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Then there it was.
The answer.
Who wore leather vests with patches on them in the middle of summer?
Bikers.
Like motorcycle riders.
Weird.
I didn’t really give it another thought as I went through the rest of my day, taking pictures, changing my nail polish, taking videos. Then editing and uploading.
It wasn’t until a few days later when I was refreshing the New Accounts page, always aware of new profiles in my particular niche, that I came across it.
A picture of a shirtless man in a biker helmet that completely hid his head, leaning against a motorcycle.
And just like that, apparently, I found my own particular fetish.
Because the second I looked at him, I felt my body warming.
I’d never once considered subscribing to a content creator on the site.
But I couldn’t seem to stop my finger from sliding to the button, agreeing to pay for the most expensive tier he had available.
The one that allowed me to have access to a personal chat with the creator.
Then, well, there was no going back.
CHAPTER THREE
Alaric
“Yo, Coast, focus,” I called as the man in question kept glancing back toward the clubhouse like he could even see it from this far away, where the outdoor range was set up.
From a distance, we could hear the thump of the bass as Levee, York, and Velle got shit ready for the fifth night in a row of partying.
Clearly, Coast’s head was on the festivities and not the task at hand.
I wasn’t a taskmaster by nature. I didn’t give a fuck who did or didn’t do target practice. The only reason I was there was because, as the club’s best shot, Huck put me in charge of making sure everyone who needed to, worked on their skills. And those who didn’t need to expand their skills, kept them sharp.
Coast had been with the club for a few months now, but I’d yet to be able to even assess his skills yet.
Clearly, the man had lethal skills in some capacity. Word in the club was that the Roman numerals tattooed on the side of his face were a kill count.
Thirteen in total.
That said, I honestly hadn’t spent enough time with the guy to know if those kills were from guns, knives, or his damn bare hands.
Out of all the guys in the club, Coast looked the most like he belonged in an outlaw biker club.
He was tall and somewhat thin, but with a complete set of washboard abs, lots of ink, including children’s blocks that spelled outFuck Youon his collarbone. His hair was somewhere between brown and blond, and he had piercing light blue eyes.
“You’re fucking with my free time, man,” Coast said, shaking his head.
“Your whole life is free time,” I reminded him.
Sure, we worked. But honestly not that much. Especially since teaming up with the Shady Valley chapter, who had two brothers who dropped by to unload a shit-ton of guns to us, cutting down on the actual work we used to have to do to track down ‘clean’ guns to resell to our contacts who wanted to buy them.
