Crash: A DAMC/BFMC Crossover (Unedited)
Chapter One
With boots wide, legs spread and hands on his hips, Crash stood at the edge of the Blood Fury MC’s courtyard and scanned the field beyond.
A sea of tents, campers, borrowed travel trailers and rented vans as far as he could see.
Sleds. Lines of them. The mid-June sun reflecting off all the chrome made them sparkle like diamonds. All badass bikes and not one of them a piece of shit. Mostly Harleys and a few Indians. All made in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Not a crotch rocket to be found on the property.
As it should be.
Some of those sleds had even been designed and customized at his own body shop in Shadow Valley by Jag Jamison. And now Badger and Olly. The two newest patched members—with Olly being the youngest—who Jag took under his wing as apprentices.
Overwhelmed with all the custom jobs he was getting, Jag decided to pass his skills on and stick more to the designing part. Along with his artwork, regularly selling for a pretty fucking penny, the brother wasn’t hurting for scratch.
Crash didn’t have the patience for all the detail work needed to build a custom sled, so he stuck to the basics in the garage. Doing repairs and rebuilding the engines. It paid the bills, put some scratch in his pocket and fattened the club’s coffers.
Business was good.
Life was great.
And this blow-out weekend was going to kick motherfucking ass.
With the stops along the way, it took over five hours for the Angels to ride from Shadow Valley all the way north to Manning Grove. Luckily, it was a beautiful day to start off a hell of a weekend full of celebrating.
It was the first time all three clubs in the western Pennsylvania alliance were getting together in one spot.
His MC, the Dirty Angels, along with the Dark Knights, were invited to the Blood Fury MC’s home base to celebrate their president’s marriage to his ol’ lady.
Right now Crash was ready to party and partake in some sex, drugs and rock-n-roll.
He grinned and brushed his palm over his short hair, cursing himself for shaving it all off in a drunken bet a couple of months ago. He’d shaved off his beard at the same time—unfortunately, also a part of the bet—and sported a bare face and a bald head for quite a while now.
Because of that loss—both the bet and his hair—his brothers had ridden his ass hard and without a drop of fucking lube.
It was finally growing back, but he had decided to ditch the beard for a while. In fact some of the women in the DAMC sisterhood threatened to kick his ass if he grew it back once they saw his chin dimple that had been buried under the bushy beard. That was what they called it, a fucking chin dimple.
Whatever. He really didn’t give a fuck about any fucking chin dimple. The dip only made it harder to shave. This weekend he wasn’t shaving once. The sisterhood could suck it if they didn’t like it since he didn’t answer to any of them.
Hell, he didn’t answer to any woman at all.
He’d avoided it for over forty years and had no plan on changing that fact any time soon.
Most of the women he’d even remotely considered had been younger. Child-bearing age. Jonesing to start a family.
Crash was fine with the way things were now.
Ride free, die free.
Free of a ball and chain. Free of kids. The only responsibility for him being his garage, his MC and his brotherhood.
Simple.
And drinking to the point where he could lose a damn bet and it wouldn’t matter to anyone but himself.
But, yeah, he missed his damn hair. Before losing the bet, it hadn’t been cut since he was a teen and would get dragged to the barber by his mom when it got shaggy.
He turned around to face the courtyard and glanced to the right, where the Fury’s pavilion was. It was double the size of the DAMC’s but then, the Fury’s farm had a lot more space than the property where his club’s church and The Iron Horse Roadhouse were situated.
The DAMC’s building and lot might be smaller, but because of that, their church was much easier to defend. He glanced around. Enemies could sneak up from all sides on this farm. Too much open space existed.
His gaze skimmed The Barn to his left. At least Trip had taken Zak’s advice and omitted windows from the first floor of their church and bunkhouse. Smart thinking.
A hard lesson learned when the Warriors shot The Iron Horse up during a Christmas party, trying to kill them all.
At this point the Fury had no rivals, but he had heard mutterings about some local redneck militia wannabes. Trip assured both Z and Romeo, the Dark Knights’ prez, that those hillbillies wouldn’t be a threat this weekend.
Crash had no idea why this weekend would be different than any other, but it wasn’t his problem, either way. It was up to the BFMC to protect the visiting clubs by making sure the event was safe, but, of course, the other two MCs would jump in if all hell broke loose.
Crash wouldn’t mind a doing a little ass-kicking this weekend. Life had become a bit boring at home after the rival Shadow Warriors were obliterated and now with most of his club brothers living with their families in a gated community away from church.
Yawn.
Hell, Dawg had already become a grandparent. It would soon be time for them to break out their old fart motorized scooters instead of their sleds. Maybe Jag could customize those, too.
Crash snorted and glanced back at the pavilion when he heard some excited chatter.
Kids of all ages were beginning to gather in that vicinity to be entertained and babysat by a few of the house mouses both they and the Knights had dragged north with them. Not surprising how many kids there were since bikers tended to like to procreate. Or at least practice procreating.
Especially the Dirty Angels.
Once it got late, those kids would be taken elsewhere so any adults-only activities wouldn’t be witnessed.
But not all of the kids were young any more.
The oldest being Zeke, Zak’s son, now a very stubborn fourteen, followed by Ash, Hawk’s son, and Violet, the oldest of Diesel’s three daughters.
Crash wasn’t counting Lily in the mix anymore since she declared, loudly and often, she was now an adult at nineteen. Dawg and Emma disagreed about the “adult” part. Hell, even their youngest, Emmalee, affectionately known as Lee-lee, was eleven already.
And now hated being called Lee-lee.
When the fuck did his generation of Angels get so goddamn old? He’d been a member of the DAMC for almost twenty-six years. Twenty-six fucking years! And he’d die a member, too. Even though he wasn’t born into the club like some others in the brotherhood, it was still in his blood.
Family, that was what they all were. They all had each other’s backs, protected the women and raised the children.
The saying “it takes a village” was about right. And the neighborhood Zak built behind electric gates and high walls—out of necessity—had certainly become a village between the DAMC families and Diesel’s Shadows living in the compound, too.
It looked like Trip, the Blood Fury prez, was doing something similar here on the farm he inherited. Building an MC compound where everyone lived close. A true family and village of their own.
It was damn smart. No doubt.
A large, dark figure lumbered Crash’s way, wearing a black leather cut that told everyone who he was and who he belonged to, but Crash didn’t need to read any of his patches to know who he was.