Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  “No objection here.” Honor’s head jerk toward Duty makes it look like he speaks for both of them.

  “Er, I can’t object.” Bolt’s face has gone red.

  Others just raise their hands and say, “Aye.”

  “Stormy?” Pip asks, when he’s the only person who’s not endorsed me.

  “I keep my own fuckin’ bike in order,” he growls. “But if the rest of you assholes need instruction, Road would do just as well as anyone. ‘Bout all he knows anyway.”

  Well, damned with faint praise from that corner, I half smile, now not expecting anything else.

  “Right.” Pip bangs the gavel. “Position’s yours if you want it, Road.”

  And I think my decision has been made. Perhaps if anyone had spoken against me, I’d think twice about it, but I do get a warm glow inside that they all seem to want me. I give a chin lift to Pip. “I’ll work out something with Drummer.”

  My statement hangs in the air, the question still remaining, how the fuck do I do that?

  33

  Swift…

  I hadn’t been sure how Road would treat me this morning, whether he could actually be circumspect, or whether he wouldn’t be able to suppress his possessive nature.

  It had only been after he’d snuck back to his room that I began to have regrets. Not that I’d fucked him—how could I resent a man who’d given me the best orgasms of my life? No, it was the thought that I’d broken my rules and gone with a potential team member.

  Should I hope that he’d go back to Tucson as he’d originally planned? But that would mean little time for repeats, and heaven help me, I want at least one. If only to show me the first time had been an exception, both of us fuelled by the remnants of the adrenaline from our escape. Maybe next time I’d find sex with him boring, though I suspect that thought is more aspiring than realistic. There’s no doubting Road and I had clicked and had shown in bed we were more than compatible.

  What I’m afraid of is that we won’t be such a good match when we’re out of it. Now we’ve fucked, would he treat me differently? If we’d done the deed before yesterday, would he have been so inclined to follow my lead, or tried to push me behind him?

  I’d gone through my morning rituals far quicker than he had and reached the cafeteria before him. I was immediately surrounded by brothers who, not surprisingly, wanted to ask me questions, me making them laugh by my worry that I wouldn’t be able to P anymore, referencing how I use a keyboard.

  Really, I’m beyond angry something so simple, yet still life-changing, had been taken from me, but then, I’m alive to live another day so any complaining isn’t really worth it. I’d tried to make light of it.

  For me, at least, the air had become charged when Road had entered the room. I must already be attuned to him as I sensed his presence before I saw him. I carried on talking while crossing my fingers on my unbandaged hand, hoping that he wasn’t going to come over. Various scenarios flicked through my mind—Road coming over and hugging me, marking me as his territory, Road unable to resist joining the group that had congregated around me, and giving himself away by soft looks in my direction. But I needn’t have worried. He’d got talking to Bolt, and I think I was the only one to see him tensing when Stormy slapped my back just a little too firmly, and I hadn’t missed his smirk when I gave the asshole what he deserved.

  In church, Road had sat in his normal seat which placed him next to me. No affectionate words, glances or touches. Half of me bristled as I wondered how little I meant to him, before slapping myself mentally and accepting this was exactly what I wanted.

  Not having to worry about him betraying me, I was able to give my full attention to the meeting. That an unknown woman was involved was concerning. No one likes loose ends which could need tying.

  When Piston both offered to step down and suggested Road should become road captain, after Pip had put it to a hypothetical vote, well I felt a sense of pride. Which was strange, why should anything which was essentially praising the man mean anything to me? Instead I should be worried, it’s given him a reason for staying. What if a relationship between us doesn’t work out? Will it make our necessary interactions awkward? What if it does? How the fuck would that work? Would we be able to keep it a secret, or would it be best to admit to it, and what would that do for the dynamics of the club, or for us?

  Church over, Road hangs back, indicating to Piston he wants to talk to him. No mystery there, he’ll be wanting to know more about the position he’d all but officially accepted. Knowing keeping our distance is for the best, I head on into the comms room, wasting no time booting up my laptop.

