AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m with Reaper on this one,” Punk chimes in. “Young dudes always instigate.”
“You would know,” Gauge chides him. “You’re always starting shit.”
Punk looks at the VP with the biggest smirk on his face. “Did you just admit to being the old man in this situation?”
“Asshole, I’m not old. I’m only six years older than you.”
My best friend can’t help taking another dig at Gauge. “You may as well round up to a decade. Pretty soon, you’ll need to buy the little blue pills to keep up with Opal.”
Gauge stands from his barstool. “Fuck you and your blue pills, Punk. I don’t need shit to keep my old lady satisfied. My baby in her belly proves it.”
Atlas puts out his arm to stop Gauge from advancing on Punk. “Brothers,” he growls, calling our crew to order.
No sooner does he speak, fists fly across the room. The logger swings out, missing the trucker by the skin of his teeth. The trucker, realizing he’s pushed the older logger too far, backpedals, trying to dodge the next punch. The logger chases him around the table, yelling at the younger guy to fight.
Desperate, and possibly scared, the trucker throws things to deter the logger from pursuing him. First it’s a beer bottle, followed by a plate of food. All the trucker achieves is infuriating the logger more.
Frothing like a junkyard dog, the older logger charges at the trucker just as the younger guy winds up to throw a single-serve container of cucumber sauce. The logger crashes into the trucker, sending the shot wide. The sauce sails through the air before hitting Atlas in the heart of his leather cut over his president’s patch.
The whole pub gasps in horror. Mickey grumbles, knowing exactly what’s about to transpire.
“Ooooh, this is bad,” Brass whispers.
“Very bad,” Reaper agrees, with a smile in his voice. He turns to Brass with his eyes alight. “Twenty bucks on Prez losing his shit.”
“You already got twenty out of me. Do I look like I want to take another losing bet? Hard pass.”
Atlas runs his hand over his cut, scooping up the cucumber sauce before flicking it on the floor. He closes his eyes a moment as he turns his neck to the side, popping the vertebrae in his spine.
“Easy, Atlas,” Gauge cautions Prez, eager to calm him down.
The VP’s wary words aren’t enough to settle Atlas’s internal beast. When Atlas opens his dark eyes again, they’re coal black and full of rage. The veins in his neck stand at attention as his fury rises to the surface.
“Esto significa guerra.”
Faster than the strike of a cobra, Atlas grabs his bar stool and launches it across the room. Itwhizzesthrough the air before knocking the two men to the floor. The other patrons scramble to get out of the way, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.
Unfortunately for these two guys, they disrespected the Mercy Ravens MC leather cut. The trucker could’ve nailed Atlas in the balls without provoking this violent reaction, but sadly, he aimed too high. It’s worthy of a beatdown.
Atlas roars, running at the perpetrators. The logger and trucker’s comrades try to stop Atlas by jumping on his back. Seeing Prez under attack activates Brass and Reaper into action. Each of them takes a man off Atlas, dishing out a few well-earned punches to the stupid men.
Free of restraint, Atlas grabs the instigators by the cuffs of their shirts, hauling them to their feet. He tosses the skinny trucker at Gauge, who knocks the guy out cold with one punch. Atlas gut punches the logger, bringing the gnarled man to his knees before breaking a plate full of gyros over his head.
Punk jumps up on the bar with several containers of single-serve cucumber sauce, yelling, “Food fight!” He then beans random patrons in the head with the little plastic containers, white sauce exploding everywhere.
The bar erupts into chaos, food and drinks soaring through the air.
Groaning, I turn on my stool to face the bar. Mickey glowers at me, with cucumber sauce smeared down the front of his plaid button-down. The old man isn’t going to let this slide.
I pull out my wallet, handing him my credit card. “Technically, I didn’t start the fight. But I’ll pay for the damages.”
Mickey swipes the card out of my hand, trading me with a mop and bucket. “Start cleaning, son.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
CHASE
After the mighty Battle of Cucumber Sauce and messy cleanup that followed, our crew rides back to headquarters, showers, and returns to work as usual.
