Ride Hard (Raven Riders 1)

“Well, shit,” Maverick said. “Sounds messier than I hoped.”

“Yeah,” Dare said. “Especially since Haven believes her father has the local cops in his pocket.” What he didn’t say was that his gut told him there was more to the story, something else that was relevant that Haven hadn’t told him. And talking to Cora hadn’t yielded him anything more either, which just proved they’d well coordinated their stories. All of which meant he was going to have to confront both of them again, whether he thought he ought to keep his distance from Haven or not.

He and the guys shot the shit for another half hour, and then Maverick stretched out his big-ass body and yawned obnoxiously. “We headed over to the clubhouse tonight or what?”

Dare nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it. Party’s no doubt in full swing by now.” The LED clock on his cable box read 10:20 P.M. The club was tight-knit enough to want to kick back together on a regular basis, and that closeness was something Dare was proud of—he wasn’t the only one who thought of the Ravens as a family. So things tended to get rowdy on weekend nights at the clubhouse because it was a time when a lot of the brothers were available to hang socially. Dare maintained an open-door policy to any and all brothers at all times. He wanted them to think of the compound as a second home the same way he did, as a place where they’d always be welcomed and always belong.

Outside, they each took to their bikes, all four of them riding Harleys—though the shared brand belied the significance of the differences between the specific models, engines, paint jobs, and other custom design features. Bikes were more than modes of transportation—they were extensions of each rider’s identity, personality, and even mood, which was why some guys had more than one.

Maverick was on a blacked-out Night Rod Special, which meant elements that were often chrome on other bikes had been painted a matte pitch black, giving the bike a sinister look, further enhanced by the aggressive riding position the driver had to take. Caine was on a Dyna Fat Bob, a bike with a hard-hitting street presence and kick-ass speed performance. Phoenix rode a Dyna Super Glide, black with sharp orange accents—something with a little show and flash, just like him.

As for Dare, he had a hard-core Dyna Street Bob, all clean lines and minimalist styling. Matte black paint made the bike look like the grim reaper coming down the road, and it was Dare’s favorite. Among other custom badges, all four of them had Ravens’ graphics airbrushed onto their bike tanks.

The trip to the clubhouse only took ten minutes from Dare’s place at the edge of the three-hundred-plus-acre compound. Doc had inherited the land decades before from the uncle who’d founded the speedway and associated resort. As a show of support, Doc had put his name on the deed, making Dare half owner of the land and everything on it. Damn hard to believe for a kid whose father jealously guarded everything they had and made the smallest generosity feel like a fucking gift you should get on your knees and grovel for.

They came in through the gated, private Raven Riders’ entrance that cut through the woods closest to the main part of the compound. The lot was packed with the bikes of club members and the cars of their guests. The clubhouse was a big two-story brown building with a covered front porch that stretched from one end of the building to the other. Across the parking lot sat the club’s chop shop, and off to the side of the clubhouse sat the first of six cottages left over from the resort era. They used them now to house race drivers or brothers or clients in need. On a typical Friday night, most of the action would be down the mountain at the racetrack, but it would be another week before they got their operations there up and running again.

Inside, the place was jumping—music jamming, and people talking, laughing, and making out in every possible corner. A crowd around the pool tables was decent proof that there was some serious betting going on. Another crowd gathered around one end of the bar, but Dare couldn’t figure out what the attraction was there. The vibe was nearly frenetic, proof that everybody needed a night without reminders of their recent losses to just let go.

Dare talked and laughed and flirted as he cut through the crowd, feeling lighter than he had in a while. It was moments like these when he knew finding his grandfather and building a life here with the Ravens had made him who he was as a man and very likely saved his life to boot. This place was his home. These men were his family. This was his community. And he’d defend all three against every and any threat.