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Inhaling the scent of fresh snow and asphalt, Tad opened up the engine. His pulse thrummed in his neck, the adrenaline never losing its hold over him. Life in Iowa wasn’t perfect, but it’d do.
* * *
It wason his second shot of whiskey that Tad’s phone buzzed on the pool table. Eyeing it, he shrugged and took aim. The cue ball bounced off the side and hit the eight ball before it sank into the pocket. “That’s game, boys.”
The two other men grumbled and handed over their cash. He stuffed his earnings in his back pocket and noticed his phone still alight with a call. Narrowing his eyes, Tad recognized the Colorado area code.This can’t be good.
Taking a swig of beer, he grimaced at the lukewarm liquid. Dropping a tip in the jar on the bar, he nodded. “I’m out. See you next week.” He waved at his coworkers from the fire station and grabbed his leather jacket before stepping outside.
A chill left over from winter snuck across his black T-shirt, sending goose bumps up his tattooed arms. His mom never liked his ink, so he usually kept it hidden. Since her death, he showed off the fully inked sleeves as much as possible and had even added a few to his canvas.
His phone vibrated in his back pocket, and this time he answered. “This is O’Brien.”
“You sound just like your old man.”
Tad assumed who the caller was based on the area code, but the gravelly voice with a hint of an Irish accent confirmed it. “Lorcan.”
He swallowed as memories flooded him. His uncle Lorcan hadn’t gone by that name in more years than Tad was alive. “Or should I call you Reaper?”
“Until you’re in Macha, Lorcan is fine.”
Tad leaned against his bike. Over the years, he’d sent his uncle tidbits of information about the gangs and MCs in the Midwest. It wasn’t much, but his father would be proud of him for staying part of the family business. “I don’t have anything new for you, sorry.”
“No worries. I’m actually calling to bring you back to Macha.”
Straddling his black motorcycle, Tad watched the traffic light change. “Is that so?”
His father warned him this would happen. “You’re Irish and the son of the MC. They’ll call you one day,” his old man said a week before succumbing to a gunshot wound. Plus, his uncle’s MC name, Reaper, wasn’t given because of the souls he took from this world but the ones he brought into the Macha fold. Reaper was famous among other MCs for how easily he could convince a man to join.
“You heard right, boyo. Your blood is as Irish as Macha. You can’t deny your upbringing anymore. You’ve been as much of a prospect from Iowa as the boys here. It’s time. I think you’ve known this.”
Tilting his head, Tad stared at the starry sky. His father perished wearing the Macha cut, and now he was being summoned to the same club. As a kid, it’d been his dream: ride bikes and flirt with pretty ladies. As he grew, it didn’t sound like the better side of life. He always suspected his interactions with Macha would come to fruition.
“I’m not my old man, Uncle. I have nothing to offer the club.”
“Sure you do. Saving dumbasses. That’s what I want you for here. The brothers need you. Macha needs you.”
He’d heard the same thing said to his father. Every time, the old man went, too. A part of Tad wanted to tell his uncle off, but another part craved to be a patch member of the organization his father loved more than his own son. His unofficial prospect status would become official the moment he stepped foot on Colorado soil.
“Why now?”
His uncle sighed heavily. “We recently lost our doctor and need a new one. You’re the best, or so you brag whenever given the chance.”
He shook his head. “You have plenty of men who could learn. Get one of them—”
“They’re not my blood. You are, Tad.” The biker cursed under his breath. “You provided the information about Del Rossi, which gave us time to protect Colorado from mafia infiltration. We need you.”
His uncle wasn’t wrong. He’d gladly given over intel about the Italy-born mob. Along the way, he’d made a few friends, but playing a double role gave him something to look forward to each new day. That lone thought tipped the scales.
“You have nothing holding you to Iowa anymore. Your mum is gone. Your family is Macha. It always has been.”
Thinking back to his childhood, Tad couldn’t deny his uncle’s words. Before his parents split, he’d spent nearly every day at the clubhouse in Snowshoe, Colorado. He’d learned more about women and bikes in those thirteen years than any other kid his age. The rules of the club formed him into the man he was today. He followed the MC laws even though he wasn’t a member. Macha was in his blood.
“I can’t end up like my old man. The club destroyed my family. I won’t let it destroy me too.”
“You’ve much to learn, nephew, but if you wash out before you patch, I’ll let you out, no questions, no threats.”
Tad wasn’t sure if he could trust him but had no other choice. The day had finally come.When Macha calls, you answer.
