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Judge rolls his eyes at me from the end of the table. “There are still a couple of open rooms at the motel,” he reminds V and Priest.
“And rob them of the experience, Prez? Come on, now. They’ll appreciate it later.”
“More like, I’ll smother you in your sleep,” Priest mumbles under his breath.
“Oh, that’s a sin, Father. You don’t want any dark marks on your record,” I chuckle. “How many Hail Marys will you have to say for that again?”
He starts to say something, but the waitress arrives with our food in tow. The greasy goodness on my plate is going to wreak havoc on my body later, but I don’t give two shits right now. Bacon shits, be damned. I devour it all in record time, while the rest of the group sits and chats like a bunch of old women at their crocheting clubs.
When we’re all finally finished, Judge snatches the bill from the waitress, and Priest and V take notice.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of owing us a big breakfast, dickhead.”
I snort. “You didn’t say I had to pay for it.”
“So what’s on the schedule for today, Prez?” Hashtag asks over the crowd.
“I have to head into a meeting with all the chapter presidents.”
Grace frowns. “Meeting?”
“Just a formality. Shouldn’t take too long,” he responds vaguely, but the guys know what he means. With so many clubs here for bike week, ground rules must be made. Concessions on any beef happening between clubs cease while we’re here on neutral ground. Violating those rules would come with heavy consequences for anyone involved, including losing your patch. As National President of The Black Hoods MC, Judge must attend.
“I thought us girls could hit up some of the local shops,” Shelby, Hashtag’s ol’ lady, mentions, with all women chiming their agreement. Thankfully, with all of them wearing their property patches, their guys shouldn’t have to worry too much about them getting into any trouble. But seeing the look on Judge’s face tells me one of us will be tagging along. He looks over the crowd before his eyes land on me.
“Oh, fuck no,” I argue before he even asks. “Don’t make me go.”
“You’re going,” Judge orders with a smile. “If you’d shown up on time, I might’ve asked someone else, but today’s your lucky day, TK.”
“Fine,” I scoff, because there’s no point in arguing with him. When the president says to do something, you do it, no matter how much you hate it. “But no girly shit,” I warn them. All the females smile back at me, but Lindsey’s smile is sinister. She leans in close, knowing Karma’s watching and listening. “Ready to carry my bags? Just so you know, I plan on doinga lotof shopping.”
“If you need help trying on some of those lacy things, I’m your man, sugar tits.”
Karma slams his fist down on the table next to her. “Keep it up, asshole.”
“Trust me, I plan on it.” I turn my attention back to Lindsey, while Karma fumes behind her. “Now, about those lacy things I mentioned…”
CORA
Squealing,Harrison presses his hands against his ears to dull the deafening sound of passing motorcycles. His brown eyes are wide with glee as they pass, unsure of which one to look at first.
“Look, Momma!” he screeches. “A blue one!”
Since the day my boy was born into this world, he’s had an obsession with motorcycles. Why couldn’t he like Tonka trucks, or trains, or ponies? Why does ithaveto be motorcycles?
“I see.” I smile, loving the way his eyes light up when he’s excited. “Come on, buddy, we gotta get home. Momma has to work tonight.”
Reluctantly, Harrison reaches out and places his tiny hand in mine, his eyes glued to the road as we walk. It’s just after three o’clock in the afternoon, and the streets are filled with tourists and bikers. Parked motorcycles line the sidewalks, all of them positioned at an angle, their finishes glistening in the sun.
“Momma!” he cries again. “That one has a bird on it, like the one on your arm.”
I follow the direction of his finger. A black Harley sits on the other side of the road, surrounded by other black Harleys. But the paint job on the one he’s talking about makes it stand out. A brightly colored phoenix, its flaming wings spread wide, spans the side of the fuel tank. Its tail curls down and around, the fiery plume of feathers ending near the tail pipe. It’s breathtaking.
It's nearly identical to the one I have tattooed on my upper arm.
“Can we go see?” Harrison asks, pulling on my hand, trying his best to drag me to it.
I don’t budge. “Sorry, baby, but we have to get home. Nana’s waiting for you, and when I left, she was making cookies.”
