Wait For Me

CHANCE

“Yo, Chance! We’re hitting the road in five!” I hear one of my brothers yell from downstairs in the compound. We’re setting out to some town called Woodridge, a thirty-minute bike ride if you follow the speed limit.

We’re meeting up with a new supplier. We had issues with the old ones, you could say. The motherfuckers tried stealing our whole stash and shot one of our men in the process. Of course, I made them pay. All four of them. Fucking cunts. I don’t do well with rats or liars.

Well, I actually just don’t do well with people.

Except for my crew, the Hell Razors. I’m the vice prez, following in my dad’s footsteps. This is the life I grew up in; this is the only life I know. And I don’t have a problem with it. If you fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you harder. If you fuck with my family, I’ll tear you limb from limb.

I work my ass off for the club, fuck club whores, and party all the fucking time. The club is my family; I may not have any blood relatives left, but these guys are my brothers for life.

We hit the road and make it to Woodridge in less than twenty-five minutes. We’re just talking with the suppliers today; we aren’t buying anything yet. I don’t fucking trusting anyone easily. Five minutes out of town, on the other side, we pull up alongside this big shop, our tires crunching on the gravel lot.

Some guys open the gate for us, and we drive in. Five men wearing Twisted Reaper leather cuts walk out of the compound. We agreed to meet with them.

They’re a small-town club wanting to prove they can work with the bigger city clubs, I guess. They’re offering us a wicked deal on supplies, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to chat with the leaders.

I, along with ten other members of my club, get off our bikes and walk up to the five nervous-looking men. “So, I hear you’ve got a deal we just can’t turn down,” I say to their VP, Trigger.

“Yes, sir. Meet here every couple of weeks, and we’ll supply you with top-notch blow for half the price,” he tells me.

I throw my head back and laugh. “Half price, huh? What’s the catch?” I lunge at him, wrapping my hand around his throat, making his four other men pull out their baby pistols. My men pull out their guns, huge in comparison, and the Twisted Reapers stand down, deciding to play it smart.

I squeeze Trigger’s neck harder and stare him dead in the eye. “Why are you doing this? I don’t like being fucking played!” I yell in his face.

“I’m not playing you, man!” With a strangled gasp, he fights against my grip, trying to pry my fingers from his neck.

I release him, curious, and decide to hear him out for a minute.

“We used to work with a club on the other side of Chicago, but they suddenly bailed. We’re making shit for fucking money, man. Our club is falling apart.” He coughs and grabs his throat. “We’ve got the cops on our payroll in this town; no one will ask questions if y’all drive through every once in a while.”

The man has a point. But if this shit is as fucking good as he says, he shouldn’t have a problem selling it. Either there’s something wrong with it, or he’s shit at selling—right now, I’m leaning toward the latter.

“Let me see the shit,” I demand. Trigger nods and grabs an eight-ball for me.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I thought you just wanted a sample,” he whines, looking like he’s gonna crap his pants.

“You see how many guys I got? We all gotta try out this shit before we even consider buying from you.”

He nods and pulls out another three bags. I slap him on the shoulder. “I’ll be in contact,” I tell him before climbing back on my bike.

On the way out of town, we stop at a small bar. We’re all itching to try some of the supplies, and I know I can use a fucking drink. It’s New Year’s after all.

The bar is called Suzy’s. More than likely, everyone inside will be shocked by the sight of so many bikers—hell, people—in one place. It doesn’t seem like it gets much action.

The Twisted Reapers consist of about twenty members total, and they’re all scattered around Illinois. I doubt anyone in this town even sees them very often. As for my club, the Hell Razors have about 120 members in Chicago alone, and we’re way more dispersed across the state. It’s not uncommon to run into one or two members everywhere we go.

We walk into the bar, and as I said, everyone looks slightly intimidated as we all pile through the door. I just so happen to have brought all my toughest-looking men. I won’t lie and say I wasn’t trying to scare the shit out of the wannabe suppliers.

