Ride or Die

Patching…

Arrangement…

Ride or Die…

True love…

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 Die’s clothes with his personal patch, and she would tattoo him in return.

I daydreamed about it myself. How could I not? Who wouldn’t 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 I’d have to pack my bags and go live at some other clubhouse with bikers I’d never met.

It’s exciting and nerve-wracking.

Traditional and political.

Equal parts blessing and curse. You’ll be thrown together with another, forced to make it work immediately. It’s thrilling and terrifying.

Don’t believe me? Don’t 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 that’ll leave you helpless.

Because I found my Ride or Die.

And he absolutely hated me.

“I got you a job,” she repeated, like her deciding what to do with my life wasn’t a big deal. “As a house chick, specifically. It’s going to be at the president’s house. You’ll hang around the clubhouse, helping out with whatever the riders need.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because, Andi, you spend too much time floating around with your head in the clouds. You’re about to turn eighteen. You’re going to be a fully-fledged club member soon.” My stepmother took the half-finished plate of pasta in front of me and walked over to the sink. “Besides, your father’s pension isn’t going to last forever.”

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, it’s 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.

“You couldn’t have asked me first, at least?”

“So you could come up with some kind of excuse? I don’t think so.”

I grimaced because that’s exactly what I was going to do. Tallahassee knew me too well. After my real mom died giving birth to me, she’d always been there, even before my dad officially got into a relationship with her.

“Now, after you’re done bringing in the laundry, you’re to report to the president’s house right away. There’s going to be a party, and you’ll be helping set it up.”

“A party?” Bikers knew how to party. Sometimes a little too well. “For what?”

“Who knows?” Tallahassee said. “But it’s an opportunity for you to get out there. Maybe you’ll even find your Ride or Die,” she gushed.

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, like that’ll happen.” With the freerider threat, the club was having a hard enough time trying to survive, let alone trying to find Ride or Dies.

“Never say never, Andi. Now go on.”

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.

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 hasn’t 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. They’d given their lives to protect us.

Someone like President Brutus was completely off-limits to lifer dirt like us. That’s what I was, a lifer, someone who was born into the club but wasn’t a rider and didn’t have a say in club matters. Well, I did ride, but I had to do that in secret. I never rode with the club.

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 didn’t have time to worry about finding my Ride or Die when we might be homeless soon.

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 president’s house because he led from there. It was a huge wooden building. It wasn’t anything special, but we called it the “mansion” anyways. Bikers thought it was funny pretending to be all fancy.

I heard a motorcycle engine turning off. I didn’t 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 wasn’t one of ours. I put my head down and kept walking.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart,” he slurred, swinging a bottle of whiskey by his side.

“I have to go,” 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.

“You think you’re too good for me?” he said.

That was it. Rage took over and I threw a punch, which missed.

He laughed and flashed his switchblade.

“Let’s just cooperate, okay,” 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 hadn’t 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 freerider’s hands.

“Never mess with my club,” 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 wouldn’t 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.