Page 1 of Kodiak

PROLOGUE

KODIAK

My body achesas I stand from my recliner, where I passed out last night, and extend my arms above my head before kicking out my feet to wake my legs. All of my ligaments and tendons stretch as my bones creak, making me groan.

I’m getting too old for this shit.

After all the years I spent traveling as a nomad, it feels as if settling down and laying down some roots here in Benbrook, Texas has aged me exponentially. Overnight, my age has caught up with me, and I’m wondering if I made the right decision to find a home instead of living off the land.

Even as a young boy, I enjoyed camping and riding down an open road. My dad got me interested in dirt bikes when I was just a toddler, and I started riding as soon as my feet touched the shifter and my hands could reach the brakes on the handlebars.

Riding became my oasis, which is why I chose the biker life.

My given name is Marcum LeBlanc, but the guys have dubbed me Kodiak because I remind them of my benefactor—the grizzly bear. I’m rough around the edges and I tend to growl a lot. I also have no issue using my snarl as a way to keep everyone in line when the occasion calls for it.

I don’t allow myself to get close to people. After losing my entire family outside of my blood brother, I’ve shut my emotions down and have locked them behind a steel vault in my mind. There are plenty I’m loyal to and would lay my life on the line for, but those are men that took two orphaned boys underneath their wings and showed us how to survive the streets.

Us Deviant Knights, we’re hard-nosed criminals trying to go legit, which is why I’m forcing myself from my comfortable lazy boy and am up and moving instead of watching the ball game on the television and popping the tab on a beer. I don’t give one single shit that it’s only five in the morning either. I’m a man who wakes up to a can in my hand rather than a mug of coffee.

When we chose what businesses we wanted to run and use our start up funds for, we chose a career that uses our most potent attributes—our brutal strength. Starting up a security firm wasn’t on my top ten list of things I wanted to do in life, but the majority voted, and here we are.

My job assignment for today is a cushy one. I’ll basically be playing peacekeeper for a bunch of authors and their readers. I know women have claws and can be catty, but surely an event such as this won’t have me needing to stay on my toes.

Walking over to the fridge, I grab one of my bottles of chocolate milk from the fridge and grab the file folder I placed on my counter that has all the details inside for this contract. Reading the event name, I snort.

Motorcycles, Mobsters, and Mayhem.

They have no idea that they’re bringing in a wolf in disguise, one wearing sheep's clothing to their venue.

We don’t market that we’re a motorcycle club when bidding for a job and we don’t wear our cuts while on the clock, so they have no clue whatsoever that a true-to-life biker will be watching their backs.

Two of us will be walking the floor while the rest of us guard the outer perimeter. As I read further down the document, my jaw slackens when I read their concerns.

“I’m to keep my eye out for bullying, harassment, and overly zealous fans. That’s preposterous, these are grown ass adults and I have to play recess monitor?”

My brother zombie walks out of his bedroom, scratching his balls, and scowling. “Read that shit last night. I guess these things tend to get out of hand if there isn’t some sort of micromanaging.”

“At least it’s organized and they’re thinking ahead. These are presumed scenarios, doesn’t look like they’ve actually had these types of issues in the past,” I surmise.

“I’m not gonna complain if there’s a chick fight. It’d be amusing if nothing else,” he grumbles, walking over to the coffee machine, grabbing one of his pods and sticking it in the device before putting a mug beneath the spout and pressing down the lever. As it brews, he leans against the side of the counter and watches it with an eagle eye. I grunt because narrowing his eyes at it won’t make it fill faster.

“We’re supposed to prevent those outcomes,” I remind him, shaking my head.

He’s an egger, if two women were to go at it, he’d keep their fire burning, which is why he’ll be on the outside of the event instead of casing the inside.

“Whatever, man,” he grumbles. With his mug held tightly in hand, he heads back toward his bedroom.

“We leave here in thirty minutes,” I remind him. “Don’t forget we’re supposed to blend in with the crowd.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves me away as he continues walking. “I’ll be ready and at the bikes waiting for you. I don’t take as long as you do to put on pants and a shirt,” he teases.

I grumble because he makes me sound like I give a damn what goes on my body. I have a simple wardrobe consisting of dark wash jeans, either black, white, or gray tops and my boots.

That’s it.

I only own one button down shirt that I keep hung in my closet for special gatherings. The only reason I even have it is because a buddy of ours tied the knot not long ago, and when he invited me and Xavier, his one requirement was that we wear a nicer top and not a T-shirt.

Twenty five minutes and some change later, I’m tossing my leg over the saddle of my bike and putting my half shell helmet on my head. As our motors warm, the other guys working thissigning with us pull up behind us in our circular driveway. They get into formation behind us.

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