Not one he could trust.
It was one thing to have a bitch riding him, another to have one riding with him. He preferred the first to the second.
At least, that was what he fucking told himself.
Cage, as Road Captain, was leading the formation through the back woods, hills and valleys surrounding Manning Grove, making sure to avoid Copperhead Road, which ran past the lane leading up the mountain to the Shirley compound.
He couldn’t get all that shit that happened to stop bugging him. He was the club’s enforcer. He wore the patch stating he was Sergeant at Arms. He was the one ultimately responsible for not only keeping everyone’s ass in line but protecting club property.
He’d failed.
He’d fucking failed.
No one had held it against him.
But he held it against himself.
He hoped this three-hour, cold-as-fuck ride would clear his fucking mind, but it hadn’t. Now he wanted nothing more than to head home, smoke a big fatty and maybe fall into some easy pussy.
Like most of his brothers, he had the phone numbers of all the willing sweet butts and female hang-arounds programmed into his cell.
All he usually had to do was send a text. After that, it wasn’t long before he’d get a knock on his apartment door and when he opened it, willing snatch would be waiting on the other side, usually wearing a wicked smile and carrying a bottle of something strong in her hand.
Mentally, he began to go down his contact list to see who and what he was in the mood for.
Whoever it was, needed to blow his mind so he could forget—at least for a little while—about that fucking mountain, those inbred Shirleys and how a nine-month pregnant Autumn looked after they found her strapped to that bed in the compound.
So fucking caught up in his thoughts, he was surprised when they hit the town limits and headed down Main Street.
He didn’t miss the fact everyone walking or driving through town stared at them rolling by. While the Grove’s citizens were getting used to the return of the Fury, it didn’t mean they all liked the idea.
Most of them didn’t.
Trip was right, they needed to keep their shit as clean as possible to avoid hassle from the town council or even Manning Grove PD. He needed to keep his shit clean with them, too, since his business’s survival counted on it.
He mindlessly followed the formation into the large municipal parking lot at the center of town and one-by-one, all his club brothers crab-walked their sleds back neatly in line next to each other, so they only took up a few parking spots.
He backed his next to Ozzy, and then Rook rolled his on Judge’s other side.
Ozzy wore a huge smile as he jerked off his goggles. “Can’t get any fuckin’ better than that ‘cept for a fat, wet and hungry pussy. Meeeeeow.”
Judge wondered if he would end up nuts deep in Lizzy later and if Judge should cross her off his list of ball-emptying potentials.
“Shit’s gettin’ to be blue ball weather, though,” Rook stated after jerking down his face mask, heeling down his kickstand and yanking off his leather gloves.
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dutch griped in his gravelly voice as he walked past them, tugging on his long salt-and-pepper beard. “Us Originals never cried about a lil nippy nuts. You young fucks ain’t made like we were.”
“Yeah, bet you rode your sled two miles up a hill in five feet of fuckin’ snow just to get your dick wet,” Rook razzed his father.
“When your ma was still ‘round, got my dick wet all the time. And the bitch could suck a knob off a fuckin’ door.”
“Christ,” Rook growled, dropping his head and shaking it.
“Well, it’s fuckin’ true, boy. If it wasn’t for that, never woulda made her my ol’ lady and had her squirt you and your brother out.” He waved a wrinkled, age-spotted hand and kept moving toward the front of the line where Trip, Stella and Cage were waiting. “By the way, havin’ you two trashed her fuckin’ pussy. Worst decision ever!” he shouted back over his shoulder.
Ozzy, another Original like Dutch, snorted and slapped his gloves on his leather chaps-covered thigh. “Fuckin’ old man. Always was a pisser.”
“Yeah, he was,” Judge mumbled, sliding the key from his Softail Slim. He loved his sled. He’d had it customized after he bought it new to make it look even more badass than it came from factory. He’d traded in Ox’s old sled he’d rode ever since he was old enough to be able to keep it upright. Which was not long after that fucker went to prison.
He’d also wore his old man’s cut, but with his own name patch on it. Trip had him rip off the old diamond 1% patch on the back and remove the Original patch on the front, too. So far, only Ozzy and Dutch could claim they were Originals.