Page 1 of Steel

1

Steel

There’s nothing like LasVegas in March.

It’s warm without being blistering hot.

A gentle breeze grazes my neck as I ride, and the scent of hibernating sagebrush is thick in the air.

The sun dipped below the horizon over an hour ago, but the earth is still warm from the desert drinking up its rays all day. Heat rises from the pavement as stars become pinpricks of light in the darkness.

It’s the perfect temperature to just ride and forget that all I’m doing is jumping from one problem to the next lately. I grip my handlebars and pretend tonight isn’t just one more big fucking mess I’m scrambling to clean up.

Every time I think I finally have my club back on track, shit goes sideways.

Turf wars.

Traitors.

There’s an endless list of reasons to never let my guard down, and tonight is just one more added onto it.

I should have been halfway down a bottle of whiskey by now. Instead, I’m drained, annoyed, and beaten up from fending off another territorial spat with the Iron Sinners.

Ever since Chaos was put behind bars, the Twisted Kings strip club, Sapphire Rise, has been a breeding ground for trouble. Strip clubs draw enough heat as it is, and without Chaos around to monitor the strippers and patrons on a regular basis, there are nothing but problems lately.

Kansas, the club manager, has only been able to do so much to keep it under control in Chaos’s absence. Especially when he doesn’t have the Twisted Kings logo on his back, and our rivals know it.

They’re taking advantage of all our weak points, and after the upheaval within the Twisted Kings last year, we’ve got plenty. One wound heals, and we start bleeding from another.

A headache pulses between my temples as I ride.

I took a beer bottle to the head defending a stripper, and it’s a reminder as to why I prefer Chaos dealing with Sapphire Rise. Doesn’t matter if their tits are out; strippers cause nothing but problems when alcohol and rival clubs are involved.

I’m counting down the days until our club attorney can get Chaos out of prison, but until then, I’m going to have to assign someone besides a prospect to watch over this shit because I’m tired enough without adding the daily oversight of strippers to my list of responsibilities.

By the time I get back to the clubhouse, I’ll need a nap or a blow job. Anything to take the edge off today. I’m only thirty years old, but every week feels like a year, and my regular outlets for stress aren’t working.

There’s no rest for a Twisted Kings president.

I didn’t believe my dad when he used to preach that, but now I get it.

The weight.

The responsibility.

At least it’s just me and the road for a few more miles.

My bike hums as it eats up the pavement. One mile after another of peace and quiet. In Nevada, the stretches of empty road are endless, and it’s paradise for the mind.

The night air is crisp and warm as I ride with my brothers at my sides.

Soul, my VP, is to my right, and Havoc, my sergeant at arms, is to my left. They hung back with me to help clean up some of the mess the Iron Sinners left at the strip club. But now that we’re done, we’re heading home.

The vibration of our engines fills the desert as we make the ten-mile journey from the outskirts of Vegas to the Twisted Kings compound.

Ten miles of peace.

Ten miles of in-between.

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