Free Biker Beach 1: Forbidden Ride by Lexi Archer Page B

annoying fact of life even if most people liked to pretend they didn’t exist.
    The rumbling from the bikes grew almost deafening. The walls were shaking around me, the window rattling as they approached. I knew the drill. In a moment they’d appear riding down the boardwalk even though there definitely weren’t supposed to be any sort of motor vehicles other than maybe a scooter on that boardwalk. Not that the cops were going to do anything like issue them a citation. We only had a couple of bicycle cops who worked the beach anyways, and they were woefully unprepared for dealing with our local biker problem.
    The Rough Riders. I wasn’t sure if they got that name because of a play on Easy Rider, though that might be giving them too much credit in the cleverness department, or if maybe one of their founding members was just a big Teddy Roosevelt aficionado. Wherever they got the name, it was infamous in Ocean Vista amongst the locals. And it quickly became infamous with any tourists. Anyone who came down here to vacation for more than a couple of days in a row soon learned all about them.
    Like the family that beat a hasty retreat when they realized the Rough Riders were coming into town.
    Then they were upon us, riding down the boardwalk creating a deafening rattle on top of the already deafening noise from their engines as their wheels ran across the boards. It was so bad that I even brought some of those industrial noise canceling earplugs usually reserved for people working heavy machinery. It was the only way to keep my ears from ringing for the rest of the night when they came rumbling through town.
    I briefly considered heading to the back of the shop where I wouldn’t have to interact with any of them directly, but a quick glance at Mr. Reynolds and I realized I wouldn’t be doing that. I knew he would be disappointed even if he wouldn’t say anything if I decided to hide.
    I noticed that Madison and Courtney were at the back of the hut peering around the door leading to our cramped stock room. Typical.
    So I was right at the window, leaning against the counter covered in the remains of the chocolate sundae Madison spilled all over me, when some of the bikers rolled up to our window as though it was a drive-thru instead of a walk-up window.
    The first guy looked just as massive as Mr. Reynolds, though he was far more threatening wearing leather even in the middle of the summer heat. He wore a pair of large sunglasses that looked like they hadn’t been updated since he bought them back in the ‘80s, and he had a massive bushy beard with streaks of gray running through. When he opened his mouth and smiled several of his teeth were missing. I tried not to think about how that might’ve happened.
    “I want a vanilla cone,” he said.
    “Certainly sir,” I said. “That will be $3.99.”
    “I said I wanted a vanilla cone,” he said.
    “And I said that will be $3.99, sir.”
    He slammed his hand against the counter and it was so loud that it set the windows to rattling again. Well, it set the windows to rattling more than they already were. There were still bikers streaming by along the boardwalk, and it was so loud I could barely hear myself think, let alone here what this bearded asshole was trying to order. I glanced longingly over my shoulder to the stock room where my purse and my industrial earplugs were hidden away.
    “Ice cream. Now,” he said.
    “What seems to be the problem here?” Mr. Reynolds asked, appearing beside me like he always did when there was trouble.
    “Your bitch here won’t give me my ice cream,” he said.
    “He’s refusing to pay, sir.” I said.
    “I’m sorry sir,” Mr. Reynolds said. “But we can’t serve you if you talk to my workers like that.”
    I smiled. Of course Mr. Reynolds would be more concerned with this guy calling me a bitch than with the guy refusing to pay. That’s just the kind of guy he was.
    The guy looked like he was about to start some trouble,