“I told you already that I wasn’t staying over.”
“Usually, a pretty face can change your mind.”
Maybe in the past they could have, but not recently. Sweet bottoms had once been his favorite hobby; he could admit that. Sex had been his sport for a long time, but then Splice had realized that when sex had become mechanical to him, leaving him unsatisfied afterward, he’d needed a change of scene.
But his bed-hopping preceded him, so he couldn’t blame his brothers for not believing him when he said he was resting his dick.
With the funeral left behind them, the Diablos group formed toward the highway. Splice loved this part of any ride. He felt the wind whipping his face as his shades guarded his eyes. His leather-gloved hands gripped the handlebars, his speed increasing as his sweet machine ate up the asphalt road, taking him toward Laketon.
It was fair to say many people hated the Diablo Disciples MC, even without knowing them; their reputation for violence, shady dealings, and thuggery, as people saw it, outweighed the truth of who they really were. But Splice never bent backward to reassure folks that what they thought about them was wrong.
He cared for his family, always had his patched brother’s back, and walked his outlaw path happily. He wasn’t malicious, but he’d step over a dying motherfucker first before he’d soothe their little feelings.
But that was Splice.
People who knew him closely would say he was friendly, approachable, and reliable. Maybe that was true. He thought about it during the long ride home.
Being called a thug wasn’t the worst thing to be accused of. In his lifestyle, some people on the wrong side of Splice had seen what he was capable of.
He hadn’t been given the road name Splice for shits and giggles.
Few knew what it meant, and he wasn’t in the business of explaining himself. He let his name do the talking. That was if folks got on his wrong side, and they were front and center to witness how he’d emotionally split himself in half to become a wrecking machine of destruction.
It happened rarely. He wasn’t known for his peacekeeping or negotiating skills, unlike Denver. They called Ruin for the real dark shit, and Splice was tagged in if someone needed persuading with more than words but still left breathing.
His father had been a bare-knuckle fighter in his day, and his uncle Vince was a loose cannon still to this day, so it stood to reason Splice had inherited the same short-fuse gene. It wasn’t something he was proud of; it was just something he was—skills he used to better his club life. Fuck, he bet a psychiatrist would have a field day with him. Blaming it on his father’s untimely death when Splice was only nineteen.
That wasn’t the reason.
Otherwise, he’d be teetering on being psycho like Ruin, and he was far from the enforcer’s league. Splice was always in control of his actions, like he could flick a switch and become a whole other, darker persona to get the job done. But once it was over, he was back to his nonchalant self again.
Fuck, now he sounded psychotic. Behind his black bandana, he chuckled a little and watched Chains up ahead take a different turn home. His biker brethren split off one by one until only he and Tomb were left on the road. Once in his driveway, he lifted a hand and waved to his buddy, who lived only across the street.
His one thought, as his body grew sluggish, was his bed. As soon as he entered the mudroom and took off his boots, he headed for the shower in his two-story house. And once that was seen to, and he was sighing into the mattress, hoping there were no more funerals to attend for a long while.
Given his lifestyle, occurrences like that were frequent.
And then sleep claimed Splice so he could look pretty as fuck tomorrow afternoon to watch his buddy get married again.
There might even be a pretty bridesmaid to sway Splice to the filthy side again.
TWO
Lisa
Lisa Wolfe had a long list of mistakes and regrets in her rearview, but moving back to Utah two years ago, after a decade working in and around Asia, wasn’t one of them.
Even today, long after she’d settled back into the area, she still appreciated the smell of the crisp air. There was nothing like the fresh scent of home to calm her nervous system.
She was especially happy she’d come home; otherwise, she never would have met her closest friend. No one expected to make a new best friend after the age of sixteen, and not at forty, like she had met Nina one random day only weeks after arriving back in Laketon. No one told you that once you became an adult, making friends was like trying to find a seat on the moon. She had tons of work colleagues, but nobody she could call late at night or dish about sex with.
It made Lisa smile to see her friend looking stunning in a fitted, modern wedding gown with her blonde hair wavy and flowing down her back. Nina looked fit to burst with happiness as Lisa handed her a flute of champagne.
“Christmas morning and wedding days are the two appropriate times for day drinking,” Lisa told her, and Nina laughed, joined by the five other women standing around her in a semicircle. She was familiar with the other wives of the Diablo bikers and enjoyed their liveliness. Hanging out with Nina meant they took Lisa in, even though she knew the biker wives usually stuck to themselves and didn’t invite outsiders, so she’d always felt privileged to be included in their girl-get-togethers.
“Or a Saturday if your old man treads motor oil through the hallway on your brand-new marble floor,” Casey announced, and the group of ladies gasped.
“He did not?” asked Kelly.
