Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition Elizabeth Knox (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📖

bitch. Just like you. And you. Can. Go. Fuck yourself!” I force the words out of my body, sniffing back the tears as they climb into my ducts. I won’t cry in front of them, no matter how much pain I feel.

“No. You can go fuck yourself, bitch!” The woman repeats my words in a snarky tone, and her grip tightens around the neck of the bat.

Instinctively my hands go up in defense, but it’s no use. Sickening pains shoot through my stomach, and warm liquid travels down my forehead. My entire body fills with heat, and I can’t keep my eyes open no matter how many times I tell myself to do so. My head is killing me, and all I need to do is sleep. Finally, despite me fighting my instincts, my eyes close, and everything is black.

9

Cobra

Flint stops me as soon as my boots cross the cement threshold of the shop. “Free day.”

“Really?” My eyebrow arches and I rub my hands together.

“Greg took off right before you got here, mumbled something about going to the doctor.”

“Fuck yeah!” It’s a rare occurrence that he misses work, probably because when he does, he comes back to dicks welded to his door or something of equal hazing.

“I’m thinking he needs a set of custom balls on his door today.” Flint laughs to himself, scratching the back of his head after lifting his ball cap.

“You do that.” I nod toward my corner of the shop. “I’m going to do my shit, and then I’ll check out your handiwork.” I’m in such a good mood after the night with Mouse that I don’t even need to fuck with Greg today, which says a lot. Not being the type of person to skip or sing, I whistle a small tune and get right to work. The faster I get everything done, the sooner I can get back to Mouse.

Something is off. My door is open, and as anal-retentive as Mouse is about locking doors, I know this isn’t her doing. Unless she’s deep cleaning my house. I tell myself to tone it back and quit being anxious. That’s exactly what she’s doing, I’m sure of it. There’s no other logical explanation for it.

A wide grin pulls at my lips as I kick my stand under my bike, removing my helmet and hanging it on the handlebar of my motorcycle. She couldn’t stand it. She’s not even been here twenty-four hours, and in usual Mouse fashion, is already scrubbing my house spotless.

“Where the hell are you, Mouse?” I call when she’s nowhere in sight. “Quinn? C’mon. Quit fucking around.” The words pass my lip, and then something on the floor catches my attention. Fear floods my body as it shudders. What the hell happened? It’s blood spatter. I’ve seen and caused enough of it to recognize even the tiniest of spots. The amount increases the closer I step toward the back door and stops in a puddle.

Instantly rage sinks its claws into my body, and I grind my teeth. In the middle of the blood is a pattern. No. Not a pattern. A message in the form of a fingerpainted picture. It’s the MC’s logo from the party Mouse and I attended. “Those fuckers are dead. They’re fucking dead!”

There are four things I care about in this world. My club, brothers, ride, and Mouse. They just fucked with all of them.

I dial Bad’s number, filling him in as I fill a duffel bag with weapons. I should have killed a couple of them the other night out of sheer principle. My gut told me not to trust the president, and even if he has nothing to do with this, he’s guilty by association in my eyes.

10

Cobra

King, our chapter’s vice-president, cracks open his beer and tips the brown bottle toward the rest of us brothers in attendance. “We all know who’s going to handle the spineless pussies who have Mouse.” He nods his head in my direction, and my eyebrows raise in silent agreement before putting the shot to my lips and flipping the liquor into my mouth.

A devious smile spreads across my lips, but I don’t say anything yet. I want to listen to my brothers’ ideas and see if anyone has a better plan than I can come up with.

“Give me a cigarette,” Hatter says in his raspy voice, looking to King. The old fucker could carry his own but never does because his lungs are shit. He needs to smoke to think, according to him. “I say we give the little pussies a taste of their own medicine. They came into our town when no damn body asked them to and thought they were just going to get away with it. Now they have our girl. I say we kill the lot of them.” He puffs a couple of times on the end of the cigarette and blows out smoke before continuing, “Bet they have some of our ass up there, too.” His eyes squint, and he nods, reassuring himself.

“Nobody cares about clubwhores, ‘Cept you,” Skillet speaks in a nonchalant manner, trying to keep from losing his shit and laughing directly at him. Skillet and Hatter are two of the oldest members in our chapter, and dammit, it shows that the two of them have ridden together for that many years.

“Eh. Just because you can’t get your shriveled up little turtle head to work anymore doesn’t mean you can speak for the rest of us Rebels.” Hatter laughs, picking up his customary bottle and taking a pull from it.

“Works fine. Just doesn’t want to come out and get a dick cold,” Skillet retorts, and then we all look at Panhead.

“Y’all fuckers are never going to let me live that down, are you?” Panhead’s head shakes, and his tongue swipes over his mouth.

A unanimous “No” or a form of it comes from most of us.

“So, is it going to be just Glas and me on this one