Every Last Reason by Christa Wick & C.M. Wick

Author:Christa Wick & C.M. Wick [Wick, Christa & Wick, C.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Christa Wick

Morning came after very little sleep for me. For the bikers, there was no sleep at all. When they started to feel tired, they popped another pill.

Amped and carrying, I thought as I slid a tactical vest on then covered it with my leather jacket.

Junker sneered. "Sure you don't want a diaper, too? No one wants to smell it when mama's boy shits his pants."

"They're militia," I said, checking the load on my 9mm. "They'll be wearing vests and carrying AR-15s."

I looked around the room, sizing up the out-of-shape bikers with their bloodshot eyes.

"You sure you don't want to give your enforcer a day pass?" I asked.

Confusion twisted Junker's lined face.

Mongo coughed lightly then said, "He's talking about Hamburger."

Junker giggled. "Yeah, Hamburger's not in any shape to enforce anything."

I didn't ask for clarification. Given the new nickname for Hatchet, the biker was dead or nearly so. I would find out later. As the chapter's Enforcer, if Hatchet was alive and could be kept that way, he could become the perfect informer on past crimes. He certainly had motivation by that point to turn his back on the brothers who had so casually abandoned him.

Trying not to think too far ahead, I tucked the 9mm in the holster clipped to the back of my jeans. I attached four more magazines to the tactical vest then smoothed the jacket down to erase the bulges.

Junker poked at my chest.

"You sure you're not in the militia?"

"Soldiering isn't a game. Those fucks think it is."

The unit tattoo just below my back belt line started to itch. A reminder, perhaps, that I had never served.

"Where's the van at?" I asked after a glance at my watch.

"None of your fucking business," Junker growled. "This is my deal, not yours."

I returned the growl, months of building antagonism against the man making it deeper and more feral than the pathetic rumble in Junker's voice.

"Until I get paid and get the hell out of here, it's my business, too," I snapped back.

"Deal doesn't go down unless they see him," Mongo reminded his club president.

Turning to me, Junker slapped on a fake smile.

"Where ya running to when this is all over?"

"Baja," I answered. "Probably Cabo for a week of getting drunk and letting college girls lick Jello shots off my dick. Then deep sea fishing."

Closing my eyes for a second, I imagined a boat, Delia on the deck, blond hair whipping around her beautiful face.

Another itchy, scratchy flare shot through the tattoo.

Junker slapped me on the back. "So close you can smell the salt air and pussy, huh?"

I nodded. Junker lifted his hand, whipped his finger in the air, his voice booming through the clubhouse.

"Roll Tide!"

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