Steele smiled at her, and her heart felt like it melted in her chest. She might have some anxiety when it came to the clubs and club life, especially over the parties, but it was disappearing fast.
She clearly was going to be the woman the others relied on, and that was all right with her. She had always taken the role, and it fit her. Steele was Torpedo Ink, and he was hers. He would always be her choice. Every time. She knew she was an asset to him, and it gave her every confidence. More, she was an asset to the club. Not in a demeaning way but in a way she could be proud of.
Breezy hurried down the hall to the room Steele used there in the clubhouse. She wasn’t at all surprised when the door closed behind her and she turned to find him leaning against it. There was pride in his eyes. Adoration in his expression. Love. Stark. Raw. She could see it in him so easily. Her heart beat faster, the way it did whenever she looked at him.
“Want you again, woman.”
“Got things to do, Steele.”
His hands dropped to his belt buckle. “More important than me?”
She laughed softly, shaking her head, her eyes on his, happier than she ever thought possible. “There’s nothing more important than you right now, Steele. Not one single thing.”
TERMS ASSOCIATED WITH BIKER CLUBS
1%ers: This is a term often used in association with outlaw bikers, as in “99% of clubs are law abiding, but the other 1% are not.” Sometimes the symbol is worn inside a diamond-shaped patch.
3-piece patch or 3-piece: This term is used for the configuration of a club’s patch: the top piece, or rocker, with club name; a center patch that is the club’s logo; and a bottom patch, or rocker, with the club’s location, such as Sea Haven.
Biker: someone who rides a motorcycle
Biker friendly: a business that welcomes bikers
Boneyard: refers to a salvage yard
Cage: often refers to a car, van or truck (basically any vehicle that’s not a motorcycle)
Chapter: the local unit of a larger club
Chase vehicle: a vehicle following riders on a run just in case of a breakdown
Chopper: customized bike
Church: club meeting
Citizen: someone who’s not a biker
Club: could be any group of riders banding together (most friendly)
Colors: patches, logo, something worth fighting for because it represents who you are
Cut: vest or denim jacket with sleeves cut off and club colors on it; almost always worn, even over leather jackets
Dome: helmet
Getting patched: Moving up from prospect to full club member (you would receive the logo patch to wear with rockers). This must be earned, and is the only way to get respect from brothers.
Hang-around: anyone hanging around the club who might want to join
Hog: nickname for motorcycle, mostly associated with Harley-Davidson
Independent: a biker with no club affiliation
Ink: tattoo
Ink slinger: a tattoo artist
Nomad: club member who travels between chapters; goes where he’s needed in his club
Old lady: Wife or woman who has been with a man for a long time. It is not considered disrespectful nor does it have anything to do with how old one is.
Patch holder: member of a motorcycle club
Patches: Sewn on vests or jackets, these can be many things with meanings or just for fun, even gotten from runs made.
Poser: pretend biker
Property of: a patch displayed on a jacket, vest or sometimes a tattoo, meaning the woman (usually old lady or longtime girlfriend) is with the man and his club
Prospect: someone working toward becoming a fully patched club member
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM THE NEXT GHOSTWALKER NOVEL BY CHRISTINE FEEHAN
TOXIC GAME
AVAILABLE MARCH 2019 FROM BERKLEY
“Hot as hell!” Barry Font yelled, wiping the sweat from his face. He looked around at the crew he was transporting straight into the hot zone. He hadn’t meant the strip of land they were setting the helicopters dow
n on. They all knew it was bad. The last rescue attempt had been ambushed. Three dead, two wounded and the helicopter had barely made it out.
The temperature was at least ninety degrees with 99 percent humidity and gusting winds that took that heat and shoved it right down your throat—and this was at night. Barry’s skin felt wet and sticky all the time. He wanted to strip himself bare and lie under the helicopter’s rotor blades just to get some relief.
They dropped down out of the mountains, the helicopters running low enough to make his gut tighten as they skimmed along the lowlands heading toward the forest. They were sitting ducks making that run and the area was infamous for frequent ground-to-air fire. With the Milisi Separatis Sumatra terrorist cell active and firing at anything, every man in the choppers was at risk. Gunners watched grimly out the doors on either side, but that didn’t make him feel any less like he had a target painted on his back. Strangely, it wasn’t the run that was scaring the crap out of him. He felt like he was trapped in a cage surrounded by predators.
The Air Force pararescue team didn’t seem affected by anything as mundane as the heat or terrorists. The crazy thing was, they were mostly officers. Doctors. What the hell? As a rule, Barry thought most officers were a joke. These men had seen combat and looked as tough as nails. He’d never flown them anywhere before and hadn’t known what to expect.
His crew had taken men into all sorts of combat situations, but he’d never seen a team like the one he was bringing in. He didn’t even know how to explain the difference. It wasn’t like he could name one single thing about them that made them stand out in his mind. They just gave off a dangerous vibe. Being with them really did make him feel as if he were inside a tiger’s cage, surrounded by big cats. They were that still, that menacing, and yet they hadn’t said or done anything to warrant his nerves or the shiver of dread creeping down his spine at the sight of them.
They sat stoically while the helicopter swayed and jerked, bumping like it was in the rockiest terrain. They moved with the craft as if seasoned veterans of helicopter travel. Sweat trickled down their faces—well, all but one. He looked at the man sitting at the very end of the jump seat. Dr. Draden Freeman, a gifted surgeon, looked like a fucking model, not a tough-as-nails soldier about to be dropped into the hottest zone in Indonesia.