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“Done as well. You’re free and clear to do whatever you want. Your case worker won’t give us any hassle since you’re aging out of the system soon anyhow.” Lorcan smirked. “Guess you’re quite the handful.”
Sitting back, Kassian shuffled through the brochures again. None appealed to him directly, so he placed the one that promised he could toss a punch or two and not get into too much trouble on top.
“Marines. Good choice.”
“I won’t be joining your club. You can bank on it.”
Lorcan chuckled but didn’t reply. Kassian stared out the window at the passing scenery. He’d bail as soon as he could. Macha wasn’t in his future. Fighting was. He could never be at home in a club.
CHAPTER1
RUBBLE
The date flashedon his phone.Seventeen years. Has it really been that long?Kassian “Rubble” Hardy carefully slid the razor over his tattooed head.Yep, seventeen years since I was a dumbass kid.He watched in the mirror, careful not to nick his skin. Normally, he’d let one of the MC’s nymphs help him shave. Since most of the nymphs were preparing for the winter games at Snowshoe Lodge, he was on his own.
Hearty laughter echoed from the clubhouse’s den. Well, mostly on his own. He was never quite alone with thirty brothers coming and going from Macha’s main clubhouse at any given time. That didn’t include the nymphs, old ladies, or club hoppers either.
Sliding one hand over his head, Rubble felt for any stubble. Finding none, he wiped off the shaving cream and took one final glance in the mirror. The tattoos on his body told stories, but the ones on his skull told myths. Celtic and American myths alike. The MC’s patron, Macha, was the dominant figure on his body, always looking out for him. His artwork had attracted plenty of attention over the years, but that wasn’t the point. People could look all they wanted. His life was Macha. There was no room for anything but the club.
He chuckled softly, recalling a time when he swore the opposite. Becoming the club’s sergeant at arms took more than years of military training. It also included growing the hell up and no longer being a hothead. Years overseas knocked that out of him. He smirked.For the most part.
He ran his fingers over his long beard as he searched for a clean shirt. Finally finding a new design by Doc’s old lady, he pulled on the long-sleeved T-shirt and buckled his jeans. Movement from his bed caught his attention and he lazily eyed the nymph from the night before. She was pretty, sure, but that was as involved as he got with women. He snagged his leather jacket complete with Macha’s emblem and swatted the nymph’s ass for good measure. She’d done her job. It was all he desired.
Closing the door behind him, Rubble inhaled the heady scent of coffee laced with cinnamon, a hint of icing, and curls of cigarette smoke. A nymph darted out of Brewer’s room ahead of him, naked except for a blanket around her shoulders. He rolled back his broad shoulders. This was why he loved the MC so much. From FBI agents to Irish princesses, the club was always full of surprises.You never know what Macha will bring.
He reached the kitchen in time to see Doc adding icing to his famous cinnamon twists. Grabbing one, Rubble bit into the warm roll. “Damn, you’ve gotten so domesticated lately. That old lady of yours sure knows how to crack a whip.”
“You just wish you had a woman as kickass as my Isa,” Doc said, flipping up his middle finger.
He stuffed the rest of the pastry in his mouth and talked around it. “Yeah, cuz that’s what I need… to be pussy whipped.”
Before he could pour coffee into the mug on the counter, the scent of jasmine filled his nostrils. He didn’t even need to turn around to know Kevlar’s old lady, Nikita, joined them.
“Don’t forget to bring a few of those to my appointment today,” Isa said, catching the corner of his eye.
Rubble leaned against the counter, slowly sipping the hot coffee, and merely watched the scene unfurl in front of him. The kitchen, once too large in his opinion, kept shrinking with every new member and their significant other.
Doc tossed his oven mitts onto the counter and kissed Isa’s cheek, then stooped low to kiss her swollen belly. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” He tucked her scarf into her coat. “Meet you there at three.”
Isa nodded at Rubble, grabbed three cinnamon twists, and waddled toward the front door. A gust of cold Colorado air trickled down the hallway, bringing Kevlar and Hawk with it.
“Hey, guys. Snoopy mentioned something about doing a lotto-style tattoo sale. He say anything like that to you?” Hawk asked, sitting on one of the barstools.
Kevlar shook his head. “Nah, but it sounds like Snoop. Always trying to bring in more cash to the parlor.”
“We’ll discuss it at church,” Rubble added, stealing another pastry from the counter. He gave Doc shit about domestication, but the man could bake, and nobody complained about it.
“Gotta run to Denver today. Be back after dinner,” Nikita said, zipping up her leather jacket. It didn’t have Macha on it, but FBI instead. It still baffled Rubble how Kevlar’s old lady was a Fed. He swallowed his bite. She was the only Fed he didn’t mind.
Kevlar laced his arm around Nikita’s waist, kissed her hard, then squeezed her ass. “I’ll be handcuffed to the bed waiting for you.”
Nikita rolled her eyes, Rubble grunted, and Doc chuckled. They all knew the man wasn’t teasing. They’d all experienced a taste of the kinky couple, mostly under accidental and hilarious circumstances.
“Kevlar, you done working on that ’69 Camaro? The client called about it last night.” Rubble held up his finger when the clubhouse landline rang. “Hang on. Macha clubhouse, what’s your pleasure?”
“Is Queenie there?”
He glanced around the kitchen and down the hall. “Nah, she’s not in yet.”
