Page 13 of Sinful Need
Cobra catches the water bottle as he struts up the aisle to take his seat. “What’d I miss?”
Laughter fills the small space, the mood now shifted to something lighter and more familiar.
“Alright, fuckers let’s get serious for a minute. I reached out to Capone from the Royal Bastards MC, LA Chapter and let him know we’ll be in town. He arranged rides for us while we’re here and recommended a motel. I booked us rooms. There’s a bar across the street. We can grab some grub and knock back a few drinks while we figure out what the fuck our move is. It’s a known biker bar but it's in neutral territory so we shouldn’t have any issues if we remember we’re here to observe. Don’t go stirring shit up and drawing unwanted attention until we know what we’re dealing with. They are only two hours away if we get in a tight spot. I texted you all the address.”
“Thanks Crusher. Can’t wait to have my feet on the ground and my ass on a bike.” Chainz shifts his body uncomfortably in the seat.
The plane dips smoother this time as we begin our descent. Anxiety rolls my stomach so I turn toward the window masking my turmoil from my brothers. I slide my window shade up, and watch the scenery come into view. The brown and orange landscape is dotted with an occasional green splash of shrubbery. I once called this place home, now all I see is lifeless desert and rock formations that remind me of tombstones like the one over my brother's grave. Had Storm killed me that night, there’d be no funeral, grave or tombstone to memorialize me, just an unmarked, shallow grave in the desert next to the other dead prospects.
There’s a bump and sudden rush as we land pulling my wandering mind back to the present. When the plane slows to a stop, we stretch our legs, gather our packs and file out of the plane and into a private airport hangar. My feet hit hard on the unforgiving concrete when we finally step outside.The heat steals my breath. The sun is burning a path across the newly paved asphalt as we make our way to the line of bikes on loan to us.
There’s a prospect from the Royal Bastards MC, LA Chapter waiting for our arrival. Chainz exchanges a few words with the prospect and rejoins our group. “Take your pick. Keys are in the ignitions.”
I make my way to a bike that's calling my name and begging to be ridden hard. Swinging my leg over the seat, I fasten the borrowed skid lid to my head. I can hear my brothers grumbling about having to wear helmets. Out here they're strict with the helmet laws unlike back home. Personally, I don’t give a damn. I’m just happy to be off that plane and on a bike where I belong.
Chapter 8
Fuel
We cruise down Interstate 15, the hot wind blasting in my face. It’s all coming back as we pass familiar landmarks. It’s taking all my focus to keep my head clear. Thankfully, the sound of the engine lulls the worst of it.
The motel we’re staying at is around the bend. Turning off the highway onto Main Street, I notice how much this place has changed since I left. It still has a small town feel but businesses have popped up all along the main drag.
Turning into the parking lot, we idle our bikes around back out of view. While we wait for Hound to return with our room keys, I pull a smoke from the crumbled up pack in the pocket of my cut. Slotting one between my lips, I spark it up, filling my lungs with even more heat but savoring the heady rush.
“Shower, shit, shave, whatever it is you fuckers do,” Hound says when he returns with the keys. I crush the smoldering butt out with my boot and take the plastic key card from Hound. “Maybe get some sleep. We’ll meet across the street when you’re ready. Oh and no guns.”
Everyone grumbles and moans.
“House rules, not mine.” Hound throws his hands up in surrender.
I grab my pack from the back of the bike and head off to find my room. It’s an old motel, the kind where the doors all lead outside. The stucco on the walls are dingy and the concrete sidewalk is rough and uneven. I find my room on the second floor, around the front of the building and press the plastic card to the lock. When it clicks, I kick open the door and throw my pack onto the bed as I look around. I’m not always paranoid but you can never be too sure. I open the closet and then check the bathroom. It’s not a five star hotel but it’s not the worst place I’ve ever slept. I spent many sleepless nights in odd places, the first one being out in that fucking desert. Under bridges and overpasses, even an abandoned trailer that was probably condemned. Nah, this place is fine. I drop down on the bed with a thud. Bouncing my weight on the hard mattress and leaning back onto the flat pillows with my arms under my head. I hate to admit it but Hound is right, my eyes are heavy, I could use some sleep. My eyes drift closed but my mind refuses to rest. I thrash about a few times then fling myself off the bed. Fuck this. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. It could be sooner than later for all I know.
I check my pack for my gun. I feel naked without it but even on the plane we couldn’t carry. However, now that we’re here, not having it on my hip unnerves me. I know what Hound said but fuck that. I’m the SAA, it’s my job to protect my club. I slip my gun under my cut and throw the bag under the bed.
It’s a short walk across the two lane street. I laugh under my breath at the sign above the door. A cartoon blonde in red skinny pants and a mid-drift shirt with her ass in the air, reading Bottoms Up. Someone has my sense of humor.
There’s a man standing by the door dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt with an air of cockiness that grates my nerves.When I reach him he looks me up and down and scowls. “House rules. No weapons.”
I pin him with a stare daring him to push the issue. He doesn’t disappoint.
“There’s a safe if you need it.” He points his eyes to the safe off to the side.
“Not happening.” I growl back. Being in this town is dangerous and there’s not a chance in hell, I’m letting my guard down.
He glances at my cut and rolls his eyes, “The lot of you are going to be a problem.”
I smirk knowing the others must have given him a hard time. It’s not that we’re opposed to rules. We’re just used to making our own.
“Only if you make it one. Tell you what. If the house has a problem, tell him to come find me.” I push my way around him.
“Her.” He stutters but lets me by.
“Even better.” I walk through the door and he doesn’t stop me.
I spot Chainz, Tank and Cobra sitting around a table in the back. As Sergeant at Arms, I’m responsible for the safety and security of the club. That means familiarizing myself with our surroundings if the need to defend my brothers arises. I scan the room and note a second exit to the rear near the bathrooms, where Hound is heading. Off to the left there’s pool tables where Reaper and Freedom are playing Eight-ball and exchanging not-so-friendly banter with two men in cuts that says Skulls MC at the table next to them. To my right is a long bar and Crusher gathering a round of beer bottles in his colossal hands. I make my way over to him chuckling, “I think they have waitresses better suited for that, man.”
He rolls his eyes and weaves the long neck bottles between his fingers, spilling it in the process, “When you find one send her over. I’m not serving grub too.”
