Outlaw's Ride: An MC Romance Carter Steele (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

Outlaw’s Ride

An MC Romance

Carter Steele

Copyright © 2021 by Carter Steele

All rights reserved.

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Table Of Contents

1. Wreck

2. Jezebel

3. Wreck

4. Jezebel

5. Wreck

6. Jezebel

7. Wreck

8. Jezebel

9. Wreck

10. Jezebel

11. Wreck

12. Jezebel

13. Wreck

14. Jezebel

15. Wreck

16. Jezebel

17. Sarah

18. Wreck

19. Sarah

20. Wreck

Epilogue

1

Wreck

“You alright, big man?” I asked Yoga.

His hammock swayed as our tractor trailer truck slowed to a stop. The muscled, mountain of a man shifted uncomfortably from the abrupt motion. Waves of pain from the gunshot in his leg snarled their way through his facial features.

“Had better days,” Yoga replied at length after the pain subsided. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a red-stained sleeve from his ruined, fitted Henley undershirt.

“No shit,” I scoffed, checking over his bandage. The blood had soaked through and would need to be replaced soon. Mac only had time to make sure the wound wasn't going to kill him, before having to get us the hell out of Dodge.

“It's your own damn fault!” Buck barked from the couch along the wall halfway down the trailer. His bottle of bottom-shelf bourbon was almost gone. Buck hadn't stopped drinking since we'd escaped from the shit storm and ensuing firefight of a lucrative gun deal gone bad. “You're bigger'n a fucking Buick, Yoga. The fuck you think was going to happen when they started shooting? I'm surprised you didn't catch more bullets, you goddamn moose.”

Buck was irritating on the best of days and was a downright asshole when he was worried. Seeing his brother get shot was going to bring out the worst in him. Yoga and Buck were twins actually, but you wouldn't know that at a glance. The men couldn't have been more different despite having the same face structure, height, and eyes. At just over two-hundred fifty pounds, Yoga was almost twice as heavy as his lanky brother. Buck was a hard drinking, gambling, loose cannon, ladies-man accountant, and his brother was a gay, body-building, vegan mechanic.

They made a great case for the nurture-over-nature argument.

“Ease up,” I snapped. “It wasn't his fault.”

“No.” Buck shot up and stabbed his pointer finger in the air at me. “It was yours, Wreck. It's always fucking your fault you Grizzly Adams-looking, numb-sculled, fuckwit! Couldn't keep your fucking big mouth shut, could you, hot head?”

“My fault?” I roared incredulously, feeling my blood start to warm up. “How the fuck was this my fault? They never said anything about using kids as gun running mules. That's on them not me.”

Dreamer, our club's vice president opened his mouth to say something but just shook his head and went back to cleaning his guns on the trailer's folding table. He was just as pissed off about what happened as the rest of us.

“Yeah you really saved the day punching that cartel general like that.” Buck stalked up to me, getting in my face. Buck was a few inches taller than me, but I had sixty pounds on him. “Happily ever after for those kids now, right?”

“That wasn't part of the deal. It was supposed to be just us and them.” I said in a deadly low voice. We weren't going to kill each other, but both of us needed to vent some steam before things got real ugly.

The trailer's side door swung wide and the last two members of our nomad MC joined us. Our president, Dunk climbed in. Several slow steps behind him-with the stubbornness of a man half his age-came our driver, who was also my uncle, Mac.

“For fuck's sake.” Dunk growled, easily picking up the tension between me and Buck. He shoved us apart. “Stop acting like idiots. We got bigger problems than your pissin' match.”

Mac took his medical bag over to Yoga and started to get set up.

“Where we at?” Dreamer asked, assembling and holstering his pistol in the back of his pants.

“Fucked is where,” Buck muttered under his breath, but caught a glare from Dunk and sunk deeper into his bunk.

It was the first thing I agreed with him on all day.

“Did a walk around. The trailer's fine, but the truck...” Dunk began with a heavy sigh as he crossed his arms. He leaned against the solid oak table in the middle of the trailer. “Spotted a few bullet holes and it's leaking a good amount of fuel. Mac and I plugged it as best we could at the last truck stop, but something's going to need replacing.”

He didn't have to say what was on all our minds. That meant thousands more dollars that we didn't have.

“Truck's staying put til’ we get it fixed. Like it or not we're stuck here,” Dunk continued.

If the truck had too much battle damage it would draw the wrong kind of attention. With the feds sniffing around our latest business misadventure any kind of attention was the last thing we wanted.

But it was more than that too. We loved our decked out rig. Inside five bunks lined the back of the trailer. We had a wall mounted TV on one side and a long couch on the other. We didn't have traditional windows, but we did have skylight windows running all the way down the trailer's length and a rope lighting setup. There was a one-stall camping bathroom set up in a corner, and a kitchenette with a fridge, stove and a little counter space. Dead middle in the trailer was the wood table from our old club before we all turned nomad and the place was torn down. Finally at the front of the trailer where the big door opened was our bikes, tools, guns, and equipment. That semi was our home, our club, our bike garage, everything. We were a nomad MC in a