“After we’re done kicking their asses, maybe we can see if we can pick up some rodeo chicks. Do you know any?” Smokey asked.
Flux nodded. “A few.”
“We’re heading back to Pinewood Springs. We don’t need any fuckin’ trouble with the damn badges. You can fuck a club girl or a hangaround when you get back,” Hawk said as he glanced at his phone. “What time are these fuckers supposed to be here?”
“I left a note on one of their bikes telling them to meet us at ten. We got some time,” Flux said.
“What if they thought it was a joke?” Wheelie said.
“The grapevine says they didn’t. They’ve found out Flux is an Insurgents’ nomad,” Hawk answered.
“Too bad this shit didn’t go down in southern Colorado. We’d ride into Arizona and blow their fuckin’ clubhouse to hell and back. These assholes don’t know shit about respect.” Army kicked at the dirt on the ground. As a Night Rebel member, he and his fellow brothers had a special axe to grind with their rival.
A sudden silence fell over the group of outlaws as the familiar sound of motorcycles rumbled in the distance.
Animal threw the partially smoked joint to the ground and stubbed it out. “Looks like it’s time to rock and roll.”
“Everyone, take your positions,” Hawk said. Several of the bikers disappeared into the shadows and took cover behind the large evergreen trees.
That morning, Flux had noticed several more bikes in the rodeo parking lot so he’d figured the Pistons sent for reinforcements. If the assholes thought they outnumbered the Insurgents and Night Rebels, they’d have a false sense of confidence and that was when mistakes—usually deadly ones in the outlaw world—happened.
“Do what we got to do, you hear me? First sign of a weapon and there’s no holding back,” Hawk said.
The men grunted and checked the insides of their cuts, waistbands, and boots—all signs that they were ready to throw down hard. Flux rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and jumped up and down a few times to loosen his joints. It’d been quite a while since he’d been in a halfway decent fight.
The pussy dustups with Chet-the-asshole didn’t count for shit and didn’t even begin to compare with a brawl between outlaw clubs. Besides, the pretty-boy cowboy had a jacked-up swing and Flux had easily taken him down. It’d been fucking child’s play. As for a good old-fashioned fight, it must have been at least two years ago. Flux didn’t usually make it a habit to throw out a signal to the world that he was in town. Since going nomad, he’d learned that the best way to play it was under the radar.
Now, with his club behind him, Flux didn’t have to give a flying fuck. He could let shit get as crazy as he wanted to, which was a good deal given the fact that he had a ton of pent-up rage from the day before brewing in his guts. Flux spat on the ground and threw out a few practice punches.
The roar grew closer. Shit was about to go down in a big way—and Flux was more than ready for it. He knew there wouldn’t be many words involved, that was a given. The biker felt a large hand land on his shoulder and he looked back at Hubcap.
“We’re going before the word go.” Hubcap squeezed Flux’s shoulder laughing. “This is gonna be a fuckin’ blast, dude. I haven’t cracked some skulls in at least six months. I’m so fuckin’ ready.”
Hubcap threw his head back and let out a wolf howl, then a few of the other members echoed the noise as a hot line of excitement licked through Flux’s veins. Tell the fuckers what the problem was then attack—that’s how this was going down for damn sure.
A long line of motorcycles turned around the corner and Flux figured the Pistons were outnumbered by at least five men. Fuck, it feels damn good to be back in the saddle. The same hit of adrenaline that jolted through him during a bull fight rode him hard now.
By the time the assholes pulled into the dirt lot, grime spewing out everywhere, the tension and excitement were so damn thick that it’d take a shitload of hunting knives to cut through it. Demon dismounted and the other Pistons followed suit. They stood in a straight line, glowering at the Insurgents and Night Rebels.
“You’re dealing in Insurgents’ territory,” Hawk said in an even voice.
“We’re not doing shit.” Demon took a step forward.
“Didn’t figure you went in for rodeos.” Hawk took a step toward the Pistons’ president.
“We like the pretty bitches in cowboy boots,” Demon snarled and his club members snickered.
Steel stood next to Hawk. “We don’t give a shit what the fuck you do with the bulls or the wimpy ass bull fighters.”
“Steel. I shoulda figured you’d put your fuckin’ nose in this.” Demon raised his hand to his cut.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Steel gritted. “This can go down as a beatdown or blood bath—it’s your choice.”
Demon’s hand froze in mid-air.
