Page 5 of The Biker and the Professor
Shimmying snugly between us, she lowers her voice, “I like someone, and he likes me, too. And I want your blessing to—”
“He a brother?” Scratch curtails.
“Y-yes,” she says with hesitance.
“Then no,” I growl, stubbing out my cigarette.
Is she insane? These men are my brothers, but they’re also animals. There’s no one here, myself included, who’s worthy of her. The few decent brothers already have old ladies, and even they screw around on their old ladies from time to time.
She bristles, glaring at me, and just short of stomping her foot, hisses out, “Why not?”
Before I can growl at her again, Scratch shakes his head at me and chips in, “Because you can do better than us. Go find yourself a boring accountant or something. Someone who’ll take care of you, do you right, give you a good life.”
“Who says that’s what I want?”
“That’s what the hell you’re gonna get,” I grit out. As she opens her mouth to speak again, I say, “And you better not let that asshole’s name slip, ‘cause I swear to God I’ll hack his hands off for even thinking ‘bout touching you.”
She snaps her mouth shut, jaw clenched. Let her be pissed, I don’t give a shit. I’d be damned if she becomes someone’s club whore. After a long while of glowering at me, she tips up on her toes and hisses in my face, “I hate you.”
“You’re welcome,” I call after her as she storms off.
“You didn’t have to be that harsh, man,” Scratch admonishes.
I push up from the barstool. “She needs to be looking to get the hell up outta this place, not becoming a brother’s piece of ass.”
As I’m striding out of the bar, he catches up to me and pulls me aside. In a hushed voice, he says, “Got something to tell you.”
“What?”
He glances around to check that no one’s listening, before saying, “I joined the marines.”
I’m shell-shocked. Of all the things I expected him to say…This blows my mind. “You serious?”
He buries his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”
“The hell?Why?”
He shrugs. “Just something I feel I need to do. There’s no talking me out of it so don’t try.”
I rub my hands down my face. “Shit, man.”
“Haven’t told anyone, though. Probably won’t,” he says. “So keep it quiet, yeah?”
“Judge’s gotta know,” I caution, “and Kenny.”
“Well, yeah…”
“When do you leave?”
He shoves his fingers back through his thick, black hair. “I’ve got a few months, so don’t go bawling on me just yet.”
“Screw you,” I say, chuckling, and then we bump shoulders in a brotherly hug. “Proud of you, but I’m scared for you, brother.”
“Don’t be.”
We break off in opposite directions, my mind still reeling at this news. Never would’ve seen that one coming. Scratch, of all people? Damn.
The Den of Heathens compound is massive for a motorcycle club. There’s the biker bar at the front, and then a communal dome on the left of that where all manner of sexual immorality happens. South-west, a three-story building with 18 studio apartments, four trailer houses parked south-east, and the rest of the land space free for parties, bonfires, and pure chaos when we feel like it.