  “Where are we at?” I ask Honor, who’s doing the same.

  “Duty and I will dig into Kincaid’s background and contacts in prison. You want to look into his family tree?”

  I nod, I’ll do that. In effect, they’ll start at the back end and work forward, while I’ll start with what I can find out about Kincaid and who he had contact with in the present, then if I find nothing recent, track back to his family living and dead.

  It’s not long before Piston joins us. He’s right, nowadays he’d rather be sat at a desk than getting his hands greasy as a mechanic. He’s shown an aptitude for tracking shit down.

  “What d’ya want me to do?” he asks as he enters.

  Honor glances up. “Get back to the agent for the Airbnb owner. See how the booking was made. He seemed insistent it was a female, but we need to check that, see if there’s any chance he was mistaken.”

  “What’s my cover story?”

  “I told him we were chasing up a non-payment on a previous rental. The details are in the folder.” Honor slides a file across the desk, and Piston pulls it closer.

  “On it,” Piston says, reaching simultaneously for a keyboard and his cell, and putting on headphones.

  I crack on with my own task, calling up Kincaid’s last known address, his rental records, contacts, and bank account to see if anyone else had a card on it. It’s taking me longer than usual. I can’t hit P, or the return on the right side, and the rest of my fingers on my right hand are still bound by the bandage, stiff and not cooperating. The more I work, the more I find I miss that finger. If Kincaid was buried and not incinerated, I reckon I’d dig him up just to kill him again.

  How will I hold a cup of tea if I can’t hold my pinky out? I snort at my own English joke. Not that I was ever particularly ladylike.

  Unable to use my right hand properly, I hunt and peck at the keys, getting increasingly exasperated.

  “Use speech to text,” Duty, eyeing my slow progress, suggests.

  “I’ve got it,” I snap, knowing this is my new normal and I’m just going to have to get used to it.

  Immediately I feel guilty, not being known for having a short fuse. I notice three heads are studying me, and my face goes red. But no one says anything, and only a few seconds have passed before fingers start tapping keyboards again. I consider Duty’s option of using text to speak and decide it could work if I’m typing long passages and not just search terms, and decide to tell him how useful his suggestion would be later.

  Just as I’ve landed on a plan to make things right with the brothers, the door to the comms room opens. That’s not unusual of course, but who’s entering uninvited is. It’s Igor.

  “What the fuck?” Honor asks, his eyes narrowing as he lowers the lid on his laptop. Prospects don’t come into the comms room other than by specific invitation, and after we’ve had time to close what we’re working on or cover monitors up. Except for Gears, of course, who gets a little more leeway as he draws closer to getting his patch.

  “We’ve got visitors,” Igor explains, but from the set look to his features, they’re neither expected nor wanted. Having delivered his message he disappears again without having disclosed who it is.

  Having a bad feeling about whoever’s come calling, I check my gun is loaded then slide it into my shoulder holster where it’s ready at hand, noticing my co
mpanions do the same. Then, as one, Honor, Duty, Piston and I are moving, and heading out to the reception area.

  The first thing I notice is that there’s a number of bikes pulled into the visitors’ parking lot. We hadn’t heard them arrive in the soundproofed comms room. Men are getting off wearing cuts, but as luck would have it, as they’re facing the building, it means I can’t see what’s on their back patches. I certainly don’t recognise any of the faces as men who’ve I’ve met before. I’m so focused on trying to make them out, I don’t notice not all of the unknown bikers are outside.

  “What the actual fuck?” A loud bark which all but causes the windows to rattle makes me jump.

  Swinging around, it’s to find a man with salt and pepper hair and beard glaring at me with piercing grey eyes in such a glacial way I immediately want to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness for a crime I didn’t commit. I resist the impulse, of course, and instead stare steadily back, while keeping my hand firmly at my side in case I inadvertently snap to attention and salute.

  “Snatcher!” the man roars, looking around as if hoping the man that he named would magically appear. “Where the fuck are you, Snatcher?” He turns to the prospect standing behind the reception desk, thumping a heavy hand on the wooden top. “Go get your prez, now!” Poor Gears looks totally lost.

