Page 56 of Clint & Ivy

In contrast, I was more focused on what each person brought to my club rather than the overall size. Tricky and I viewed the world differently.

As I entered the courtyard, Tricky stopped typing on his phone. He tossed his long, strawberry blond hair out of his face and smiled big.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” he taunted. “I’ve heard she’s a very mature sixteen-year-old.”

Tricky’s yellow Corgi stopped sniffing the bushes when he spotted Hanzee. The dogs met in the middle of the grassy area and did their dog-vibing thing.

I settled on a bench across from Tricky, who was a blonder version of his ginger dad, Joker. They owned the same husky build and shaggy hair.

Though I also took after my dad physically, Ford was the kind of man who filled up a space with menace. I didn’t scare people in that way. My personality was more like Joker’s than Ford’s.

My former club president was a guy prone to defusing tension with his humor and genial nature. When Joker switched gears to violence, his enemies rarely saw the threat coming.

Tricky also hid his darker tendencies. His shaggy, stoner-like appearance often fooled people into thinking he was harmless. Pushing six-three and wide-shouldered, Tricky lacked finesse in brawls. He simply bulldozed men until his opponents dropped.

His style never defeated a guy like me. Having started martial arts classes in junior high, I preferred to drop my enemy with well-placed punches rather than brutalizing my body in the hopes of outlasting the other guy.

The few times Tricky and I fought, he drew blood, but I always came out on top. He often claimed I made a better enforcer than leader, but he was fooling himself to think I’d ever obey another man.

“You need better snitches,” I told Tricky as he watched me. “Ivy is twenty-three.”

“You’ve got a soulmate,” Tricky said, snickering like a damn kid.

“Don’t you think your parents are soulmates?”

Tricky’s smile dropped away. His parents were a sensitive subject. Long before Ford and Shay met, Joker had been married to a woman named Darby. The rockabilly chick was ballsy as hell and once used a shotgun on home invaders.

Joker and Darby were a golden couple within the original Little Memphis club. I grew up hearing stories about them. After their son died, they broke up. Joker then married Amanda and had more kids. For some people, Tricky’s mom would always be second best next to Darby.

Though I wasn’t one of those people, Tricky remained sensitive about the topic of his parents around me. I assumed his “no girls allowed” stance on motorcycle clubs came from an overreaction to the Amanda vs. Darby situation. His mom was no shrinking violet, but she had zero interest in riding her own hog or throwing punches. Despite growing up around women in the Everything Nice Crew, Tricky always seemed to prefer women like Ivy to ones like Elle.

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Tricky taunted after an awkward moment when he considered defending Amanda from any perceived slight. Shaking off his grumpiness, Tricky grinned. “Of course, you’re lovestruck and talking about soulmates. Your club is overflowing with estrogen. Why wouldn’t you fall head over heels for a gas station hooker?”

Tricky liked to poke at people. His little snide comments worked, too. When people pitched a fit, he would flash his big, infectious smile and pretend the other person was overreacting.

Even though that tactic never worked on me, Tricky couldn’t help himself.

“Ivy’s uncle runs with dicey people,” I said, refusing to correct him on the hooker thing. “If you see anyone suspicious around here, be sure to raise the alarm.”

Not getting the reaction he wanted, Tricky only nodded. He glanced at our dogs, who didn’t particularly like each other. Fuzz was bigger and used his size to bully the Chihuahuas. When more than one of the little guys was around, they rallied together and bullied him back. Yet, right now, Hanzee stood alone.

I walked over to the dogs so Hanzee would settle down enough to do his business. Fuzz looked up at me like he might growl.

His original owner was one of Tricky’s many short-term girlfriends. He was a man prone to quick, deep, and fleeting infatuation. This particular chick moved in after a few days and brought her dog along. When she ran off to Tallahassee with a dipshit she knew growing up, the Corgi stayed behind.

The dog stared at me like I was his next meal. I smiled at how something so small could misread the situation so badly. I shouldn’t be surprised. Hanzee often barked at threats ten times his size.

One time, a dog yanked free from its owner and came running at the window of our old home. Badass Hanzee barked faster and louder, ready to fight. I doubted my little man had any clue how dead he would have been if that Rottweiler got hold of him.

“Well, good luck with your little lady,” Tricky said and stroked his lush beard. “Can’t believe you’ve got a stranger wandering alone in your place. You wouldn’t even leave me in there unsupervised.”

Leaving the dogs to sniff and piss, I sat across from Tricky. His sudden sour mood offered me the perfect chance to dump bad news on him.

“Speaking of rival bikers, I’m meeting with the Black Rainbow’s new president soon.”

Without missing a beat, Tricky muttered, “There’s a reason my dad never wanted to work with the Rainbow fuckers.”

“They’ve got new management. Is that why you’re poaching so many guys from Baton Rouge?”

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