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Chapter 1
Brat
The Roost was our kingdom, a dive bar fortress on the outskirts of Seville, Florida where the Hell on Heelz MC reigned supreme. Neon signs flickered like beacons for lost souls, and the jukebox played a symphony of classic rock and rebellion. My sisters and I claimed our usual spot, a battered round table that had seen more brawls and laughter than most places see in a lifetime.
Razor leaned against the table, her boot tapping against the wooden leg. “So, Brat, heard from dear old dad lately?”
I snorted, swirling the last of my beer in the bottle. “Hell no. He’s still ruling his patch of desert like some kind of outlaw king. Too busy for his prodigal daughter.”
Pixie fiddled with her lighter, the flicker casting shadows across her colorful tattooed arms. “You ever regret leaving Tucson?”
“Every damn day,” I lied, catching Tank’s eye. She knew the truth. I didn’t look back. Not anymore.
Tank, the mountain of muscle and ink, chuckled, her voice gravelly. “Brat here’s too much of a Heel to settle for any man’s kingdom. Just like her mama. Ain’t that right?”
The chorus of agreement from around the table warmed me more than whiskey burning its way down my throat. These were my people, my fierce family, bound not by blood but by the road and the freedom it promised.
Tonight, our spot at the clubhouse pulsed with victory, the recent score against the Seville Slayers MC, the other one percenters in our neck of the woods. The laughter and chatter around the table were more than just the usual noise from us biker bitches, as those men liked to call us. They were the sounds of triumph.
Razor’s eyes glinted with mischief under the dim light. “Did you see the looks on their faces? Completely bamboozled by a couple of innocent girls,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she air-quoted the last words.
Her slight frame hiding her explosive nature, Pixie snickered and flipped her pink hair over her shoulder. “Innocent, my ass. We had them wrapped around our fingers from the moment we walked into that strip club. Easy pickings.”
Tank threw back her head and laughed, the sound booming around us. “Watching you three sweet-talk those Slayers out of their pants and into opening their wallets was better than any heist movie. They didn’t stand a chance.”
I couldn’t help but smile big, pride swelling in my chest for my sisters and the con we’d pulled off. Playing the unsuspecting females to a bunch of burly bikers was our MO. The rewards were too sweet to pass up. After all, we were the Hell on Heelz MC, and danger was our middle name.
With a sly smile, Razor raised her glass. “To the best damn thieves on two wheels. Those Slayers won’t know what hit ‘em till they’re trying to pay for their next round of beers.”
We clinked our brews, the sound sharp in the charged atmosphere of the Roost.
“To us,” I echoed, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and camaraderie. This was what we lived for. The thrill of the ride, the bond of sisterhood, and outsmarting any man foolish enough to underestimate us.
Pixie rubbed her tiny hands together, her grin infectious. “You think they’ve figured it out yet? That we helpless girls took them for everything they had?”
Tank snorted, downing the rest of her drink. “If they’re as dumb as they looked, they’re probably still waiting for us to come back from the liquor store.”
Laughter burst from our table, drawing curious looks from the other patrons of the Roost. There wasn’t only our club here. But that didn’t matter. We were the Hell on Heelz MC, queens of the road. This was our clubhouse, and tonight, we celebrated another victory in a long line of conquests.
But as our laughter died down, and the night wore on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our game might soon be catching up with us. Swindling the Seville Slayers wasn’t just another score. It was a declaration, one that could very well bite us in the ass if we weren’t careful.
The Slayers weren’t known for their forgiving nature, and we’d just made them look like fools. I was sure our president might have something to say about it. It wasn’t technically against our rules. But it was never wise to poke a nest of vipers.
The next night at the Roost was like any other. Tonight, I was back in my head-to-toe leather, inclined over a game of pool, lining up my shot, when the unmistakable sound of trouble crashed through the ambiance.
Voices raised in anger and the heavy thud of boots on wooden floors signaled an unwelcome intrusion. My grip on the cue tightened, a gust of energy spiking. I straightened up, scanning the room for the source of the disturbance. However, it was my name being called out that froze me in place.
“Brat!” It was Rage, our president, her voice resonating above the noise with authority and a touch of concern. I abandoned the pool table, pushing my way through the crowd to find her standing rigid, her gaze locked on the front door where a group of unfamiliar bikers had made their entrance.
A menacing presence urged past Rage. The biker looked like he stepped out of every bad girl’s dream. Six-foot something and two hundred pounds of swagger, he was all decked out in tattoos that snaked up his arms and disappeared under the rolled-up sleeves of his tight black tee. And that Harley emblem inked on his hand sure screamed badass.
His muscles, outlined by the ink and the tight fabric of his shirt, of his jeans, spoke of battles fought and won. His features bore the marks of many hard roads traveled. He was a story I hadn’t read. And damn if I wasn’t curious about every damn word. Then my eyes traveled to his cut. I read Riptide and nearly gasped. The infamous president of the Slayers stared me down as if I was his prey.
Before I could react, he was on me, his hand encircling my throat with a steely grip. What was worse was the cold barrel of his gun pressing against my temple. The room fell silent, every eye fixed on the deadly standoff.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t pull this trigger, Brat,” the biker hissed.
My mouth hung open as I was caught in a whirlwind of fear and, bizarrely, a hint of excitement. Asshole thought he had me, but I knew at any moment I could slip away. And I knew my sisters had my back, no matter what. But this biker’s eyes, dark and beautiful, held me in place more securely than his iron grip on my throat. Darker than the depths of the ocean, his eyes sunk into mine, sending a wave of shivers and something else.
