’t claimed yet, so she’s technically free game.
The rules for these things are outlined in the club's bylaws, unbreakable even for those patched in the longest. I don’t want any of them so much as looking at Greer until she’s mine.
Greer’s become the object of my obsession.
Her bright red hair whipping in the wind as she flies down the interstate with the top down is the thing of any man’s fantasy.
I’m hooked, but who wouldn’t be? I hate that I can’t see her sooner than next Friday.
I’m leaving in a few hours on a run, and Greer’s too special to rush things with a quick beer and a screw in the bathroom.
What may be perceived as a hookup will only set the wrong tone between us.
If that means it’s longer until I’m inside Greer, so be it.
Flinch appears carrying what I can only hope is the last box of his shit, a full two weeks after he started moving out.
With an unceremonious “Later,” Flinch drops his room key on the kitchen counter, exiting through the back door. Lucky bastard has a room at the compound, a privilege given to him when he was voted into the club last month.
“Maybe we can get some rest now that he’s gone,” Archer says.
“How a man so quiet can pick out the loudest chicks in bed, I’ll never know,” I mumble.
We’ve complained so much that he’s started to bring them to the motel in town. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a woman in months.
T-Boy walks back into the living room, munching on chips from a crumpled bag. “Dibs on his room,” he says.
With a shake of the head, I inform him, “No dice. You don’t get a private room until you’ve been here at least six months.”
“C’mon, man. I’m bunked up with Joe and Kevin Jonas,” he whines over a mouth full of chips. It isn’t easy living with the Labadie brothers, but it’s to be expected from Zydeco musicians.
Moving to stand, I warn, “The decision is up to Folgers, but he’s going to tell you to fuck off.” My patience with the new guys has gotten shorter the longer I prospect. Most of them don’t last anyway.
We squabble, but most of us lean into the sense of family that comes from living together.
Besides, the “six months in the bunk room” rule is to help keep an eye on everyone.
It’s why the newer men are split equally between the two neighboring houses—so there are enough people to watch over them.
Ignoring T-Boy’s whining and not caring if I come across as rude, I escape into the privacy of my bedroom.
It isn’t much different from the barracks. I don’t keep a lot of junk, a habit picked up serving in the Army. I can still fit most of my clothing into a rucksack, and the only electronics I own are a tablet and my phone.
The exception is my bedding. After too many fights among the prospects, a thermostat lock was installed.
The hallway camera acts as judge and jury for any potential tampering.
Since I sleep hot, I’ve bought breathable bedding—Egyptian cotton sheets and a soft muslin blanket.
After adding a box fan, I’m more comfortable than I am with the air conditioner on full blast.
Settling on the bed with one arm tucked under my neck, I wonder if Greer is the opposite and needs to snuggle under a heavy blanket. She’ll have me for warmth. Jesus, did I just think about actually sharing a bed with a woman? As in to sleep?
Eager to see her face again, I open Instagram.
Since her number is stored in my phone, she should pop up under the suggested follows.
Third on the list is the handle GG_2oo3.
It has to be her. I tap on the small circle that serves as her profile pic and enlarge it, studying her features.
She's wearing a graduation cap covering her long hair and a light blue dress that’s tasteful but sexy as hell.
A pair of nude heels makes her legs look impossibly long.
Good, I won’t have to constantly crane my neck down to kiss her.
What really catches my eye are her plump, glossy lips.
My dick twitches as I dream of feeding her my cock.
Eager to see more of her smile, I click on the account itself, but only find a white screen announcing, “This account is private.” Good girl. Smart to lock down your profiles.
With an opening line lost on me, I send a message of a different type to Greer—a follow request. It’ll serve as a reminder that I’m not giving up my chase.
According to the car’s registration, her last name is Guidry.
It’s as Cajun a last name as mine. I wonder if she’s related to the Guidrys from Houma.
If there isn’t enough around to keep her here already, I’m going to make damn sure I give her irrefutable reasons to stay.
I zoom in on every detail of the picture, looking for any hint of the woman that’s living rent-free in my mind.
A demanding rap on the door breaks my concentration. The loud bellow of my sponsor, Folgers, follows, his deep baritone demanding, “Put your cock away and let’s go.”
I rush to my feet and swing open the door. He shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re needed at the casino.”
Talk about open-ended. It could be anything from getting the boot for any trivial reason to washing bikes. “Should I bring anything?”
“Your medic bag,” he clips out. I know not to dig for more information with the other prospects around. “Meet me around back.”
My pack carried me through ten years in the Army and five deployments.
It’s come in handy on many occasions, so I keep it stocked with everything from ibuprofen to Quick-Clot bandages for gunshot and stab wounds.
I never once used the latter in military life, but I’ve used it twice while prospecting for the Bayou Dogs.
Dashing around, I retrieve the specialized bag from my room and toss it across my shoulders.
Folgers is waiting at the fence line that separates the club’s business, White Dog Garage and Towing, from the prospect houses, holding the twelve-foot gate open with his massive body.
Prospects park in the business’ back lot.
It keeps the noise to a minimum when we drive down Main instead of the residential street.
It’s no big inconvenience with gates in the shared fence.
“Need help setting up for fight night?” I ask.
“We need you ringside. Sully got tied up with some family emergency.”
This will be a long ass work day, but it explains why I need my medic bag. The underground fighters need ringside medical care. Sully’s supposed to cover the task this weekend. I can only assume it’s divine intervention keeping the nomad biker away.
“I’m going on a protection run in a few hours.”
“I’ve already assigned someone to replace you.”
Which means I can see Greer even sooner.
Starting to dart towards my Harley, I ask, “How many fights are scheduled tonight?” It varies, depending on recent activity at the club, interest, and availability of the boxers.
Already straddling his bike, Folgers clips out, “Three." That may be all that’s organized, but I’ll bet even money that with the adrenaline pumping through the crowd, there will be more outside the ring.
It’s happening more often these days than ever before.
The club holds underground fights when sports betting declines.
Things in the ring can get brutal, but I have no issue utilizing the skills the Army taught me.
I’m eager for any opportunity to prove myself to the club, especially since I’m likely the next to come up for a vote.
My bottom rocker is everything I’ve wanted for the past fourteen months.
Everything that is, until yesterday. Women have always been nameless warm bodies.
I’ve never cared about getting to know them.
Already with Greer, I want to know who she is, what she likes, and the sound of my name on her lips when she comes.
I’ve never given two shits about the long hours prospecting requires. It’s an honor to be with them, regardless of the circumstances. What surprises me, though, is that for the first time, I wish I were somewhere else.