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Dumbfounded, I’m unable to pull my gaze from his lifeless body. A new reality dawns over me.
He’s dead, and it wasn’t at my hands.
Motherfucker.
THREE
Scarlett
The side standrests against the ground as I lift my leg over the seat of my bike, my baby, and I take a moment to appreciate her, just like I do every day I get the chance to feel her hum between my thighs.
She’s made of hopes and dreams, along with the metal and leather that makes her a classic Harley Davidson. She’s my most prized possession. I know the moment I step through those doors up ahead, I won’t get to see her until I’mallowed, and it pains me.
Fuck.
Ruffling my fingers through my tousled hair, I bite back the nerves brewing in my gut, then reach into the saddle bag to grab my belongings and hang my helmet on the handlebar.
My hair is knottier than I appreciate, but I couldn’t keep it braided back off my face any longer. They had been done too damn tight, so the second I was finished, I pulled the fuckers out. The wind whipped through the ends of my hair as I made my way home, and that definitely served its purpose in making me happy.
Pulling the drawstring tight on the bag, I put my headphones on and press play on the podcast I had paused earlier. The monotone voice of the man describing yet another murder investigation filters into my ears as I make my way up toward the clubhouse.
I nod at the security guy at the main gate, but I don’t offer any conversation, opting to listen to the podcast instead. Not that he would expect any words from me, I’m not known for my chitchat that’s for sure.
Tucking my cell phone into the pocket of my leather jacket, I reach into the other side to retrieve the burner cell phone I have on me at all times. A text message flashes across the screen, and I smile in delight at the figure written there in black and white.
Perfect.
Another job well done.
Pleased, I tuck the cell away and lift my head high as I near the large double doors of the clubhouse. The green and black snakes spray-painted onto the wood makes me cringe, the symbol for the Ice Reapers glaring at me square in the eye.
It’s my life, whether I like it or not. I’ve never known any different, but until the day I die, I will never accept that the snakes represent me.
My gaze drifts to the left, noting the five men sitting around the bench with cigarettes in their mouths and beers in their hands. Froggo and Denz are among them, but the other three aren’t familiar. Which can only mean one thing.
Morenew prospects.
Like that’s what we need right now.
Shaking my head, I keep my stride as I focus on the spray-painted symbol once more. A group of men turn their attention in my direction.
One of the younger guys I’m not familiar with rises from his spot, tucking his hands into his pockets as he nods in my direction. His mouth moves, but with the podcast on, I don’t hear a thing.
Irritated with the interruption, I drop my headphones to my neck, staring the guy down as he rakes his gaze over me from head to toe.
“Didn’t you hear me, whore? I said—”
His words are cut short by Denz punching him in the gut without muttering a word, and the grunt that falls from the new prospect's mouth echoes around us.
“Sorry, Scar,” Froggo hollers, raising a hand in surrender. “He’s new and clearly doesn’t know what his life is worth,” he adds as I remain rooted to the spot with a deadpan look.
“Yeah. Dickhead just earned himself the shittiest road name that has ever been given to an Ice Reaper.” Denz offers another swift fist to the guy’s stomach as the other new prospects watch with wide eyes.
“I didn’t think it was possible to get worse than Denz or Froggo,” I comment, biting back the teasing smile on my lips, but the pair of them grunt with laughter.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure we can make it nastier… maybe we should just name him whore.”
I purse my lips at Froggo’s suggestion, shaking my head as I come up with one of my own. “Or maybe whoreless because he sure as shit won’t be getting any candy with that mouth.” I head inside then, but I don’t miss the laughter that clings to the group.
