Page 1 of Tick Tock, Boom!

TICK TOCK

1994

It wasthe year that life had decided to chew me up and spit me out, pretty much reaming me a new one. I was running on empty, fueled by rage and the kind of misery that turns a man into something not worth even mentioning. Twenty-five years old, and I’d already lived enough for two lifetimes. I’d just finished collecting on a debt that left my knuckles cracked and bleeding when I walked into that bar on the outskirts of town. Didn’t even know its name. I just needed a drink strong enough to burn the damn taste of blood out of my mouth.

That’s where Paul “Bulldog” Jameson found me.

The place reeked of stale beer and bad decisions. I was nursing my third whiskey of the night when he walked in, wearing his patch like a badge and carrying this air of authority that made the room, and the assholes in it, shrink around him. He didn’t sit. Didn’t order a drink. Just stood there, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on me.

I spotted him across the room the reflection of the bar mirror, the determined look in his eyes cut through the haze of smoke and neon lights. The thud of his boots on the worn floorboards hit hard. A slow and steady sound, full of that no-bullshit biker purpose. Every step he took set my nerves on edge. You didn’t just walk toward someone like that unless you were ready to start some shit… or finish it.

“You the one who taught Tommy Russo a lesson?” he asked, his voice full of gravel and grit.

I didn’t look up right away. I took a drag of my smoke, blew it out slowly, then turned just enough to meet his eyes. “Depends on who’s askin’.”

He stepped closer, boots heavy, his presence even heavier. I was on edge but kept my cool. “Name’s Bulldog. Paul Jameson. President of the Royal Bastards MC.”

He paused, letting the weight of that title settle between us before adding, “And you’ve got my attention.” I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just let the silence stretch between us.

TommyfuckingRusso. Now there was a piece of shit I wish I’d finished off properly. He was a low-level bookie with greasy hair and a bigger ego than his wallet could handle. Thought he was some hotshot mover, setting up side deals, skimming off the top, and acting like the muscle he hired wouldn’t catch on.

I was that muscle. At least, I was supposed to be.

At first, it was just a job for me. I’d get in, look scary, get paid. Nothing personal and nothing I couldn’t handle. But Russo had a habit of thinking he was untouchable. He thought calling meexpendablewas smart. Thought stiffing me on my cut and mouthing off in front of his boys would make him look like abig man.

Wrong move. Wrong guy.

I gave him exactly what he was askin’ for. A lesson in pain he wouldn't forget even if he got hit in the head with a crowbar ten years from now. In the end, I left him with a broken nose, a shattered ego, and a mouth full of blood and shame. Snapped two of his ribs, knocked out four teeth, and carved a warning into the side of his car with my knife just for good measure. You don’t fuck over your own muscle and walk away clean.

Did I enjoy it?Maybe. Probably. Hell, definitely.

So when Bulldog stood there, arms crossed and that patch all shiny on his cut, staring me down like he was deciding whether to recruit me or fuck me up, I didn’t back down.

“Tommy got what was comin’,” I said, voice low and steady. “You got a problem with that?”

He cracked a smile, slow and dangerous. “Nah, brother. I’ve got a job for you.”

And just like that, the game fucking changed. It wasn’t loud. No big speech. No promises whispered under breath. Just a look, a flicker of understanding in Bulldog’s eyes like he saw straight through the smoke, the leather, the scars. Like he recognized the rage simmering beneath my skin and didn’t flinch. That’s all it took to gain his respect.

No threats. No dick-measuring bullshit. Just two men who’d seen hell and weren’t afraid to walk back into the fire if it meant protecting what was theirs.

We talked that night. Not much though. Men like us didn’t need a lot of words. But it was enough.

He lit up a cigar, took a slow drag, and said, “I need a rider. Someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. A man who knows the road like it’s tattooed on his soul.”

I looked him dead in the eye and didn’t hesitate. “Been riding since I was fifteen. Stole my old man’s Harley while he was passed out drunk on the porch. Left him in a cloud of dust and I never looked back.”

That bike?It was my escape, my salvation. When fists flew at home and the world turned to shit, the throttle was my therapy. The roar of the engine drowned out the screaming in my head. Every mile I put between me and the past felt like a breath I hadn’t been allowed to take until then.

Bulldog nodded, like he’d been there too.

“I’ll ride for you,” I said, my voice rough with resolve. “But I don’t follow blindly. I don’t kiss rings or suck up to a patch. You want loyalty, you earn it.”

His lips twitched into a crooked grin, eyes gleaming as if he’d just found a kindred soul.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t need sheep.”

He took one last drag of his cigar, flicked the ash onto the floor, and locked eyes with me.

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