  When his attention is turned to someone else, the spell holding me fixated seems to be broken, and now I move my eyes away from his and down to his cut. Satan’s Devils Tucson Chapter read the top and bottom patches, the middle one is identical to the one I wear on my back, and which I gave blood, sweat and tears to earn. The man swings back around, his eyes catching mine once again. Now I take the opportunity to read the patches on the front. President, says one, and another under that, Drummer.

  Oh, fuck.

  Snatcher appears almost at a run, followed by Pip. Drummer sees them immediately. Ignoring the man behind, he addresses himself to the one he assumes is still the prez of our MC.

  “Snatcher. What the fuck’s going on? Where’s Road, and what the fuck is this?” This, as indicated by a wave of his hand, appears to refer to me.

  “Road’s in the meeting room.” Snatcher wipes a tired hand over his face. “This way, Drummer.”

  “Need us, Drum?”

  “Yeah, Wraith. Peg and Blade, you come too.”

  When Snatcher indicates the way, Drummer and his three men follow them down the corridor. Most of them ignore me, though as he passes, the final one sneers at me and mimes cutting his throat.

  “You want me in there?” I ask Pip quietly as he goes by. If anyone has any explaining to do, I’d rather be there to present the case for myself.

  “Nah. But don’t go too far. Wait in the clubroom.”

  The disrespect shown in our clubhouse has already made my hackles rise. But I suppress my anger, as I watch them all disappear, wondering how this is going to play out. While I squeeze into the elevator along with the brothers, my mind’s going through all the scenarios I can imagine. Drummer had seen my patch denoting I’m a full member. Pip had twisted the regulations when he gave it to me, and it’s more than clear the president of the mother chapter, nor any of his men with him, liked the knowledge a woman has been brought into their ranks.

  Will Pip give in? Could it be tonight, I’m no longer a member of the Satan’s Devils? Then I look at the faces of the men surrounding me and realise we’ve got worries deeper than how Drummer’s visit affects me personally. It’s possible in a short time, this chapter won’t be comprised of any Devils at all, once Drummer finds out he’s been lied to for the past ten years, and Snatcher’s not even the president. By tonight, our club may not exist.

  I don’t think any of us know what to do while we wait to find out our fate. I pace. Honor sits with his head in his hands, Duty hovering near him. Bolt fidgets and can’t keep still. Piston and Cowboy get shot glasses filled but seem unsure whether to drink them or not.

  “We should be fuckin’ in there!” Stormy’s face looks black as he arrives, obviously having come straight from the gym as he has a towel around his neck.

  “You really think that would help?” Preacher cuffs him around his head. “You may get your chance. If Pip tells Drummer everything, you’ll have some explaining to do.”

  “Yeah?” Stormy goes chest to chest with the sergeant-at-arms. “You think I’m afraid of Drummer?”

  “I think you’d be a fool not to show some respect for the man who holds our fate in his hands,” Thor advises, his foot resting on a chair as he leans his weight over his knee.

  “We can take them. They’ll never get back to Tucson alive.”

  “Kind of your answer for everything,” I observe.

  “Yeah? Well, what if Pip gives in and you’re out, Swift? Seems you’ve got the most to lose.” Stormy points out what I already know.

  “Pip won’t give in.” Unable to resist taunting him, I add, “If he throws anyone to the lions, it’s more likely to be you for fuckin’ things up.”

  Stormy sweeps the towel off his shoulders and tosses it down. “Yeah?” He adopts a fighting stance. “Come on then, little girl.”

  “Christ.” Preacher grabs him and pulls him back. “Don’t you ever give up? And Swift’s got one fuckin’ hand out of action.”

  “I could still take him.” The look I shoot him is full of derision.

  “Swift?” Brute steps into the clubroom, his eyes warily eyeing Stormy, keeping well out of his reach. “Pip says you’re to go to the meeting room now.”

  Just me? Fuck.

