Page 1 of Toxic Biker

Chapter 1

The truth is rarely pure and never simple. - Oscar Wlde

Plague

“You want something?” my MC brother asks from behind the bar. Powerhouse or ‘House’ for short is probably the worst one of us to have bartending out of the entire club. We had a decent bartender for a while until a damn Oath Keepers MC member came through and made her fall in love with him. She rode off with Chaos and we haven’t seen her since. Last I heard, the brother bought her a business and was wifing her up. Seems like all their ol’ ladies own something or another in their territory.

We don’t have that problem around here; Prez’s ol’ lady spends her days coaching kids swimming teams while Blow’s woman is a goddamn US Marshal. We’re all still tripping over that one, especially Angel. I swear if he gets one chance to witness her slipping against the club, he’ll try to put her in the ground. Our crazy ass VP will go to war for her, so it’ll be one giant implosion that I don’t want to witness.

“I need to know if you’re gonna throwdown and kick some ass at the next brawl we drop in on,” I mutter, wanting to win some easy cash. Betting on fights is one of my favorite sports, especially when I’m not the one having to fight.

He huffs. “I’ve been busy.” For a massive dude, he sure does pout like an angry chihuahua. And by that, I mean he looks like he’s a nice dude (obviously not petite and cute) but he’ll punch your face off if he feels threatened just like those psycho tiny dogs attacking.

“Brother, you’ve been obsessing over fuckingstrippers. Not busy.” We can all see it plain as day, he’s in love over some rented snatch.

He cuts me a look, silently conveying he’s not pleased with me pointing the obvious out. “Fine, get your own beer. And just so we’re clear, Plague,” he mutters, rounding the bar with his longneck in hand. “Any fight I pick up, I’m gonna win. You and I both know as much.”

I shrug. “Just sayin’ if you don’t ever leave the bitches to go fight, we’ll never know.”

The SAA grumbles as he sits on a bar stool, twisting the cap off his beer and taking a hefty swig. The strip club is a sore spot for him. He’s a fairly easy-going brother and get some tequila in him and he’s goofy as fuck, but I’m not kidding about him being obsessed with a stripper chick down the road. It’s a little cliché, in my opinion, but whatever makes his dick happy, I suppose.

Manic, my prospect I’m sponsoring, comes waltzing in, looking high as fuck. He strolls behind the bar and immediately begins washing dishes. His eyes glazed while wearing a dopey grin as he washes, rinses, dries, then places the clean cup on the back shelf.

“The fuck happen to you?” House questions, beer bottle suspended midair on his way to taking another swig.

I chime in, “You eating shit from Baker again? I told you not to taste test for him, you’ll be high for the rest of your life.”

Baker’s made it his mission to get us to try his shit at least once, and it always ends up in whichever one of us is dumb enough being zoned out for at least a day. The brother makes the strongest shit. Your back hurt? No worries, eat a Baker brownie. You’ll be so fucked up you can’t walk the rest of the day. Fuck your back, you won’t feel anything below your chin to worry on it.

Manic busts into giggles, starting to hiccup midway through his outburst and me and House meet each other’s stares. We learned long ago that Baker lives up to his name and no matter how many times we warn the prospects, they always cave. Sure, it’s only a little green, natural, hell, even legal in some spots, but it’s never been my personal poison of choice.

“Make me a Seven and Seven when you get done cutting up over whatever’s got you tripping.Dumbass,” I mutter.

The prospect just laughs harder, midway wiping his tears as they leak out from his happy trip. I don’t get it, how some people are like this, that shit makes me grouchy as fuck and want to sleep. Now, toss me a few pills I can pop, and I’m down. I’ll even go shot for shot with the brothers any night of the week, but keep the moody green shit away from me.

The phone behind the bar begins to ring and Angel appears out of nowhere like a fucking ghost, answering. He’s the Enforcer, so if shit’s going down, he or Prez are the best members to deal with it head-on. His glower finds me, staring me down while he grumbles something in response. He’s a real ray of fucking sunshine around here most days.

He hangs up, brow cocked. “Some bitch is at the gate claiming you’re her brother’sbff.You go join a new club we don’t know about, Plague?”

“Fuck,” I curse, not wanting them to give her any shit, which knowing the prospects, they probably already have. It’s what they’re supposed to do, but I don’t want her to deal with it.

“I let her through. Figured I’d ask her sexy ass myself. Prospect says she’s a fine-looking uppity bitch, wide hips and big tits.” He holds his hands out as if cupping a pair of tits or an ass, and it only serves to chafe my nuts over the idea of anyone looking at her like meat.

I resist the growl clawing at my throat and reply instead, “It’s not like that, Angel. Her brother and I grew up together. I don’t know why she’d come here, it must be serious, probably about Seth. Hope the fucker’s not dead or anything.” My chest hurts a little at the idea, but I quickly push it away, schooling my features in anI don’t give a fuckattitude so they don’t read too much into Lacey’s presence.

We all watch through the big bulletproof tinted front window from the bar as a cage pulls into the parking lot. The beauty of the tinted glass is that we can see out, but no one can see in. Our bikes are parked along the building, so she’s in the middle of the parking lot, her expensive cage standing out amongst all of our black and chrome. I cast a quick glance at my brothers hoping they’ll stay the fuck inside and not come out to be nosy. Who knows what’s up or the state she could be in and I don’t need them stirring the pot until I can get a read on the situation.

Leaving my heavy-handed poured Seven and Seven behind, I grab a bottled water from the end of the bar top counter on my way out. Heading for the picnic table off to the side in the shade, I lean my ass on the edge and place the bottle beside me. My feet rest on the ground, my hands on my thighs as I impatiently watch her climb out of her pearl white Mercedes sedan.

She hurries to me, more frazzled than I think I’ve ever seen her before. She’s younger than Seth and me, so I’ve watched her go through her awkward stages and even then, she tried her damndest to be presentable. I guess it’s what’s expected of you when you grow up in a rich, privileged lifestyle.

Her brother and I were never meant to be friends in the first place. We met by an off chance when we were six, both determined to play soccer. If it wasn’t for the community-based soccer program that threw us together each season until seventh grade, we’d never have had the opportunity to get close like we did.

After our second year of playing soccer together, it was impossible to keep us apart.

“Seth alright?” I check as soon as she’s close enough I don’t have to raise my voice. Her fresh flowery scent hits me and I draw in a deep inhale. Fuck, she always smells so damn good. It’s both a blessing and a curse, I’m convinced.

“He’s alive,” she responds ominously, but I don’t dig. She’s here for a reason, so she’ll tell me what I need to know.

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