Page 1 of Better as It

PROLOGUE

JUSTIN

I flip downthe kickstand and relax into my seat, legs extended out on each side of my Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide Sport. The glowing light of the night club gives a blue hue to the parking lot as the bass inside thumps low. The allure of the night, getting lost in a stranger under the darkness of the club or the evening sky, it used to be a way to let loose after a long week. The life of a punk kid, doing just enough to get by, and letting loose every chance I can without a second thought to anyone else or anything.

That was before, though.

Now, I’m changing.

This place doesn’t call to me like before. My focus is shifted. I’m no longer Justin William Miller, the youngster trying to figure out where I fit in this world. The boy who left a small town to chase the dream of seeing the whole fucking world is long gone. I’m not the Marine whose knee was busted up from shrapnel after an ambush and lost my career. While I can’t exactly say who I am, I know who I’m not anymore. At twenty-three, I’m in this in between space.

Some say go home.

What is there for me, back there?

Newton, North Carolina is nothing more than a dot on a map.

The Marines gave me purpose and an escape. My future was supposed to be traveling the world and serving my country. First time in combat and boom, the shrapnel hit and shattered my knee leaving me with a new one made of screws, metal, and God knows what else. The occasional limp now and scar are the only way for anyone to know. Don’t ask me to carry a ruck sack and do miles because my bum knee can’t do it and that’s what got me the discharge. How many times did I try? How many times did I put that sack on and attempt to put in the work? I don’t remember, I lost count. The way I pushed until my leg literally gave out from under me will always be a defining moment. Willpower doesn’t always win. That day was nothing more than leaving me eating a face full of gravel, grass, and humble pie. Some things can’t be fixed with sheer willpower.

That is how Tripp and the Hellions found me. In a bar down the street drowning myself in pity. As a prospect now, I go where I’m told, do as instructed, and I don’t ask questions. They don’t care if I can carry the weight of another man physically as long as mentally I can keep my mind on the club. I can do this. I can put my brothers before all others including myself. I can follow orders as directed even if it’s not the best job in the club.

Even if it means picking up the President’s underage daughter who has been drinking a little too much with a fake ID. A girl that is too beautiful for this world.

Dia Nicole Crews.

I don’t know her, not really. I know of her, seen her around, from a distance sort of thing. She is BW’s baby sister. Eighteen years old, maybe nineteen now, but there is no way she’s legal to drink. She graduated high school last fucking month. I have no business even looking at her twice, but I’ll be damned if she doesn’t get everyone’s attention, including mine.

The instruction came from Tripp through BW. Pick her up and make sure she is safe at home. I won’t be leaving even if it means staying with her until she’s passed out. Is this job ridiculous? To some probably. But the thing about prospecting is: respect. Following an order, a directive without question is about trusting and respecting a brother. I have to prove myself and this is just another step in that process.

Here I am, leaning against my bike, black hoodie pulled up, doing everything to keep my face neutral as a group of girls stumble out of the club front door. Laughter spills out amongst them, drunken giggles as my eyes lock to hers.

She pauses as if time stops for her too.

She stands in black leather shorts, a red lace body suit, and black leather jacket casually draped over her shoulders, with little half boots on her feet. Her blond hair is wild from dancing. It’s her eyes, though, the curious look as she’s locked to my gaze. She grabs a girl to her right by the arm, saying something before leaving the group making her way directly to me. Her boots click against the pavement before she comes to a stop with just inches between us.

“You’re my ride?” she sort of asks and states at the same time. She smells like vanilla and rum. A fragrance that any man could be drunk on.

“BW sent me. Said you gotta come with me.”

She lifts an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth sliding up into a sly half-smile. “Looks like I got lucky tonight. They sent hot stuff for me. This is a change. I’ll have to be sure to thank Blaine for the eye candy.”

There is a challenge to her tone. I put my hands up in surrender. “Just a ride, darlin’.”

She looks around then back to my bike. “You’re gonna give me a ride?”

I nod as I hand her a helmet I had strapped to my sissy bar. “Is that a problem?”

She hesitates then studies me. “You don’t have an ol’ lady?”

Shaking my head, I answer honestly, “no time for that. I’m a fuckin’ prospect.” I let out a laugh and give her the reality to get off this personal shit. “Need to get you home, make sure you’re safe, and then I’m sure I got some toilets to scrub, or a floor to mop.”

This elicits a laugh from her as she puts the helmet on. I get on my bike, settling in as I slide the kickstand partially up, she climbs on behind me like she has done this a thousand times before.

She is Hellions royalty, I’m sure she has been on the back of a bike since before she could fucking walk.

She wraps her arms around my waist, relaxing in behind me with her chest tight to my back. Something new settles inside my stomach. I’ve had women on the back of my bike before. Not one of them has ever been this calm getting in place. To her, this is second nature.

She was born to ride.

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