  “Good luck,” Thor offers as I walk past, but the way his jaw is set suggests I’m right to be worried.

  Fuck it. I like living this life, I don’t want to lose my patch. And definitely not because I lack the right tackle between my legs.

  My shoulders held up, my back ramrod straight, I waste no time taking the elevator down, march along the hallway, then opening the door, step inside the meeting room.

  Drummer doesn’t look any more mollified than he’d done earlier. I notice he’s taken Pip’s place at the head of the table. I presume he thinks he’s got that right as the mother chapter prez. Snatcher’s sitting on his right, Pip to his left. The three men who came in with him also grouped at the top, along with Road, who’s the only one giving me an encouraging look.

  I don’t feel comfortable enough to take a seat for myself. I might not be here long. I stand with legs apart and my hands clasped behind my back.

  The effect of those steel-grey eyes hasn’t diminished. I remind myself I’ve stared down much harder men than the mother chapter prez, men whose sole purpose was to break me. Then, I realise, it’s much the same. Like the officers challenging me whether I was good enough to join the SAS, I’ve now got to prove I’ve got what it takes to be a Satan’s Devil.

  The silence stretches out, but I hold Drummer’s gaze, resisting the urge to look down or anywhere other than straight into his face. I half expect him to bark, name, rank and number.

  “You’re ex-SAS,” Drummer voice booms at last.

  “No,” I contradict, noticing Drummer raises his eyebrows at Pip as if asking whether this is another lie he’s been told. Wanting to take the heat off my prez, I expand, “I qualified, but was invalided out before I could take my place.”

  “Fuckin’ hard for a woman to get into that arm of the services. Like getting into Delta Force if I’m right.”

  I respond as I would to a superior officer. “Yes, Sir.” I respect the hell out of Pip, always have done, always will do, but there’s something about the prez who’s learned his trade through street smarts and not having the benefit of training from the CIA that makes him both even more of a threat, and someone you’d want to have your back.

  “And you want to be a Satan’s Devil?”

  I bite my tongue holding back the fact I already am, knowing the best response to someone in command, “Yes, Sir.”

  I still haven’t looked away. Our gazes are locked. Drummer co
ntinues to rest his steely eyes on mine, and I stare steadily back.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, at ease soldier.” Drummer’s the one to break first. “Sit the fuck down.”

  He waves at a chair opposite Road. I pull it out and do as instructed. Road’s half smirking, the bastard. I wish I knew what conversations have already gone down.

  Drummer waves at the men I haven’t met yet and introduces them in turn. “Wraith, my VP, Peg, sergeant-at-arms, Blade, our enforcer.” I give them nods, summing them up quickly. Blade’s still glowering at me, Peg might be a man hard to take down, but I’m certain I’d be a match for the Tucson prez, or his VP and enforcer.

  Introductions made, Drummer tugs at his beard. “Looks like we’ve got a fuck of a mess to sort out, and you, Swift, are right in the midst of it.” He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “The spirit of the regulations is that only men can be patched members of the Satan’s Devils MC. It’s implied, but not clearly stated, that no women can join.” He glances at Road for a moment, then at Wraith. “My old lady’s thinking of forming a Satan’s Devils MC Ladies Riding Club. Maybe even have a patch made to show they’re affiliated to us. Wouldn’t turn anyone’s head if you were to start the same thing here.”

  “Permission to speak?” I ask politely on the surface, but there’s no doubting my tone is snarky. “With no disrespect to your woman, she hasn’t prospected to join the club.” Or maybe she has, but on her back. That observation I keep to myself.

  “She’s an ace mechanic.” Road throws me a warning glance. “Rebuilt a Vincent Black Shadow and rode it three thousand miles, not many men could have done that. She did a lot of the tuning on my race bikes. Heart’s woman, another of our old ladies, well she built her own rat bike from spare parts. No one can fuckin’ keep up with her when she rides that thing.”

  “Fuckin’ rat bike,” their sergeant-at-arms grumbles, causing the enforcer sitting beside him to stop frowning and smirk.