“What we give a fuck about is the meth you’re dealing in our territory.” Hawk took another step forward. “Disrespect, shitting on our turf, and being so fuckin’ stupid adds up to you getting your asses kicked.” Hawk jerked his head back.
All of a sudden Goldie, Diablo, Rock, Hubcap, Jerry, Army, Throttle, Wheelie, Sangre, and Smokey bum rushed the assholes where they stood. The fight was on!
Flux took whoever was closest, which happened to be a tall balding asshole with a mustache out of some kind of fucked up ’70s porn. Maybe if he hit the jerk hard enough, he could knock him back to that decade. The Pistons’ patch said his name was Torro. I can’t get away from fuckin’ bulls. Flux chuckled just as Baldie shoved himself off the bike and let it fall on the dirt. His expression was half-menacing and half-surprised that shit had gone down so quickly. But thinking stupid shit and laughing about it was exactly how dudes ended up dead in these kinds of clashes. Flux clenched his hands and rushed toward the bull. The second he was in range, Flux hurtled a fist backward and pounded the asshole in the face, countering with another quick side blow that should have left little birdies flying around Torro’s head.
Instead, the bald asshole manned-the-fuck-up and rocked back on his heels, sneering and wiping the blood that was dripping down into the dirt from his nose. He took a series of good shots, but the fucker was clearly more resilient than Chet. Torro started laughing, a weird maniacal sound that burbled from the cuts in his mouth.
“You’re a piece of work, motherfucker.” Flux squared up again and waited for the jerk to take a cheap shot or two. He almost wanted to give the guy the chance to get in a few good ones, so Torro’s ego didn’t bruise when it was all over for him in the next two seconds.
The two bikers circled each other while the growls and noises of pain sounded out around Flux as his brothers kicked the Pistons’ sorry asses. From his peripheral, he saw that shit was going down hard all around him. There was a loud noise, like someone rammed someone else into a bike and everything toppled to the dirt. Loud grunts and a slew of insults filled the night air. Oh, yeah, Flux was back in the game, and it hadn’t changed at all. Unlike bullfighting, he didn’t have to mind his damn p’s and q’s here. All that mattered was he hit hard, fast, and didn’t wind up on the ground.
Flux stepped in to deliver another right hook, but Baldie went low instead of high and nailed him in the stomach with a blow that knocked the wind out of him. Letting out a quick, sharp gasp, Flux tried to recover before the fucker had any more badass intentions in his brain. Quick as hell, he self-corrected and grabbed his own fist that he had around Baldie, connecting it with his other one and bringing the weight of his body down onto the fucker’s back. Dude buckled like a seventh grader in his first fight as Flux brought his knee up into his stomach.
A hit for a hit was only fair, dammit.
The guy made a sharp grunt, his hands shooting out. Before Flux could track it, Torro whipped Flux’s legs out from under him with two sharp pulls of his hands. The air whizzed past his ears and he had half a second to compute that this was going to fucking hurt. Luckily, he wasn’t going down
alone. The other bastard had caught him enough by surprise that Flux hadn’t had time to loosen his hands around Torro’s neck, so when he took a dirt nap, so did the big sonofabitch.
They landed with a thud that jutted through Flux’s spine, afraid he wouldn’t be able to move right in the morning. But the second he got a small sip of air, Torro got his ass half off of Flux, bracing himself with one hand. Shit, time to motor. But there wasn’t time. The other man grabbed Flux’s undershirt and went for a beat down straight to his face.
“Ugh, fuckin’ asshole,” Flux grunted, blocking his face with his forearms and fists, catching an off punch with one hand. The asshole was tiring. Now, there was some good news.
Flux didn’t waste time. He angled his hip off the ground, rolling Torro to the right and throwing his leg over him until they were in the exact same position, only Flux had the upper hand this time. His face still smarted something awful, but at least he could see, Torro’s eye was starting to swell shut. A small laugh trickled out from behind Flux’s busted lip, and he could sense it swelling as he threw another rough punch toward the guy’s temple.
“You always talk during a brawl, asshole?”
“When it’s fuckin’ boring, yeah,” Flux taunted him.
Torro came at him again, and Flux stepped back. I’m ending this shit right now. He stiffened his hand and when the asshole came close, Flux chopped him on the side of the neck. Torro groaned and bowled over, and Flux swung around and clipped him with his left foot. That did the trick, and Torro face planted in the dirt.
Without wasting a beat, Flux spun around and took in the rest of the scene. Shit was getting spotty and everyone was giving out; random guys were grappling on the ground while two-on-ones were happening all over the place. Jerry was caught in a headlock with two bastards going at his head.
