Money Shot: Selected Sinners MC Romance

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Authors: Scott Hildreth
abandoned earlier.
    Heavy, but empty.
    Fuck.
    After removing my glasses and tossing them to the side, I pushed myself away from my desk, stood, and sang backup for Madonna’s “ Santa Baby ,” which was the only thing that saved me from my wine deprived state of being. As the song came to a close, I smiled and fell back onto my bed with my arms outstretched.
    After a moment of staring at the ceiling I rolled over and smashed my face into the closest pillow.
    My lunch with Vince earlier in the day had been perfect.
    Vince was perfect.
    And I was sure I could be perfect for him, I just needed an opportunity.
    I wrapped my arms around the pillow, squeezed it tight, and within a few seconds, began to softly cry.
    And on that night, in a slightly drunken state of being, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in five years.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    VINCE
    November 6 th , 2014
    Our meeting ended, and a mandatory ride supporting Toys For Tots had been discussed at length. With Christmas fast approaching, the weather was less than favorable to ride, but as long as there wasn’t snow on the ground, we continued, regardless of the temperature. With all of the club’s heavies gathered on the side of the shop, I sauntered toward my bike as I pulled my stocking cap over my head.
    “Vince,” Otis said with a nod as I walked past.
    I raised my right hand slightly and nodded my head. “Fellas.”
    “Headed to Toad’s barbeque joint for a few beers and some chow if you’re interested,” Axton said.
    “Appreciate it. I think I’ll just…”
    “Excuses are like fuckin’ assholes,” Biscuit said. “Everybody’s got one.”
    I turned to face the group. Toad, Axton, Otis, Hollywood, and Biscuit were a club within the club, and for the most part, were a closer knit group than the club was as a whole. They really didn’t let the other fellas in their little group, other than to meet for a drink or take a short unscheduled ride out of town for a show of presence.
    “I need to…”
    “Need to loosen up, Brother,” Biscuit said. “Tell you the truth, you ought to knock you off some pussy. Been walkin’ around this motherfucker for the last year like a motherfuckin’ zombie. Come on, I got a story to tell that’ll make your toes curl.”
    I glanced at my watch out of habit. Still stuck at three o’clock, it wasn’t much help. Hell, I didn’t have anything else to do, and I did need to eat something.
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    “Saddle up,” Axton said as he tossed his head toward his bike.
    “Last one out lock up,” Axton said over his shoulder as he fired up his sled.
    The thought of being part of their group for a short period of time was satisfying, but doing so on a long term basis wasn’t something I could ever do. It was far too easy to get caught up in patterns, routines, and eventually develop expectations of the men as friends, and eventually someone would fuck up and I knew enough about myself to know I would lose faith not only in the men, but in the club as a whole. Not exposing myself to the members as individuals protected me from being disappointed in their actions or broken promises, which, over time, were bound to happen.
    The six of us rode the half mile to Toad’s barbeque joint, and carefully parked our bikes in front of the building side-by-side. After confirming my bike was perfectly parked beside Otis’, I turned toward the entrance and shoved my keys into my pocket.
    “Hardcore motherfucker, ridin’ that Shovel. You work on that pig all the time or what?” Biscuit asked as we walked toward the door.
    “Quite a bit, yeah,” I responded. “But it was my Pop’s bike, and…”
    “Yeah, I heard that. Cool as fuck you kept it and all,” he said.
    “Shovel’s are powerless,” Otis said as we walked inside.
    I shook my head in disagreement. Harley replaced the Panhead motor with the Shovelhead in 1966, and in 1971 a world record was set by a man on a Shovelhead powered

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