Page 16 of Patchover Fright Night
“Where are we going? Beer?” I grabbed Stag’s arm, and made him run with me to the bunkhouse, while Ry returned to protect our women. With any luck, Grease was out of his office at last, and already working on solutions.
Ironically, the phone lines being cut would have sent an alert… but it would have been sent to me, at the Phoenix clubhouse, so surprise surprise, it was fucking useless to us right now. My phone couldn’t even ping with an alert, as there was no fucking signal coming in.
Stag suddenly pulled away from me, halting in place, and nearly dragging me over with him.
“What the fuck!”
He grinned suddenly. “Rossi sent beer. You want one?”
“Do I want… Are you out of your fucking mind? Everyone’s tripping, and losing their shit, and probably injuring each other, and you want a fucking beer?”
He laughed, turning and running from me, as he yelled, “Fuck yeah, I want a beer!” I would have tried to stop him, but he was practically fucking useless, and as he tripped over another one of his club members, and immediately got into a brawl with him and two others, I figured I’d just move on.
Fuck me, thank god I had my wits about me, because most of these fuckers were worse than useless right now.
“Hey, man, wanna go for a ride?” I frowned at Harley, as he rocked up beside me, pulling his arms back like he was… fuck me… like he was tugging a horse’s reins.
“Nice horse, man,” I said with a groan, as he patted mid air proudly.
“Isn’t she? She’s called Harley.”
I started to laugh, despite everything.
“Dude, that’s your name.”
He grinned back at me, completely bemused by that fact, like it was weird thatIwas finding it weird.
“Of course it is.”
Jesus. I couldn’t let myself get sidetracked like this, people were depending on me, and probably needed medical attention. I have to say though, it was weird being practically the only one sober among the club, rather than the other way around.
“Look, man, the race is about to start,” I pointed, trying to send him away, so I could carry on.
He shot me a look of pure offended disbelief.
“She’s not a racehorse, motherfucker!”
And I’m done trying to play along. It was no longer funny, and I didn’t have the time for this shit.
“Get the fuck out of here, dipshit. Go ride yourself.”
Chapter Seven
Iwatched the bunchof jumped up pricks, as their semi orderly party descended into some kind of fucking children’s party.
“Seriously? These are the guys who decimated a brutal fucking club?” My compadre in crime said, shaking his head. We were both wearing all black, with balaclavas on, and black paint covering as much of the small area of exposed skin as possible. We were crouched on top of the storage house, watching the carnage, while we waited for our moment to strike.
“They were so easy. How the fuck are they the same fuckers who’ve destroyed two of the toughest clubs in the country? Is that their President trying to hump a bench over there?”
We laughed, watching as another biker ran over to him, and dragged him away, trying to get him dressed again. Fuck. They were coming right for us. We both ducked low, and peered over the edge as the biker instructed a prospect to watch over him. Huh. That meant we had at least one sober fucker to contend with. Who the fuck doesn’t drink at a party?
“He’s one to watch out for,” my partner murmured softly, using his monocular to zoom in on him, “name’s Ice.”
“Oh that prick. Okay, so apparently he’s their tech guy, the original chapter I mean, not this shitshow.”
“Looks like a right sly little fucker.”
I tugged at the neck of my balaclava, and glared at the crowd as they yelled, freaked out, and generally fornicated, not generally with people, but whatever they got their hands on.
