Page 23

The roar of revving engines fills the air as I roll into Sturgis for the July 4th bike rally, the familiar scent of gasoline and leather mingling with the faint sweetness of summer blooms. It’s a chaotic symphony of sights and sounds. Flags wave proudly in the breeze, and my brothers’ laughter echoes around me.

As I park my bike and step off, the asphalt’s heat radiates through my boots while a light breeze brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of barbecued meat wafting from nearby food stalls. The energy is electric, a palpable buzz that ignites something deep within me. My chest swells with pride as I take in the sight of my brothers gathered around, each of us part of something bigger than ourselves, a family forged by loyalty and the open road.

The laughter and cheers of fellow bikers mingle with classic rock music blaring from the speakers, creating a backdrop of camaraderie that feels almost tangible. I catch glimpses of motorcycles lined up like polished jewels, their chrome gleaming under the summer sun.

Despite the chaos, there’s a sense of peace within the storm, a reminder of why I love these rallies—the thrill of the ride, the freedom of the open road, and the bond shared with my brothers. As I light a cigarette, the smoke curls into the warm air, blending with the surrounding scents, and I can’t help but feel grateful. This is my world, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

At this rally, the biggest of its kind, we’ve made a pact—no violence. We’ve all come to party and have a good time and know better than to let our tempers flare amidst the celebration. It doesn’t mean we like you any more or less, it’s just the way of things out here. This week, we’ll let our grievances slide, setting aside the usual tensions that simmer beneath the surface.

“Whiskey,” Tracker greets me, thrusting a cold beer into my hand.

“Where the hell did you have that hidden?” I raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

He smirks, that familiar mischief glinting in his eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “No.” I twist off the cap and take a hearty swig, the bitter fizz hitting my tongue and sending a satisfying chill down my throat. “Where are we situated?”

“Same as last year, but thank fuck we don’t have those dickheads, the Savage Angels, next to us. This time, it’s the Loyal Rebels.”

“Who the fuck are they?” I ask, intrigued.

Tracker shrugs, a nonchalant grin on his face. “The organizers didn’t want a repeat of last year, so they put them next to us instead.”

I bark out a laugh, the memory hitting me like a punchline. The president of the Savage Angels, Dane, is married to Kat Saunders. She’s in The Grinders, used to be their lead singer, and Twitch had a serious hard-on for her, nearly starting a fucking war over it. “Probably good they moved.”

Tracker nods and chuckles. “Fucking Twitch.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You need help setting up?”

“Nah. Go have fun.” I wave him off, then stop. “But if you see Twitch heading for Kat Saunders, stop him.”

Tracker grins. “I can do that.”

We rolled in two groups a day apart. Tracker and Twitch led the first envoy while Gamble, my sergeant at arms, and I followed in the second. The atmosphere is buzzing with excitement, but I keep my guard up. This is supposed to be a friendly weekend, but it pays to be cautious.

Years ago, a war broke out here, a brutal clash that left many dead, not just MC members but civilians caught in the crossfire. Now, everyone is a bit more careful, but as with everything, time can dull those memories, making people forget how bad it really was. I glance around at the sea of bikes, the patches and flags fluttering in the breeze, and I can’t help but feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.

As long as I’m president, I’ll act cautiously every time we attend this rally. I won’t let complacency slip in. I will not forget the past. It’s my job to keep our brothers and sisters safe.

“Hey, Prez, Twitch left you a space next to his in the second row,” Gamble calls out, scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe away the road dust.

“Where are you?” I ask, scanning the lot for his bike.

“On your other side.”

Juniper, Gamble’s old lady, bursts out laughing. “We’ll try to keep it down,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Gamble chuckles, playfully hitting her on the ass as she walks by. “As if you could.”

Juniper’s laughter rings out even louder, a warm sound that blends with the roar of engines and chatter around us. She strolls back to their bike, her movements confident and carefree as she unloads their gear. I catch Gamble watching her, a smirk dancing on his lips, his expression full of pride and amusement.

The music from a nearby band blasts through the air, cutting sharply through the noise of revving bikes and animated chatter. The heavy rock sound wraps around me, instantly lifting my spirits.

“Seems like the party has started,” I mutter to myself, grinning as I open my saddlebags.

I pull out my swag and a two-person tent. Every man needs a little privacy when he’s found himself some company, and I fully intend to find a woman to spend some quality time with this week.

As I set the gear aside, I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere. The air is warm, tinged with the scent of grilled food and the faint musk of leather, and I can’t help but feel excited about what the night might bring. This is what I live for—the freedom of the open road, the camaraderie of my brothers, and the chance to connect with someone new under the stars.

