Ride or Die
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Nathalie Hooker
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36
Chapter One
Andi
PatchingâŠ
ArrangementâŠ
Ride or DieâŠ
True loveâŠ
Growing up in biker culture, I heard those words a lot in our small Alaskan town. People dreamed of the moment when the tattoo on the back of their neck would lead them to their destined love. When they would find the matching tattoo on the neck of another and suddenly have a partner for life. The partner the club president had chosen when we were born. Then, the biker would mark his Ride or Dieâs clothes with his personal patch, and she would tattoo him in return.
I daydreamed about it myself. How could I not? Who wouldnât want a love so important, arranged by the president himself?
But this was also all so uncertain.
What if my Ride or Die was a jerk?
What if he was a diplomatic match and Iâd have to pack my bags and go live at some other clubhouse with bikers Iâd never met.
Itâs exciting and nerve-wracking.
Traditional and political.
Equal parts blessing and curse. Youâll be thrown together with another, forced to make it work immediately. Itâs thrilling and terrifying.
Donât believe me? Donât think that something as wonderful as a Ride or Die could be so twisted? I speak from personal experience. I know firsthand how anger and love and lust and pain can twist together in a dizzying storm thatâll leave you helpless.
Because I found my Ride or Die.
And he absolutely hated me.
***
âYou did what?â I asked, my mouth hanging open as I stared at my stepmother.
âI got you a job,â she repeated, like her deciding what to do with my life wasnât a big deal. âAs a house chick, specifically. Itâs going to be at the presidentâs house. Youâll hang around the clubhouse, helping out with whatever the riders need.â
âWhy on earth would you do that?â
âBecause, Andi, you spend too much time floating around with your head in the clouds. Youâre about to turn eighteen. Youâre going to be a fully-fledged club member soon.â My stepmother took the half-finished plate of pasta in front of me and walked over to the sink. âBesides, your fatherâs pension isnât going to last forever.â
I sighed and got up to help her clear the table. It was just the two of us. Ever since my father died in the last great Club Clash, itâs just been the two of us. Sometimes motorcycle clubs fought each other, but in recent years we had mostly all been fighting freeriders, who were dangerous bikers without official clubs.
âYou couldnât have asked me first, at least?â
âSo you could come up with some kind of excuse? I donât think so.â
I grimaced because thatâs exactly what I was going to do. Tallahassee knew me too well. After my real mom died giving birth to me, sheâd always been there, even before my dad officially got into a relationship with her.
âNow, after youâre done bringing in the laundry, youâre to report to the presidentâs house right away. Thereâs going to be a party, and youâll be helping set it up.â
âA party?â Bikers knew how to party. Sometimes a little too well. âFor what?â
âWho knows?â Tallahassee said. âBut itâs an opportunity for you to get out there. Maybe youâll even find your Ride or Die,â she gushed.
I rolled my eyes. âSure, like thatâll happen.â With the freerider threat, the club was having a hard enough time trying to survive, let alone trying to find Ride or Dies.
âNever say never, Andi. Now go on.â
I sighed and did as I was told, walking outside and gathering the dried clothes from the laundry line. It was still sunny outside, which was rare for this time of year in Alaska. Why the Blood Riders motorcycle club decided to settle down in this dark, cold place was beyond me, but Alaska was home.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I smiled, already knowing that the messages would be from my best friend Erin.
Erin
OMG have you heard?
Andi
No.
Andi
But Iâm sure youâre about to tell me.
Erin
President Brutus is returning from his scouting trip!
Erin
All the girls were worried that heâd find his Ride or Die while he was away.
Erin
But nope! Heâs coming back as single and as delicious as ever.
I sighed and rolled my eyes as I folded the clothes into the laundry basket. Erin was obsessed with President Brutus, just like all the other girls in our club.
I mean, sure, he was gorgeous. Drop-dead sexy, even. But everyone knew that he was unavailable. He hasnât shown the least bit of interest in finding a Ride or Die, always so obsessed with fighting the freeriders and keeping our club safe.
I knew more than most about how dangerous the freeriders were. My dad was the sergeant-at-arms for the previous president of our club. Theyâd given their lives to protect us.
Someone like President Brutus was completely off-limits to lifer dirt like us. Thatâs what I was, a lifer, someone who was born into the club but wasnât a rider and didnât have a say in club matters. Well, I did ride, but I had to do that in secret. I never rode with the club.
Andi
Youâve got to give it up, girl.
Andi
Brutus and his type are reserved for the gorgeous women in club royalty.
Erin
If he wanted any of them heâd have them already.
Erin
And youâre turning 18 tomorrowâŠ
I smiled and shook my head at myself. If only I could be as carefree as Erin was. I was putting up a stink about Tallahassee finding me a job, but it was true that we needed the money. I didnât have time to worry about finding my Ride or Die when we might be homeless soon.
Andi
Alright, enough fan fiction from you.
Andi
Iâve gotta go report to the presidentâs house.
Andi
Tallahassee signed me up for a job as a house chick behind my back.
Erin
OMG?!?!?!?
Erin
WHAT?
Erin
UR GONNA BE A HOUSE CHICK FOR Brutus AND UR BOTH SINGLE.
Erin
THE FANFIC WRITES ITSELF!
Andi
LOL ok, spaz, sure. Ttyl girly.
I put the laundry basket away inside and started the long walk through the town and towards the clubhouse where club leadership lived. The clubhouse was also called the presidentâs house because he led from there. It was a huge wooden building. It wasnât anything special, but we called it the âmansionâ anyways. Bikers thought it was funny pretending to be all fancy.
I heard a motorcycle engine turning off. I didnât think anything of it because I was in the heart of Blood Rider Motorcycle Club territory. But then I saw a man walk out of the woods.
He wasnât one of ours. I put my head down and kept walking.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart,â he slurred, swinging a bottle of whiskey by his side.
âI have to go,â I said, unable to think of anything else. I needed to get as far away from this freerider as I could.
But then he grabbed me and pushed against a tree.
âYou think youâre too good for me?â he said.
That was it. Rage took over and I threw a punch, which missed.
He laughed and flashed his switchblade.
âLetâs just cooperate, okay,â he said as he pushed in closer.
I panicked, trying to throw punches and kicks, anything to get this creep off me. Suddenly, he was pulled back into the woods and slammed against a tree. I hadnât even heard my savior approach.
Neither had the freerider, obviously. The freerider had managed to hold onto his bottle, and came charging at the other man. My savior was quicker, and not totally drunk, so he dodged and grabbed the bottle from the freeriderâs hands.
âNever mess with my club,â he said, knocking the freerider out with a bottle to the head.
This man came to me and wrapped his arms around me so I wouldnât have to see the bloodied freerider behind me.
I was moving.
I opened my eyes and looked up to find the most startling bright blue eyes staring down at me.
It was President Brutus.
And he was carrying me, bridal style, in his arms.
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