“Go on, prospect. Give the lady a ride.” He lifts his chin at me. I give him a look in return that I’m sure he reads clearly.
Thanks, asshole.
He outright chuckles at my expression.
It’s late and we’re standing next to the pool table in the rear of the clubhouse. I figured things were winding down, and I’d be able to take off soon to get back home to Kami. No such luck, apparently.
I glance to Magnolia, Leigh’s BFF. “Sure, doll. Let’s go.”
Her face lights up, and she gives Leigh a wide-eyed look, like she wants to squeal with excitement. I head toward the door, not waiting for her. I know the girl’s got a thing for me. She’s not bad to look at and nice enough, but there’s no spark for me. These days, the only girl I’ve got any interest in is the last one I should be thinking about, but I can’t seem to get Kami out of my head.
Magnolia’s heels click behind me as she tries to catch up with my long strides. I hold the door for her, and she slips past me, facing me and practically rubbing up against me. I give her half a smile. I’m not about to be rude to the club princess’s BFF.
As I’m about to step outside, I hear Ruin chuckle.
“Better gas up, Prospect. You’ve got a long ride ahead of you.”
What the hell does that mean? I glance back at him, but say nothing. When we’re at my bike, I dig her out the helmet I bought for Kami, hating that I have to let another girl wear it, and hating even worse that I have to put another girl on the back of my bike. I strap my own on. “So where are we goin’?”
“Heflin.”
I frown because it doesn’t ring a bell. In my head I’m trying to visualize the Atlanta metro area, trying to place it, but I can’t. “Heflin? Where’s that?”
“Alabama.”
My brows about hit my hairline. “Alabama? Are you shittin’ me?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just across the State Line off I20, don’t get your panties in a wad.”
“I can’t believe you just said that to me. And here I am bein’ nice.”
“It’s the exit with the fireworks stands, you know the one?”
“Yeah, I know the one.” I sit on my bike and lift it off its kickstand, cursing that I didn’t figure a way out of that last pool game, and now I’m stuck with this bullshit errand.
“My grandparents have a farm about a mile off the exit.” She scrambles on behind me, scooting close and hanging on tight. I don’t get the same excitement I do when Kami’s on the bike with me. I fire up the engine, and it thunders to life under us, then I pull out, heading west.
By the time Magnolia points over my shoulder, indicating the drive to her grandparents’ farm, it’s well after 1am. I let off on the throttle and make the turn, rolling to a stop beside the white clapboard farmhouse. A dog barks from the backyard.
Magnolia climbs off, but I stay seated, the bike idling, not about to prolong this a minute longer than necessary. It doesn’t stop her from putting her hand on my chest and leaning in to give me a kiss. I pull back after allowing just a quick peck.
“Thanks for the ride, Saint.”
“No problem.”
The porch light flicks on, and the front door opens, saving me. I lift my chin. “Granny’s waiting. Better go on, girl, before she calls the cops on me.”
Magnolia takes a few steps away, giving me enough room to roll the bike back and pull out.
I get a hundred yards down the highway and can’t help wiping her kiss from my lips, feeling like I cheated on Kami, which is crazy.
Shit, I should have taken a moment to text her. What the fuck am I thinking? I don’t owe her any explanations. We don’t have a real relationship; this whole marriage thing is fake, as if I need that reminder.
I’m rolling down I20 just past the Alabama Stateline headed back into Georgia when I see a semi tractor-trailer in the oncoming lane start to swerve. He hits the shoulder with his tires and veers back, overcorrecting, then starts to rock, and I’m terrified he’s about to fishtail or tip over.
I hit my brakes, not sure he won’t come across the grassy medium and plow right through the guardrails like they’re nothing. I pull to the shoulder on the eastbound side. I’m the only other vehicle in sight on both sides, but as he rumbles past, still trying to gain control, I see two single headlights behind him swerving. I know immediately those are motorcycle headlights. I’m sure they’re dodging the rocks he’s throwing, not to mention the pieces of rubber tread coming off his huge tires.
One of the guys lays his bike down on its side, sliding along the pavement in a spray of glowing sparks, and the other goes over the embankment out of sight, trying to avoid hitting his buddy, I’m sure.
“Holy fuck.” I’m off my bike and jogging across three lanes, and vault the guardrail. I glance back down the road to see the semi regain control and his taillights disappearing over a rise.
I run to the guy pinned under his bike. “You okay, man?” His leg is trapped and he’s struggling to lift his bike. “Where’s my VP? Is he okay?”
It’s then I notice the vest and patches, but I can’t see the back to read what club he’s with. I get the bike lifted off him and he scrambles out. I wheel it to the shoulder and I see a pair of headlights behind us in the distance. The bike rolls, so that’s good, but its scrapped up and his mirror is gone. I set it on its kickstand and run after the man limping toward the embankment.
We both slide down the steep incline to the second biker.
“Shades, holy fuck, are you okay?” The one I’m following is frantic. In the moonlight I can now read the back of his cut.
Evil Dead MC, Alabama. With the infamous three skulls center patch.
Shit. I’ve heard of these guys. They’re some badass motherfuckers. I have to remind myself that whatever I do here, I’m representing my club, so I better not screw up. If I do anything that might show disrespect, it’ll blow back on the Kings.
We reach the second guy. He’s pinned in a watery ditch.
“I’m okay, Ghost. Help me lift my bike.”
Together we get it off him. It’s not easy to wrangle seeing as how the tires are sunk in a couple inches of mud.
The Evil Dead VP manages to pull his boot from the sucking mud and stumble back out of the water, his jeans soaked to the hip. He’s cursing up a storm.
The three of us push his bike out of the ditch and struggle getting it up the embankment. It’s not easy with a six hundred pound machine. We make it to the top, all sucking air, our chests heaving.
The VP looks down the highway. “Where’s the damn truck?”
I turn toward the distant rise and lift my arm. “He’s long gone. Got his rig under control and took off.”
“Motherfucking asshole,” he cusses, and then lifts his chin to my cut, having seen the back when I turned. “Who you prospectin’ with, kid?”
“Kings of Carnage, Uprising chapter.” I want to extend my hand, but I know better. You always let the highest-ranking member make the first move on that kind of thing. If he wants to shake my hand, that’s his call.
“What’s your name?” His eyes bore into mine.
“Saint.”