“You got a man in the club?” I’ve been here for a few weeks now, and I’m pretty sure I would remember seeing this little side piece hanging around.
She laughs, and I have to fight my irritation because I don’t see what’s so goddamn funny about that. “No. I don’t date club brothers.”
“We beneath you or somethin’, darlin’?”
She grins, grabbing onto the handlebars and sliding one leg over the bike. I have to suppress my growl of appreciation … because I’m sure this little angry feminist would just love that. “Does it look like a brother is beneath me?”
Not yet. But I promise you I’m working on it, baby doll.
“You know for a woman who’s not property of a club brother, you sure seem to know a lot about club life.”
“You’re not from around here, huh? This is Uprising. You make it your business to show the brothers respect, or the club teaches you some. At least, that’s apparently how it was before Chaos took over. I think most of the town is still adhering to that and are just trying to stay out of their way.”
“But not you?” I fasten the strap to the frame and watch the suspension shift as I use the ratchet. The movement jostles her perfect tits, and I suddenly have a hard time concentrating.
“My daddy didn’t like doing business with the Kings, but their money’s just as green as everyone else’s,” she says. “Besides, they’re not that scary once you get to know them.”
I arch a brow and set about fastening another ratchet strap to the main frame and tying it off on the truck. “I’ll be sure to tell Chaos you said that.”
“I came up in school with Sterling and Ruin. They weren’t as scary as they pretended to be either. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I could fight my own battles.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So, you got a name? Or shall I just write inbred, misogynistic biker on your docket?”
I narrow my eyes. “Bitch, you sure are mouthy.”
“And you sure are insolent for a man stranded on the side of the road.”
I scoff and fold my arms over my chest. “You can call me Bear.”
She actually rolls her fucking eyes at me. “You got a real name and an address … Bear?” She says my road name with particular disdain.
“Nope.”
“Where is that accent from?”
“Tennessee,” I bark. “Where does your attitude come from?”
“I guess I’m just a product of my raising.” She smiles, and it about knocks the wind clean out of me. “I’m gonna call you Tennessee.”
I arch a brow. “You can call me whatever you want, darlin’, so long as you’re screaming it.”
“Good to know.” She slides off the bike bringing us face to face—or, I guess, face to nipple, since she’s so goddamn tiny. “Now, if you’re done with your male posturing, you mind if we get this bike into the garage?”
“Whatever you want. As long as your mechanic knows his stuff and doesn’t fuck my bike, lead the way.”
Tink smirks. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
She slips off the back of the truck and I follow suit. Then I help her close the tailgate, though I’m sure she’s already got it covered.
I climb into the truck and close the door. Tink slides into the driver’s side, throws the stick shift in gear and hits the accelerator as if her foot is made of lead. I grab the door frame and hold on for dear life as the trees fly by.
Her lips quirk, and she takes the last corner before town at breakneck speed. I keep my white-knuckled grip on the truck. This bitch is gonna wreck me and my bike before we even make it back to town.
She pulls into a double lot filled with rusted-out old cars and some new ones too that look to be in pretty good condition. That’s a shit ton of real estate for the center of town. The rent on this junk yard must cost them a pretty penny.
The main building is painted in swirls of blue and purple, with a hint of pink and a smattering of white dots that make up the stars in the Milky Way. Above the building, there’s an old sign shaped like a planet with the words, “Jupiter’s Custom Builds and Auto Repairs”.
She climbs out of the truck and opens the tailgate. “Bobby Ray, Jeb, Liam, Grant, will one of y’all come help me with this?”
Well shit. Now I feel like a real asshole. “Wait, you’re Jupiter?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
“Lemme guess, you’re outta this world.”
“I’m out of patience,” she mutters, grabbing a clipboard from the dash and scribbling on a form.
“So, this is your garage?”
“Surprised?”
My brow creases. “Little bit, yeah. Listen … I’m real sorry I was a dick.”
“That’s okay, most bikers are.”
“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands to ward away the aggression. “Now who’s judging who unfairly?”
She climbs out of the cab and I shake my head, looking around the lot. A sleek black Mustang that looks like long nights of whiskey and fucking, catches my eye. It sits in front of the shop, calling to me like a goddamn siren with her shiny paint, chrome hardware, and red leather seats. Jesus. My dick’s getting hard just looking at her.
“Tennessee?”
“Yeah?” I tear my gaze from the vehicle and meet pissed-off Tinkerbelle’s eyes.
“Are you getting out? Or are you gonna sit there jerking it all day?”
I shake my head and climb out of the pickup, meeting her at the tailgate.
“Look, I ain’t got a whole lot of time so if there’s nothing else you need, there’s a diner that way.” She points to the building next door. “I’m sure they’ll let you use their phone to call a ride. Your bike will be ready in a few days, depending on how long it takes me to get a new part.”
I tap the side of the truck with my fist. “It says here you offer a free complimentary driver service to ‘get you where you need to go’.”
She sighs. “I’m gonna kill Bobby Ray for putting that on the side of my truck.”
“So, you’ll take me where I need to go?”
“Well, we’d love to help out, but I don’t think we can spare the manpower to take you all the way to hell.”
I chuckle. “What about to the clubhouse outside of town, then?”
“Sure. I’ll have Bobby Ray get right on that.” She gives me a tight smile and then turns and pats the approaching mechanic on the chest.
He rolls his eyes, and his shoulders deflate. “But I got the Johnson job to finish up.”
“Then you better get goin’,” she calls over her shoulder. I smirk. Nice to know I’m not the only guy she enjoys emasculating.
Two other men who look just like Bobby Ray—only taller and without the shaved head—wheel my bike from the back of my truck and set it on the oil-stained concrete. One of them whistles low. “You fucked up the clutch good, didn’t ya?”
“Yeah. Looks like.” I fold my arms over my chest and watch Jupiter move around the garage like an irate little fairy. “A friend back home in Tennessee souped it up, but now this shit keeps happening at the worst possible times.”