Free Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC) by MariaLisa deMora

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Biker Chick Campout
Hurley
    “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”
Justin Youngblood ground his teeth together in irritation when his
brain belatedly caught up with his mouth, and he realized he’d spoken those words aloud.
Snapping his lips shut on the mutter that was
just barely underneath his breath, he froze in place, hoping no one
had heard. Quickly tipping his chin down, he broke the stare he’d
been directing towards his chapter president.
    Not good. Not good , Justin’s head supplied about five seconds too late. This
was something he already knew because the vibe in the room had
gotten heavy , the air thick, hard to breathe.
That shit happened when you had fifteen pissed off alpha males in
the same space. Time for damage control . “Sorry, brother.
Respect. More than willing to do whatever’s needed, Slate, but you
sure I’m the one you want in that van?”
    Justin had just been informed he would be
the sole escort for a weekend bash some of the brothers’ old ladies
were planning. The timing sucked, because recent chatter across the
entire club was about a possible rollout to Indy, and maybe beyond,
depending on how things shook out. The call was expected any day,
which meant if this bullshit assignment stuck to him, he would be
in the woods on the western edge of the state and not in place to
make a play.
    And he needed to make a play.
    Said play would be
calculated so he’d be part of something important, the success of
which would help solidify his place in the club. It had to be big.
Bigger than this girls’ night out party, for sure. He groused
silently, Get stuck with this, gonna be a fuckin’ perpetual
prospect . I need a real chance to show the club what I can
do.
    Rebel Wayfarers MC were his family. A true family for him, and had been for years. But,
things had stalled since he’d sewn on the
prospect patch, and lately, it felt as if he
was skirting a little farther away into the weeds instead of
drawing closer to the inner circle. One fuckin’ chance, is that
too much to ask? Every major run the club
dealt with seemed to happen when he wasn’t around, and that kind of
repeated slight looked intentional, which cemented his
feelings.
    He knew from the sympathetic looks turned
his way he wasn’t the only one under the impression the old guys
were keeping him at arms-length. His instincts said those men still
thought of him as the snot-nosed kid who’d been running around the
clubhouses and garages since before he was old enough to grow a
beard. He reached up, stroking across his cheeks, feeling the rough
stubble of a five o’clock shadow. Put the lie to that every
day , he thought, now if the OGs would just pay goddamned
attention to what’s right in front of their faces .
    “ Prospect .” A warning growl whipped
through the air, the curt tone drawing a
stinging line down his ego, as intended. That would be Gunny, the
member he most looked up to. A man who was mentoring him, bringing
him along and making sure Justin didn’t fuck up too badly. He’d
given Justin his road name, too, after a particularly bad night of
celebration. Not a name he’d expected—or liked at first—but
regardless the origin, he’d embraced it in a way that made certain
everyone understood his pride. “First, his title is
president, not brother. When he tells you to do something, that’s
who’s speaking. Second, and do not mistake this as being less
important, Hurley, tell me you did not just disrespect our
prez?”
    “Unintentional, SAA.” Hurley backpedaled,
hating every second of moments like this because he knew it would
look exactly like what it was: him trying to save face. A tactic to
which he seemed to resort far too often. Gunny was the Fort’s
sergeant at arms, and he drilled protocol and rules into Hurley all
the time. Just didn’t seem to stick. “Respect, Gunny.” Gotta watch my alligator mouth ,
he thought, feeling the eyes of every man in the room on him.
Hurley