I go into the bathroom and sniff a fat rail of the blow. The back of my throat and nose go numb, and my eyes water instantly. Ooof, this is strong shit. I do one more line to get a good feel of it. It seems like pretty good shit, but I’ll see what everyone else thinks.

I step outside the now pretty noisy bar to call the prez of our club, Rage. He was my dad’s best friend; they grew up in the club together. Since Dad died, Rage has looked out for me, and by look out for, I mean making sure I get laid, make him money, and keep his club happy.

I walk to the side of the building so no one can see me. “How’s the shit?” he rumbles through the phone.

“It’s pretty good; I’ll be home with a little sample for you in a few hours.” He grunts and then hangs up. I walk back around the building and climb the stairs to the entrance.

A tiny, brown-haired woman with an eye-catching tight red shirt is blocking the doorway. She’s tiny compared to my six-foot-three stature. Actually, she’s tiny by anyone’s standards.

The only big thing about her is her fat ass—god damn the things I’d do to that ass! She looks fine as hell from the back.

She steps backward and slams into me, almost tripping, but she catches herself, then turns around and looks up at me with the purest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

This ain’t a fuckin’ woman, though; I doubt this girl is even eighteen! What the hell is she doing in this bar at this time of night? So, I ask her. She just eyes me like I am the most fascinating creature she’s ever laid her pretty eyes on.

This girl looks way too fucking innocent to be here. I accuse her of being underage, and she suddenly grows a backbone, sasses me, and struts away, but not before I warn her.

“I’m not a kid,” she declares, her voice trembling with barely controlled anger. “And I’m not scared of you.”

I smirk, the sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses ringing in my ears. If this girl insists on hanging around bars at her age, trouble is going to find her. “Not scared yet,” I say, my voice tinged with warning. “But you should be. Because once you step into this world, you don’t get to leave.”

Her mouth opens and closes as she searches for a witty reply. Finding none, she huffs and walks away. She’s basically begging me to stare at her ass with the way those damn jeans fit her, and damn, did I mention her tits? Fucking perfect.

She’s also got lips that look fuckin’ edible. I want to sink my teeth into her pouty bottom lip and hear her whimper.

I watch as she sits at the bar, and the older lady who’s working greets her with a smile. It looks like they’re familiar with each other.

I sit down with the boys for a while, but for some reason, I can’t fucking take my eyes off this girl. She looks so lost, so fucking fragile, but she’s sitting in a bar full of bikers and old men with as much confidence as a Victoria’s Secret model.

Even though she looks young as hell, I might as well give it a shot. She might just be a very young-looking twenty-year-old, and it’s not like I’m an old man; I’m only twenty-one.

As I study her, I realize she isn’t even wearing any makeup—not that she needs it. Her fair skin is flawless, and her lashes are so dark and thick, she doesn’t need eye makeup at all.

I walk over to her. She’s got dark, full eyebrows that I’m sure all the girls envy, and they bunch together when she sees me. “What’s your name?” I ask her more sternly than I mean to.

Her eyes widen and she glances around like she’s making sure I’m talking to her. “Two whiskey shots,” I tell the bartender.

I look back down at the girl, who’s staring at me, but she doesn’t look scared. She looks fascinated. “I’m Kyra,” she whispers as the bartender returns with our shots.

“I’m Chance,” I tell her.

She smiles up at me with the most perfect white teeth. She’s got the slightest gap between her front teeth, but it honestly makes her ten times hotter.

“That’s a cool name.”

I pass her one of the shots, and we cheer. She takes the shot like a fucking champ. I fuckin’ love it, and apparently, so does my cock.

Just as I’m about to ask this beautiful girl how old she is, the front door opens, and Kyra’s face goes pale. She looks like she’s about to fucking pass out. Suddenly, she jumps her tiny body into my arms and whispers, “Hide me!”