Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(11)

I rolled my eyes. Firefly pulled his helmet down and stubbed out his cigarette, flashing me an energetic look that said it was about to get all too real.

“All right, boys, you know the drill! The Prez, the Veep, and the prospects are gonna hit the little cock stops on the edge of town, and fan out toward Tri Cities today. As for the rest of us, we're taking on the big one run by that goddamned viper, Ricky McNumbnuts or whatever the f*ck his name is.”

The brothers laughed. Even I cracked a smile, not that the dirtiest pimp in the county was a laughing matter.

“Any questions? Hit 'em now or I'll hit all you sorry f*cks later for not asking me or the Prez.”

We waited about ten seconds, and nobody had anything. The Prez pulled up on his bike and the VP followed, everyone filing into formation, before we split into two groups on the highway.

Attack mode. We'd done this drill before. I'd been through it a couple dozen times over the years, and it still got the adrenaline flowing, which meant more testosterone and more raging hard-ons if shit got heated enough.

Fuck. I regretted not beating off a few more times last night, or trying to track down that Stockings chick to f*ck and dump again.

“Ya'll heard the man,” Dust growled, stopping at our open gate and looking over his shoulder. “Shut those shitholes down for a day. Don't come back 'til you do. They're human toilets, and we've let 'em troll for the Deadhands for too damned long in our own backyard. They ought to be paying us for the privilege of operating in our territory. They owe us big for hosting our enemies on our turf, and we're not walking away 'til they pay up. You know what we accept – talk, blood, or cold hard cash.”

Men cheered. I just nodded, having a funny feeling the last one excited the Prez the most.

“Remember, boys – forever deadly, forever pistols.” With our battle cry, the Prez surged ahead, and we all rode out behind him, a flock of roaring motorcycles gunning into the mountains.

We split into two teams several miles down the road, our group heading for the massive trucker spa. A man couldn't miss the damned place – the billboards only got closer together and more outrageous the closer we came.

I'd never stepped foot inside it before. I looked up at the plastic-looking models on the billboards and clenched my teeth, unsure whether to laugh or rage.

I'd bet my left nut there wouldn't be a single chick there half that good-looking. I'd heard all about these places before. They were nasty little rat nests full of greasy pimps and desperate girls, usually chicks being paid in booze, crystal, or smack, while the shitheads controlling them pocketed all the money.

Some guys said Ricky's joint had women there unwillingly. He'd have his day of reckoning one way or another, if that was true, but the club couldn't bring him down while we were flat out broke.

We needed to rattle the bastard first. Scope the place out, see how well armed he was or how much he'd let his guard down. The Deads taking him under their wing couldn't fly either.

We should've run the f*ckers outta our territory the first time we caught a whiff of them coming across the state line. But the club was distracted then, putting its fingers into too many projects in a desperate shot at going legit.

Dust had two auto chop shops, a strip club, and a bar going. Everything except our main garage went bust in less than a year. I knew it better than anybody, handling the financials as the club's Treasurer.

Talk about a goddamned train wreck. Nobody blamed the Prez for trying. We had to find something after Dust's old man decided to wind down the drug trade before passing the gavel to his son, and we did our damnedest to keep ourselves clean.

Naturally, it didn't work, and now the only path open to us was guns. Too bad we were lined in by enemies like the Deadhands, and we'd have to fight our way through them to the coast if we ever wanted a shot at trading with the bigger, more powerful clubs out West. The Prairie Devils and Grizzlies wouldn't give us the time of day unless they respected us – and right now we ended up in fistfights at Sturgis because the other bastards didn't even know our name.

I watched Firefly make a sharp turn in front of me, going down the exit. I held onto my bike and gunned it, feeling the Harley's comforting growl between my legs. The ride gave everything below my waist the most excitement I was likely to see all week – unless the whorehouse had even one f*ckable woman worth paying for.

We pulled into the cracked parking lot. Sixty whistled, pulled off his helmet, and squinted at me, stroking his goatee.

“Fuck a duck. Am I the only one who expected this place to look like a carnival on the inside only?”

Crawl and I both snorted. He wasn't wrong.

The outside walls were flaking neon pink paint. The entrance was flanked with four big circus poles painted barber shop red-white-and-blue. Didn't notice they were round at the top like dicks 'til we got off our bikes and started heading for the door.

I pushed my way in first, hand at my hip. The entryway looked like a run down lobby, and I rang the bell, taking a careful look to make sure we hadn't missed any girls or Johns loitering out front.

When we did this housecleaning shit, we put everybody on lockdown. No stragglers.

“Hey, gents. You here as a group, or are you looking for some one-on-one action?”

A thin, wiry man came walking up. Skinny, ugly, and too damned young to be working in a shithole like this.