Page 8 of StoryTeller's Tale

Today’s a new day though, and while tired from the lack of meaningful sleep, I’m looking forward to getting on with it.

Brothers from other chapters I visit are normally welcoming enough, offer their sweet butts—some even their old ladies if there is a mutual interest there—but it’s nothing like being in your own clubhouse and not having to worry whose toes, or dick, you might be stepping on.

The room I’ve been given is bare other than the bed and my worn-looking rucksack. As the facilities are down the hall, I dress before leaving. Then, taking a book from my pack and suppressing a yawn, I enter the clubroom.

The only person around is Shitface who’s making an effort to clear up bottles and empty ashtrays. When he starts polishing the tables with a rag he pulls from his pocket, I hold back the comment he might as well try to polish a turd.

Interrupting his work, I snap out, “Get me a coffee, Prospect.”

Another good benefit of being home, prospects are even more accommodating, knowing your vote will be counted when it comes to patching in.

“Creamer? Sugar?”

“Black,” I growl. “As nature intended.” Or what I’ve become used to when it was just me and my camping stove.

Turning sideways on the worn sofa, I place a pillow behind me, and put my feet on the seat. Now comfortable, I open my book, and start reading.

I’ve no idea how long Shitface has been chasing his patch, but he’s close to wooing my yay as he keeps my coffee topped up, wordlessly removing the empty cup and replacing it with a full one without me having to ask. Having gotten lost in the words on the pages in front of me, I’ve no desire to be interrupted.

The book is a satisfying length, and I’m only a third of the way in before the clubhouse starts to fill up around me. Men enter, burp, fart, scratch their balls, and, yawning, embrace the morning in a variety of masculine ways. I’m only disturbed when Iron pushes my legs off the couch, allowing him room to sit.

“See nothing’s changed.” He chuckles.

The sergeant-at-arms and I go way back, and yeah, I’ve always been a reader, finding books a great place to escape and take your mind off more unpleasant matters.

He reaches over, pulls the book out of my hands, and checks the cover. His eyes widen. “Not your usual style, Brother.” He snorts, giving it back.

So what if the cover shows a half-naked man? He’s wearing a cut and is obviously a biker. The story inside is good, not something I would have picked that’s for sure, but the writing is pulling me into the plot. I’d given it a cursory glance at first until I realised that the author knows what they’re talking about. For a start, they have to be a motorcyclist, the descriptions of riding are so apt that wasn’t pulled from the imagination, and though I was dubious about their knowledge of clubs, they’ve got it right in so many aspects. In fact, I’ve pretty much decided that the author must be a dude masquerading under a pen name, surely no woman could write like this.

“It’s good.” Raising my shoulders, I don’t need his opinion or approval.

“Tangled Threats on the Nomad Highway.” He leans forward to read the title again, then snorts. “Must be because the word nomad is in it.”

I half-turn away, opening it back to the page I was on, and try to ignore him. I’m only successful for a few moments before another voice brings me out of the pages.

“Ooh. That’s a MariaLisa DeMora book. I love that series.”

I glare up at the newcomer.

Camilla is Bull’s sister, a stunner, though no one in their right mind would touch that. Not unless they wanted to go toe to toe with the VP, who didn’t earn his road name for being small and timid. One punch from his fist and it’s probably the last thing you’d ever feel. She pops into the club from time to time, to visit her brother, and it usually coincides with a breakup in her love life. We tolerate her, fix her up, then send her out to make her next mistake. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have good taste in men. Bull would kill any man who actually hurt her, but it’s usually her who walks away, having found the “love of her life” to be a disappointment.

Her status though, gives her some amount of leeway, so when she reaches forward and snatches the book out of my hand, I have to restrict my response to a growl instead of instinctively ripping it out of her grasp.

My glare hardens as she flicks through the pages, losing my place. “Camilla.” I grit my teeth and ask politely, “Can I have it back, please?”

She waves her hand dismissively, and shoeing Iron away, settles down next to me on the couch. “I’ve read this. It’s a good one. Have you read the rest of the series?” I’m just about to answer in the negative, when she flicks again through the pages, ending on the title page. “Oh. Who’s Sheri?”

I lean toward her, and check what she’s pointing out. “No fuckin’ idea.”

“It’s been personally signed by the author and dedicated to her. Look.” She traces the words as she reads them out. “To Sheri, thanks for being a great fan. MariaLisa DeMora, MMM 23.” She glances my way and her eyes narrow. “How the hell did you get this? Are you certain you don’t know this Sheri?”

“Fuckin’ certain,” I growl, reaching to take the book from her. “I found it, okay?”

“Found it?” Her eyes widen. “You know what MMM is, right?”

I couldn’t give a damn. I just want to keep reading, but she’s intent on enlightening me. “It’s a big signing for authors of Motorcycle, Mafia and Mayhem romance.”

“Romance!” Iron snorts. “Why you reading that shit, Brother?”

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