Rider: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

bitch well.”
     
    Misty closed her eyes and seemed to drift back upstairs, practically asleep. I felt bad for her, but not bad enough to break her out of this life. At least… Not yet.
     
    Fact was, as much as I found myself completely disgusted by Fatman, I respected the bastard. He had taken me in when I was a mess, given me an opportunity to prove myself. All I had back then was a bike—a heavily customized chopper that I had worked on during every single period of leave I was given while in the service, putting most of my paycheck into improving that beast of a machine—and a revolver, my dad’s old Colt Python that he had carried for twenty-five years as a member of the Miami Police Department (ironically).
     
    I barely had any cash to my name, nowhere to live, no future. But Fatman saw something in me. He let me, an addict, deal for him, and when he was sure that I wasn’t going to rat, he let me stay at the clubhouse while I looked for an apartment. He even put himself down as my employer on the application, since he owns a small empire of hot dog stands along South Beach—that’s how we launder our money, and also one of the hot spots of dealing to kids looking for a good time at the beach.
     
    But that wasn’t going to stop me from burying Fatman if I got a chance. The things that had given me a thrill about this life back when I was getting high every chance I got—the drugs, the women, the fast bikes and sweet slow booze, the feeling of my fist, gripping a roll of quarters, cracking into some motherfucker’s skull in a filthy, down and out barroom brawl—those things didn’t do it for me anymore.
     
    They left me cold.
     
    It was time to go. I could either go… Or I could die.
     
    Because… Did I mention that once you’re Damned, you’re Damned for life? It’s either stay in the gang, or die. No compromise.
     
    I don’t want to stay. And dying doesn’t sound too bad, but I can’t help but feel like it’s not my style.
     
    So I’m going to live. And I’m going to send all of these sons of bitches into the furnace in my stead.
     
    “Fang, you son of a cunt, come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
     
    “I’m busy, you fat fuck,” I grunted, inclining my head at my glass of whiskey.
     
    “Jesus Christ, you cocksucker, it’s too fucking hot for that Scottish swill. We drink rum down here, boy! Now get your ass out into the backyard—I’ve got a new toy and for once, she don’t have no pussy.”
     
    “Did you finally make up with your parish priest for all the times he stuck his fingers up your butt when you were in first grade?” I muttered as I followed Fatman out into the field behind the clubhouse.
     
    Once upon a time, there was an ice cream factory on this land, and there are still a few old, derelict factory buildings left, with their walls falling in, windows all smashed, and dead grass adorning their pathways. Most of this space we use for riding, for fighting, or fucking if you can’t find an empty room—a not uncommon phenomenon on Friday and Saturday nights.
     
    Once outside, I found Fatman dragging a huge, black package, bound in a leather case.
     
    “Did you take up the cello? Finally fulfilling your dreams of playing at Carnegie Hall?” I asked Fatman, a pit of dread rising in my belly. I didn’t want to see what this thing was.
     
    I had a bad fucking feeling about this. It was as long as a fishing rod but by the way the package clattered to the ground when Fatman dropped it in front of me, it weighed at least a hundred times what a rod and reel should weigh.
     
    Besides. Fatman isn’t the fishing type.
     
    More the hunting type.
     
    He unzipped the case and I had to bite my tongue to keep from cursing. I knew exactly what it was. They had issued them to us in Afghanistan.
     
    A Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle. Scope. Ten round magazine. The kind of gun that can practically disintegrate a man with one shot, shattering skeletons and