Page 3 of Coveted By Cupid

No hate against women. They’re positively lovely most of the time. I’m just not one to be tied down.

Oaks—our MC’s Vice President—says it’s because I haven’t found the right partner yet.

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe it’s because I’m too damn busy setting roots for our new chapter here in Loveland to give time to a willing woman of my choosing.

Jameson—our MC’s National President—needed a man he could trust implicitly to establish the Loveland chapter, someone he knew who could get the job done while assisting with the transportation of guns created by our National Chapter in New Orleans.

“What better bastard to run Loveland than Cupid himself?” Jameson stated, chuckling at his own pun and knowing full well I would never refuse him.

At first, Loveland took some adjusting getting use to. The elevation is a big modification on the body, moving from below sea level in New Orleans to living at the gateway to the Rockies. The air is thinner here, yet fresh, unlike the thick and sharp tang of the Big Easy. Not to mention the music scene being vastly different. Acoustic guitars and banjo folk rock replaced brassy jazz and electric blues. Bison steaks and Palisade peach pies traded places with Creole gumbo and beignets. And the gritty, mysterious characters that give New Orleans its infamous paranormal vibes were swapped with western artists and hiking hipsters.

In the two years my crew has been in Colorado, we’ve handled all the changes well aside from the snow. The fluffy white crap is no joke, and there’s enough of it when you live near the mountains. Not only is it fucking cold, it’s a slippery hazard to ride on. Nearly took me and my hog out early this spring when I got too cocky with the throttle on a slush-filled road, unaware ice was still stuck to the pavement. Never again will I assume the roads are fine when snow is present. It was a hard lesson learned.

And that’s the reason I’m here with Oaks and Crypt—our enforcer—inside Buck’s Garage in downtown Loveland. The warm days are approaching and I need my hog in tiptop shape for the long runs this summer. The tune-up was necessary. Although I had my bike repaired after my wipeout, the handlebars looked crooked when my front wheel was straight. It wasn’t acceptable, and it needed to be repaired—stat.

A week without my motorcycle has made me one grumpy bastard. Presentation is half the battle when establishing turf. Driving around in my pickup truck doing club business is not ideal when I’m a Royal Bastard President trying to establish dominance in this city.

We’re not the only motorcycle club in these parts. Hell, the Mercy Ravens MC is thirty minutes up the road in Fort Collins. They may not be one-percent like us, but they’re a group of former Navy SEALs turned mercenaries. The MC has a reputation in these parts for walking the line for the greater good, and they’ll ignore that line for enforcing peace. They’ve locked down their territory like a military base, running their club like they’re still active duty, and they sure as hell ride hogs when they can.

It wouldn’t look good to other MCs if they don’t see me riding with my crew.

I need my motorcycle—now.

What was supposed to be a quick pay and pickup has turned into an hour’s wait as Buck wraps up business with another client on the far end of the garage, out of my eyesight. Every now and again, I hear Buck’s boisterous laughter and what sounds like the faint sound of a woman talking.

My molars grind together. Motherfucker better not be wasting my time—club time—flirting with some chick.

While Buck is across the garage shooting his shot, I’m wearing a damn trench into the oil-stained concrete pacing in my biker boots.

“The fuck is taking so long?” My nostrils flare as I come to stand in front of my brothers. “We need our own mechanic.”

“Or—just hear me out before biting my head off—maybe you can get another bike,” Oaks suggests, his tone extra soothing to calm me down.

I roll my eyes. “Not this again. I’m not replacing my motorcycle.”

“It wouldn’t be a replacement,” Oaks clarifies, throwing his hands in the air. He’s equally annoyed waiting while dealing with my ornery ass. “More like a backup for when shit like this happens. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“I don’t want another bike,” I huff. “I like my bike.”

“And I like it when I don’t need to listen to you piss-whine about not having two wheels,” Oaks shoots back.

“I’ve got a solution,” an eerie, low voice says right behind me, making me jump in my biker boots.

“Dammit, Crypt! How many times do I need to tell you to stop creeping up on me like that?”

“Sorry, Prez,” he says, taking a big step back to give me space. He leans against the wall, pulling out his knife from his pocket to fiddle with—his fidget of choice. Crypt often stims when he needs to self-soothe, and my startled reaction triggered it.

Feeling like an asshole, I try to do damage control. “What’s your suggestion?”

“You could just not ride your bike in the snow,” Crypt offers, not bothering to look at us as he uses his switchblade to pick at the dirt underneath his nails.

“Not an option, buddy,” I say, hoping he drops the subject now. I’m too cranky to tolerate much today.

Crypt’s brows pull together, his dangerous manicure forgotten. “What’s wrong with driving a truck when the weather is shit?”

Oaks motions with his hands for Crypt to shut up, slicing the air quickly at his neck.

Too late. The cork popped.