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“Oh, fuck,” he said, running a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
Curly scrunched his face. “For what?”
“For what I said. For running my fat mouth.”
Again, he tried to figure out what Travis said that might have been offensive. Then it hit him.
I could kill someone for a burger.
Waving away his cousin’s concern, he said, “Ty, it’s okay. Seriously. If I flipped out every time someone made a dumb figure of speech, I’d lose my shit fifteen times a day.”
“But you must be so angry. How could you not be? I think I’d hate the whole fucking world.”
Curly snorted. “Oh, I’m fucking angry. Trust me.” He shrugged. “But I figure I’ve already lost more than a decade of my life because of those bastards. I’m not willing to let them take another fucking minute from me.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He had his dark moments when the desire for revenge took over, but he’d been able to curb the impulse to go rogue and gun down anyone involved in his wrongful incarceration.
“Well, shit Trav, look at you getting all mature and shit.”
“Had to happen sometime, I guess.”
They laughed, and the years of not being around each other melted away, leaving two boys who were related by not only blood but also the best of friends.
A bell rang out, indicating the arrival of a customer. “Give me one sec,” Ty said as he turned toward the guest. “Hey there, help you with something?”
Curly took a step back and watched his cousin in action.
The twenty-something who entered blushed at the attention from the two large, tattooed men. “Uh, I have an appointment to repair a flat and for an alignment.”
“All righty,” Tyler said. He waved the young woman to the counter. “You Erin Marx?”
“That’s me.” She fluttered her eyelashes and arched her back, sticking her tits out. It didn’t escape Curly’s notice the way Tyler’s eyes slid over the woman’s form. Not much had changed.
Three minutes later, Erin made her way to the waiting area in the back, and Ty was returned to chatting with Curly.
“You still ride?” Curly asked his cousin.
“Fuck yes. Every chance I get.” Tyler’s eyes lit with excitement only another motorcycle lover would appreciate.
Huh, maybe this would work. “Wanna run something by you.”
“Okay?” Ty tilted his head.
“I want to start a club. A new MC.”
Tyler stiffened. A muscle in his left cheek twitched as he probably ground his teeth to dust. What was he thinking at that moment? Were the memories really that shitty?
Stupid question. Looking back on their past, when they'd prospected with the Outlaws, Curly could confidently say, yes. The memories of the stupid shit they’d done to prove themselves to a group of disloyal assholes were fucked up.
“Christ, Trav,” Tyler finally said. “Seriously? You ain’t had enough of that life?”
Shaking his head, Curly lifted a hand. “Hear me out. This is different. I’ve spent the last half-year with a club that’s nothing like the Outlaws. They’re a real fucking family. Brothers who’d do anything for each other. Good damn men. Hard-working, loyal, solid earners. It was what we thought we’d be getting with the Outlaws. Their prez has endorsed my idea to open a charter here.”
“They one-percenters?”
With a chuckle, Curly shrugged. “Well, they’re not Boy Scouts.”
Tyler scoffed. “You spent thirteen years behind bars, cuz. How can you even think—”
“They ain’t about that. No guns, no drugs, no fucking robberies. They’ve got legit businesses like a gym, a diner, working on opening a garage. But, yeah, they also earn from loan sharking, some muscle for hire, few gambling rings.”
Tyler stared him down for a long, tension-filled moment. He wanted it. Curly could feel it. They’d grown up with a strong bond but had shit-all in terms of additional family. Tyler’s old man had ridden with a club a few states over. He’d blow into town once or twice a year, toss some cash at Ty’s mother, and zoom back out with his club.
As an adult, Curly realized what a shit father the man had been, but damn, he and Ty had idolized the guy. He’d been a huge, dominating presence with a boisterous laugh he was quick to share. Both he and his cousin fantasized of growing up to be Tyler’s old man who’d let them drink their first beer at ten and laughed his head off when they’d both spit it out. The stories he’d shared of his club had fueled their young dreams and solidified their love of motorcycles and club life.
“It’s still a risk. You could always get a job. I can offer you something here until you find something more your speed.” The argument was weak at best, and Tyler knew it. He knew Curly, how he thought, what he wanted from his life. Knew he’d never be satisfied with a typical job.
“You know I can’t do that shit, Ty. Spent too many years in a club and then a cell to work in an office or live a nine-to-five life.” The thought of a regular routine, same thing day in day out, made him shudder. There wouldn’t be steel bars, but it was another prison all the same. “Can’t work under anyone either. Too many fucking trust issues.” At least he was aware of his head problems. That had to count for something, right?