Gamble and I set up camp, sharing a few cold beers while the sun dips lower in the sky, casting golden hues across the horizon. The rhythm of the rally pulses around us, and soon, the pull of the music draws me toward the stage.

As I make my way through the crowd, I hear the distinct sound of a rock band jamming out, the energy electric. The lead singer’s voice is gravelly and powerful, reminiscent of Kat Saunders, and I can’t help but feel an undeniable draw to the performance.

“Whiskey, wait for me!” Gamble calls out, his voice cutting through the crowd.

I glance back to see him reaching for Juniper’s hand, helping her to her feet. She sways slightly, a playful smile on her lips as she nods, regaining her balance.

I wait for them, and when they are next to me, I look at Juniper. “Lightweight.”

Laughing, she nods. “Oh, yeah, a couple of beers, and I’m anyone’s.” Gamble growls, and she shakes her head. “Not literally. I belong to you.”

Proving the point, Juniper kisses Gamble hard on the lips, and he drapes an arm around her waist.

“You got that right, babe.”

The man adores her, and I’ve often wondered how she caught him. Gamble used to move from one woman to the next, but the day he found her, he became pussy-whipped.

The music stirs my soul, igniting a desire to let loose. With Gamble and Juniper following closely behind, I make my way closer to the stage. We push forward together, eager to immerse ourselves in the rhythm of the rally.

The band belts out, “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll,” and my heart races as we get closer to the stage. I realize it’s my hellcat up there singing her heart out.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, a wide grin spreading across my face as I take in the sight of her.

“You know her?” Gamble asks, raising an eyebrow.

With a frown, I respond, “Sort of?”

The truth is, I know her well enough to feel a mix of excitement and intrigue, but I’m not about to dive into the details with Gamble just yet. All I know is that watching her own the stage only deepens my interest.

She looks like an eighties rock goddess, exuding fierce energy with her teased-up hair, tight leather pants, and more makeup than I’ve ever seen her wear. The lights catch the shimmer of her eyeliner, accentuating those captivating green eyes. With the mic in her hand, she holds it out to the audience, inviting us to join in.

As the chorus kicks in, we all sing back to her, our voices melding into a powerful wave that reverberates through the crowd. I can’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline—the connection between her and the audience is electric. It’s impossible not to be drawn to her, and for a moment, it feels like the world around us fades away, leaving only the music and the shared excitement.

She looks down at me and winks, a playful spark in her eyes. My body reacts instinctively, hardening at the sight of her confidence. As the song fades into “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” the energy in the crowd surges, and we erupt into cheers.

Her grin widens, clearly feeding off the electrifying atmosphere and our enthusiastic response. It’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing, commanding the stage and the audience with effortless charm.

After an hour of commanding the stage, the music finally fades as another band prepares to take over.

My hellcat brings the mic to her lips, her voice echoing through the crowd, “Thank you, Sturgis, you’ve been great. We are Steel Outlaws, and we’ll catch you tomorrow!”

She hands the mic to the next singer and, with a glance down at me, bursts into laughter. Before I can react, she falls back off the stage, straight into my arms.

“Well, Whiskey Mick…” she says with a sly grin, “… fancy meeting you here.”

I put her on her feet, and her arms entwine around my neck.

“You stink,” I say as I put my arms around her and grab her ass.

Laughing, she nods and sniffs under her arm. “You try shaking your ass on stage and singing for an hour… you’d smell bad too.”

“Hey!” a voice sounds from above, and we look up to see who it is. “We’re going to grab a beer and some food. You in?”

She smiles at me. “You in?”

“I could eat.”

“We’re in,” she yells back at the guy. “Meet you at the trailer?”

“Sure.” He nods at me, winks at her, then wanders off to the back of the stage.

“Come on, Whiskey, it’s time to meet the band.”

“Is that like meeting the parents?”

She laughs. “Worse. They’re a fickle bunch.”

Gamble clears his throat, and I look at him. “Hey, I’m Gamble, and you are?”

She holds out her hand and says, “The lead singer of Steel Outlaws, and judging by the name of your MC, I should fit right in.”

Gamble smiles and looks at me. “What’s her name?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Oh, I like her!” Juniper grabs her hand. “Come on, new best friend. Let’s go find some food.”

“Juniper,” growls Gamble.

“Oh, shush, honey. She’s a friend of Whiskey’s. She’s cool. I’m going to call her Steel.”

The two women walk arm in arm through the crowd, leaving Gamble and me staring after them.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asks.

“That’s my hellcat, but be warned… wherever she is, trouble isn’t far behind.”

Gamble rolls his eyes and jogs after them.