Page 16 of Zeus’s Ruin (Saint’s Outlaws MC: New Orleans Chapter #1)
Bear
F uck .
My bike coughs and sputters again, dying out in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere.
I push forward with my legs and steer it toward the shoulder.
Then I flip the stand down, climb off, and kick rocks in a fucking toddler-sized temper tantrum before parking my ass in the dust on the side of the road.
I pull out my phone and stare at the spot where the bars should be. Fucking AT&T.
“Motherfucker!”
It’s not all bad. In the distance, I can make out the shapes of Main Street, Uprising, Georgia, and it’s not that far to walk.
Not even in the heat. I’ve experienced much worse in the Navy—even got the scars to prove it—but I ain’t leaving my bike for any asshole who wants to come along and pile my twenty-four-thousand-dollar piece of shit in their truck.
She might be a hunk of shit, but she’s my hunk of shit, and I can’t afford to lose her.
I glance up the long stretch of road. Nothing but woods between me and the first few buildings. Aww, shit . I haul my gimpy-legged self to my feet and turn, holding my phone in the air, trying to get a goddamn signal.
The beefy growl of a truck sends a jolt of panic through me, and I whirl around. For a heartbeat, I lose myself in a war zone.
The woods of Georgia give way to desert sand, the sun beats down upon my back, the engine roars, and blood whooshes in my ears as the oppressive heat pushes in around me. It feels a lot like Afghanistan, but the restored powder-blue Chevy pulling to a stop beside me says otherwise.
A woman with tattooed sleeves, cherry-red lips, and lavender hair tied up with a bandana leans out of the driver’s side window.
“Hey, sugar.” She smiles. “You need a hand?”
I narrow my gaze and shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans to quit from shaking. Pull it together, asshole . “Just what are you proposing to give me a hand with?”
“Well, it seems like that broke-down Harley could use a little push.” She winks and opens her car door, jumping out.
She’s all of four feet—not even kidding—and when she struts toward me in her little Daisy Dukes and a Slayer T-shirt knotted at the waist, I roll my gaze over her shapely legs and the inch of skin exposed around her midriff. Jesus . She’s a fucking smoke show and my dick is itching to say hello.
Where the hell has Uprising been hiding you, darlin’ ?
She squats in front of the bike and turns to look over her shoulder at me. “Problems with the clutch?”
My brow furrows. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
She laughs. “It’s a 114, isn’t it?”
“What the hell do you know about Harleys, little girl? It looks like you’re barely out of high school.”
“Oh, you’re one of those .” She frowns and stands to her full height, which is pretty much laughable next to my six-foot-six frame. “Shame you had to open your mouth, because with a body like that I bet you’re a really fun ride. Now I guess I’ll never know.”
I smirk. “Listen, Tinkerbelle. I’m flattered, but I don’t fuck jailbait. Not even ones that look like you.” Not that she’d know what to do with me anyway. One look at my fat cock and she’d be running for the hills.
“Well, I’m so glad we got that cleared up. Anyway, looks like an internal leak is preventing the clutch from receiving enough lift. You’ll need to install a secondary clutch actuator piston.”
Come a-fucking-gain ?
I stare at her like a slack-jawed fuckin’ yokel. This bitch knows bikes. Really knows bikes.
I glance back at the truck, and the brightly colored logo emblazoned on the side that reads, “Jupiter’s Custom Builds and Auto.” Beneath the obtrusive logo—which is practically giving me a fucking stroke—is a line in cursive, “We’ll get your motor running”.
They weren’t fucking kidding .
She stands with her hands on her hips. “So, you wanna help me get this thing into the back of my truck, or are you just gonna wait for another big, strong man to come along and save you?”
I narrow my eyes. I don’t like her fucking tone or the fact that she’s deliberately pushing my buttons, but her sassy little attitude makes me want to put her over my goddamn knee.
It’s been a long time since a woman affected me like this, and the last one who did practically took a goddamn sawn-off shotgun and blew a hole right through my heart.
Still, I can’t help but smile at the arched brow she’s giving me, and the attitude packed into that tight little body.
“Help you get it in the truck?” I give her a dubious look. “What are you, five feet and one hundred pounds soaking wet?”
“Actually, I’m four feet, eleven inches. And one hundred and six pounds.” She rolls her eyes and moves to the tailgate, lowering it before she turns back to me. “Wet or not.”
A smirk steals across my lips. “Alright, Tink. You got a ramp and a ratchet strap or two?”
