Page 1 of Property of Kevlar

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Weston "Kevlar" Oberlin

Kevlar’s body ached. His leathers stank to high heaven. Fourteen hours on the road had his knees stiff, his back screaming, and his shoulder all but locked. Sure, at thirty, he was young in mind and spirit, but the outlaw biker lifestyle left him with the bones of a man twice his age.

Getting shot a handful of times through the years didn’t help.

However, none of that would stop him from attending a party at the clubhouse.

He wouldn’t have his life be any other way. This was the only way he knew to live. His father had been president of the Roughneck Riders Oklahoma City Chapter until it went up in flames—literally. Kevlar’s entire existence, his destiny, was gone in a flash.

The destruction was too much for him. After the funeral, he couldn’t stick around. There was no way he could watch everything his father built, their empire, be stripped down by the vultures of the other syndicates in the area.

He needed to feel the wind on his face. Rubber had to meet the road. So he said goodbye to his mother and his sisters and took off. He’d promised to come back, but everyone knew he didn’t mean it. Nothing remained for him in Oklahoma with the club gone.

How could they expect him to stay amid the ruins? It’d destroy him.

So he took off with his half brother, Colt, who now went by Kid. A new club meant a new road name. Gone were the days of Little Junior and Baby Boy. They’d burned in that building, leaving the pair to be nomads of a club that no longer existed.

Being a one-percenter wasn’t something a person gave up. That identity was in their blood. Though without a patch, or a president, they had no purpose—no direction. They were ghosts.

Days. Weeks. Months went by in a blur. Kevlar and Kid did odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place for too long, as they explored the highways and byways of the Midwest and beyond. At the time, the two were akin to lost puppies searching for a new home.

That was if the puppies were covered in tattoos, had scraggly beards, and preferred the company of loose women. They seemed to be destined to disappear into obscurity.

Until they rolled into Washington.

On a fateful day in late September, with a hankering for some shellfish and a desire for debauchery, Kevlar and Kid attended Oyster Run—the largest motorcycle club rally in all the Pacific Northwest. Having tucked their colors away back in Oklahoma, they could mingle among the men without causing a stir.

They made it a point to avoid the Odin’s Fury fuckers. They’d taken over the Roughneck Rider mother chapter in Ohio years ago, leaving their father a lone wolf in the world. Some bad blood didn’t die.

If Kevlar were honest with himself, he’d admit running a club was too much for his old man. He wasn’t up for such a responsibility.

But that was in the past.

No use crying over spilled milk.

Washington had been good for him and his brother for the past few years. Not only had they sucked down a few oysters, but they munched on a few clams as well. Though the best thing that came out of that rally was bumping into Jameson.

Kevlar sat around a campfire, drinking a few beers with the men of the Royal Bastards Motorcycle Club while they groped willing women. He listened to their talk about their bikes, their territories, and their runs. Their tales fascinated Kevlar. The blond man on a stump, who wore the president patch, some kooky charms around his neck, and an icy stare that should frighten any sane person, intrigued Kevlar.

They hadn’t spoken that night. They didn’t have to. How Jameson’s men interacted was enough for Kevlar. He wanted to be a part of that crew. It would fill the void within him—the ache that made it hard to sleep at night.

Kid felt it too. There was no need to convince his little brother. He was on board the moment Kevlar brought up the idea. Though joining an outlaw motorcycle club was no easy task. Anything worth doing deserved a decent fight.

Three months of hanging around. A year and a half of prospecting. Three bullets in his body. Kevlar earned his patches. Kid took his lumps and got his too. They had a club, a purpose, a life worth living.

What more could men like them ask for?

A year later, fresh off a run, Kevlar strolled into the clubhouse, exhausted but relieved. This was where he belonged. Amid the pungent odor of marijuana, stale cigarettes, and spilled cheap beer, he navigated a path through the clubhouse. After passing the table of old-timers playing poker, the patch whores vying for anyone’s attention, and the men desperate to belong, he arrived at the bar.

Behind it stood his brother, wiping out a glass and surveying the scene with his sharp hazel eyes. Kid flicked his chin, and the thick patch of shaggy dirty-blond hair that had fallen over his forehead flew back. Ink peeked out from his navy cotton T-shirt and made its way up his neck. The sight of his brother’s tattoos reminded Kevlar that he had a few tweaks he wanted to make to the piece on his bicep, and Kid was just the person to do it.

His brother had thrived in Washington. He’d always been a doodler, but once they settled up north, he’d discovered something useful he could do with that talent and apprenticed at a tattoo shop.

Sliding onto an empty stool with a groan, Kevlar rapped his knuckles on the bartop to get Kid’s attention.

Looking up, his brother nodded in recognition as he shifted toward Kevlar.