Free Angels Don't Cry: A Biker Erotic Romance by Kay Perry

 
    ANGELS DON'T CRY
     
    For only the second time in its history, the Eagle's Roost Tavern was closed for a private party—members only, that being members of the Road Knights motorcycle club. The occasion was the wake for Jim Walker, who the members knew as Pres —as in “President.” Their leader. Lizzie Walker knew him as Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim owed the tavern and ran the club. Now he was gone.
     
    Eagle's Roost was now Lizzie's, and she was behind the bar, serving drinks and chatting with members. The air was filled with stories of Jim and his wild life’s antics. Laughter was the general mood, followed closely by drunkenness.
     
    For Lizzie, taking over the tavern wasn't going to be much of a change. She ran the place when Uncle Jim was alive, while he spent most of his energy running the club.
     
    "Now that you're running the place Lizzie, how about wearing something that shows a little leg?" Buster asked her from across the bar.
     
    "You'll see plenty of leg with my boot cracking your nuts, Buster," she told him as she set down his beer and scooped up the bills.
     
    Lizzie was five foot ten, a fit, muscular, 140lbs, with long legs, red hair, and a fire in her that could weld steel. She considered her breasts “ not bad .” They weren't so large that they got in the way, but large enough to turn a head if she decided she wanted heads to turn.
     
    Generally she wore blue jeans, boots, a black t-shirt of some sort, and her leather club vest. She was the only female patch holder. Her bike was a three-year-old V-rod, which she considered adequate. Occasionally she took a lover, but never a man who was looking to be a husband or her ol' man. She had no desire to ride on the back of anything, for anyone. She accepted love's existence, but not its usefulness. Lizzie considered the word “ ruthless ” to be much more useful as a guide, and an emotion.
     
    While the wake was carrying on with laughter and revelry, Lizzie knew there was a question on everyone's mind. It was the same question on her mind.
     
    Who is going to run the club now?
     
    The answer was the wake's true purpose. Jim passed on five days ago and was in the ground for three. Yet no leader had filled his shoes. If no one was chosen during this wake, it could mean the end of the club. Since the club was Lizzie's only remaining family, this possibility weighed heavy on her.
     
    Liam James would have been the obvious choice, since he was Uncle Jim's right hand. While everyone respected, feared, and recognized Liam's position, however, no one thought of him as a leader. Liam was hot tempered and violent. He got things done. He was the perfect choice to give a task to, which had to be taken care of, no matter what. He wasn't known, however, for planning out what needed to be done.
     
    No one would say that Liam was stupid, especially to his face. He wasn't. He had good instincts, was impressively cunning, and surprisingly well informed. At six feet, three inches, he packed serious muscle across his shoulders and mounted on his chest like plate iron. His arms were roped with even more power. His hands—and therefore his fists—were exceptionally large, and when he grabbed a hold of something, something usually moved. As a second in command, Liam was formidable. But as a leader, he failed to impress.
     
    So far, Liam appeared to recognize this generally accepted fact because he had not made a bid for the position of president. Others whispered about making a move, and Liam listened, but said nothing. Liam's silence was becoming disturbingly loud since he was not making his own bid and failing to back anyone else.
     
    Just after two, as if the timing was agreed upon, the din of the gathering quieted. Shortly after this lowering of voices, Bear's voice called out, "I nominate Roady!"
     
    Roady's voice called back a moment later, "I decline."
     
    The nominations had begun and Lizzie's gut turned into a knot.
     
    "Nominate Clark", called Bob