“Yep. I’ve also got a wheel chock.”
“You ride?” It would explain how she knows so much about bikes when even most mechanics don’t know jack shit.
“No, but we have an awful lot of bikers in this town. Who do you think they call to come pick them up when they break down?” She shrugs and climbs up into the bed of the truck like she’s done it a million times before. “Besides, I prefer burning rubber on four wheels.”
That does get a rise out of me, but before I can respond, she turns to me and snaps, “Now, if you’re done with your little interrogation, can we get this goddamn bike on the truck?”
I take the small ramp from the bed and unfold it.
Tinkerbelle gathers together a couple more ratchet straps and jumps down, her boots sending up a cloud of dust when she hits the gravel.
Then she crouches and hooks the strap under the towbar, threading it through the rungs on the ramp and securing it to the Chevy.
I smirk as I watch her. Definitely not her first fucking rodeo .
“Alright, let’s get that pretty baby on board.
” She climbs into the truck bed again as I head to my bike, flip up the kickstand, and wheel it toward the ramp.
She’s a beast of a machine, and not as easy to maneuver as I’d like, but once I line it up correctly, I push forward and hold the weight of the bike when it hits the bumper.
Tink grabs the handlebars to hold it steady while I climb into the truck and we both drive it home into the wheel chock.
“You wanna climb on to steady the bike while I fasten it?” I tilt my chin toward my baby.
She gasps in mock surprise. “And here I thought bitches were only supposed to sit on the back of your bike.”
“You got a man in the club?” I’ve been here for a few weeks now, and I’m pretty sure I would remember seeing this little sidepiece hanging around.
She laughs, and I have to fight my irritation, because I don’t see what’s so goddamn funny about that. “No. I don’t date club brothers.”
“We beneath you or somethin’, darlin’?”
She grins, grabbing onto the handlebars and sliding one leg over the bike. I have to suppress my growl of appreciation ... because I’m sure this little angry feminist would just love that. “Does it look like a brother is beneath me?”
Not yet. But I promise you I’m working on it , baby doll .
“You know, for a woman who’s not property of a club brother, you sure seem to know a lot about club life.”
“You’re not from around here, huh? This is Uprising. You make it your business to show the brothers respect or the club teaches you some. At least, that’s apparently how it was before Chaos took over. I think most of the town is still adhering to that and are just trying to stay out of their way.”
“But not you?” I fasten the strap to the frame. The suspension shifts as I use the ratchet. The movement jostles her perfect tits, and I suddenly have a hard time concentrating.
“My daddy didn’t like doing business with the Kings, but their money’s just as green as everyone else’s,” she says. “Besides, they’re not that scary once you get to know them.”
I arch a brow and set about fastening another ratchet strap to the main frame and tying it off on the truck. “I’ll be sure to tell Chaos you said that.”
“I came up in school with Sterling and Ruin. They weren’t as scary as they pretended to be either. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I could fight my own battles and kick anyone’s ass who needed kicking.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So, you got a name? Or shall I just write inbred, misogynistic biker on your docket?”
I narrow my eyes. “Bitch, you sure are mouthy.”
“And you sure are insolent for a man stranded on the side of the road.”
I scoff and fold my arms over my chest. “You can call me Bear.”
She actually rolls her fucking eyes at me. “You got a real name and an address, Bear?” She says my road name with particular disdain.
“Nope.”
“Where is that accent from?”
“Tennessee,” I bark. “Where does your attitude come from?”
“I guess I’m just a product of my raising.” She smiles, and it about knocks the wind clean out of me. “I’m gonna call you Tennessee.”
I arch a brow. “You can call me whatever you want, darlin’, so long as you’re screaming it.”
“Good to know.” She slides off the bike, bringing us face-to-face—or, I guess, face-to-nipple, since she’s so goddamn tiny. “Now, if you’re done with your male posturing, you mind if we get this bike into the garage?”
“Whatever you want. As long as your mechanic knows his stuff and doesn’t fuck my bike, lead the way.”
She slips off the back of the truck and I follow suit. After closing the tailgate, Tink smirks. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
I climb into the truck and close the door. Tink slides into the driver’s side, throws the stick shift in gear, and hits the accelerator as if her foot is made of lead. I grab the doorframe and hold on for dear life as the trees fly by.
Her lips quirk, and she takes the last corner before town at breakneck speed. I keep my white-knuckled grip on the truck. This bitch is gonna wreck me and my bike before we even make it back to town .