Page 7 of StoryTeller's Tale

Proving they’re not so observant, the three guys turn, give me a quick glance, then, just as fast, dismiss me as a person of any interest to them, and return to their conversation.

“Beer,” I demand. When the bottle’s placed in front of me, I don’t touch it. Instead, I lay my hand on the cut of the man who’s standing next to me, a big disrespect in my world. For good measure, I tap it lightly a couple of times. When he turns sharply, I say, casually, “Haven’t heard of your MC before.”

He puffs out his chest. Sure, he’s bigger than me, not taller, but wider than many men are. Him making more of himself doesn’t intimidate me.

“And what do you know about MCs?” he asks sneeringly.

“A lot more than you, apparently,” I calmly reply. When he snorts, I add, “Enough to know that you haven’t cleared the setting up of your club with the dominant.”

“Bikers don’t need no damn permission from anyone.” He scoffs. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“This fucker giving you problems, Jack?” One of the other men leans forward.

“Nah, I can handle it.” Again, he puffs his chest out. “Just going to teach this asshole not to mess with us.”

That’s my opening. As I see his fist clench, his eyes viewing up his angle, my punch, already sighted and lined up, is flying. I don’t want to drag this out, so I put all my strength behind it. The single punch to his jaw lays him out.

I sense one of the others behind me, so I donkey kick back. From the scream, I’ve scored a direct groin hit. The third man comes flying at me, but I allow his punch, lessening the impact by turning my face slightly, while my fist takes him straight in his throat. He collapses, gagging and heaving.

“You fuckin’ cunt,” the man I got in the balls shouts and launches at me, but I’m ready. I use his own momentum, sidestep, throw my arms around him and guide his head into the bar. He drops to the floor, dazed, his pupils pinpricks, his face bemused as if wondering how he got there.

As wannabe one starts to come around, holding his head, and wannabe two stops gagging, Chaz and the others step up. Chaz hands me my cut. Sliding it on, I shrug my shoulders to get it to settle right. The three punks’ eyes go wide when faced with real versions of the men they thought they could emulate.

“Wow.” Pothead is staring at me, his eyes gleaming. “I can fuckin’ see how you survive by yourself. You’re a fuckin’ one-man army.”

That’s the SEAL training,I think to myself, but acknowledge his admiration with a rise and dip of my chin.

“Take their… cuts.” Prez says the word as though the leather the wannabes are wearing is barely worth the description.

The three men start to protest but come to their senses when my brothers take up a threatening stance. When Shithead has their leathers, Prez issues one further instruction. “Take those back to the clubhouse and fuckin’ burn them.” Then he turns his attention to the bikers on the ground. “Outside.” He jerks his head.

When they’re slow to comply, Pothead and Claw give them some encouragement. With Skunk’s help as well, they make their way through the patrons who seem to be making a point that none of what happened is any of their business.

Chaz opens his wallet, takes out a few notes, and passes them over to the bartender. No words are spoken, but an understanding passes between them.

I step to his side as we leave the bar.

Outside, the entertainment is just beginning. I might have warmed them up, but my brothers are just as eager to show them just what they think of men who think all they need is a Harley and a leather vest to call themselves a biker. I’ve already had my fun, so standing with Chaz, we leave them to it.

When all that remains is a groaning heap, some of which, at least, might need emergency room attention, Chaz beckons Skunk, Claw and Pothead to stand down.

He kicks at the prone men until he gets all their attention and warns in a menacing tone, “If I see any of you fuckers again, wearing your pretend colours, you won’t get off so lightly, you hear me? If that’s your thinking, then my advice is to get measured for your coffin, as that’s what you’ll be needing.”

He spits on the ground and turns away from them. Putting his hand to the back of my cut and Pothead’s, he urges us and the others back to our bikes.

Skunk shakes his head as he swings his leg over his Harley. “You were poetry in motion back there, Brother,” he tosses at me. “Turned me right on. I could actually fuck you right now.” He blows me a kiss.

“Me too, Bro. Me too,” Claw echoes.

Snorting loudly, I mount my own steel horse, and as Chaz’s finger circles, start my engine. We pile out of the parking lot in practised formation.

CHAPTERTWO

STORYTELLER

With no permanent room in the clubhouse, I crash in one of the spare rooms that are used for visitors or fucking, or both. While I’m used to sleeping anywhere—out under the starry skies isn’t unknown—the mattress has got lumps in it. Deciding to complain to Prez and insist he purchases a new one if he intends on me sticking around for any length of time, I give up on sleep soon after day breaks.

Last night, after having our fun, we’d returned to the clubhouse where I proceeded to have a few drinks, catch up with my long unseen brothers, and let Brandy have her wicked way with me. As CeCe didn’t want to miss out, I also gave her a taste of my cock. When Brea looked a bit lonely, I took the blow job she offered as an easy way out. I’d ridden a few hundred miles before taking out those three punks, so if I wasn’t up to my A game, who could fucking blame me?

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