Yeah, that shit wasn’t going to fly.
As Flux rushed over to help Jerry out, he saw the blade of a knife gleaming in the moonlight. Demon whirled around.
“Hawk! Fucker’s got a knife!” Flux yelled.
Then all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Flux
Knives. Chains. Kill switches. The bar had been shoved up in a big way.
Blood splattered everywhere.
Cries. Groans. Curses.
The sound of bones splintering, air escaping from lungs, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Then a metallic scent filled Flux’s nostrils, and he knew the fist fight had turned into a carnage. The smell of blood was something Flux would never forget as long as he lived. Images of Alicia and Emily flashed through his mind as he warded off an attack by a Satan’s Piston who was built like a goddamn brick-house.
“Fuck!” Tank’s voice rose above the noise. The Insurgent had come out from behind the trees with the others to throw themselves into the fight.
Tank was on the ground and a burly motherfucker with a big ass knife in his hand straddled the Insurgent. Without thinking, Flux slipped his hand inside his cut and withdrew the hunting knife as he rushed over to help out Tank. Just as the asshole was ready to sink his blade into Tank’s gut, Flux plunged his into the asshole’s back. The guy cried out and it gave a split-second advantage to Tank who threw the Piston off him, and then began to kick the shit out of him.
Flux looked around at the carnage. A majority of his brothers were still standing, Diablo and Smokey half-dragged Rock to a safer spot from what looked like a gnarly jagged knife wound in the sergeant-at-arm’s calf. Fuck, that isn’t something he can just sleep off. Flux winced and surveyed the remaining bikers who were still duking it out something fierce.
Sirens in the distance sliced through the hatred. Sonofabitch, what fuckin’ narc called the badges? Flux glanced over at Hawk, who’d just clobbered a Piston on the back of the neck with a kill switch. Hawk let out two loud whistles that told the members to disengage from whatever they were doing and get the fuck out. The sirens drew nearer. They were running out of time, and none of them wanted to deal with the legal bullshit.
“Fuckin’ badges!” Flux yelled, in case some of his brothers hadn’t heard the whistles in the heat of the moment. With his own adrenaline pumping, there were times when he could’ve easily missed the signal because he was so intent on beating a dude’s face to a pulp.
He watched Steel and Goldie scramble toward one of the SUVs carrying Sangre in between them with both his arms on either shoulder as his legs dragged behind him. The rest of the members hustled to the SUVs, and Flux looked behind him and saw that more than a few Pistons weren’t moving from the dirt. The ones who were still standing rushed to drag their injured on the back of their motorcycles.
“Come on, dude!” Tank yelled as he held open the back door of one of the SUVs. Several of the others had already hit the road, their tail lights disappearing into the night.
“I’m good. Just get the fuck outta here!” Flux shouted back.
The flash of red and blue lights above the hill reflected in the haziness.
“Go!” Flux yelled.
The black vehicle took off before Tank closed the door. He lifted his chin at Flux then the door slammed and the car hit the road. The screech of tires behind Flux told him that the Pistons were hauling ass away from the lot. It was time for him to follow suit. Flux swallowed, cracked his neck, and booked it on foot to the rodeo arena. Still sore and aching in places that were going to hurt like a-bitch-and-a-half in the shower the following morning, he ran until his lungs ached. When he arrived at the fairgrounds, he got lost in the rodeo crowd then ducked into a bathroom to clean himself off. A quick rinse on his face and arms, and a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans from his locker behind the ring, and no one would be the wiser, aside from a few scrapes, cuts, and a slight swelling of his bottom lip.
The bruises that would crop up by the following day would be hidden under his clothes, only Maggie would know about them. Flux made a small noise in his throat, enjoying the imagery of his girl kissing every inch of him, trying to make the pain go away before she slipped his hard dick between her full lips. Fuck, that would put a nice cap on the end of his day. He made a mental note to text her a request before he went back to the motel.
“Where you been?” Jack asked as Flux came out of the bathroom, freshly cleaned and dressed, and glanced at the crumpled clothes Flux held in his hands.
“Around. I still feel like shit from yesterday. I think it’s food poisoning.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you eat?”
“Got some chili at the convenience store. Did they get someone to replace me out in the ring tonight?”
“Yeah. Chet’s in bad shape. Some fuckers ambushed him when he was in town. They beat him up pretty bad.”
“Too bad.” Flux opened his locker and took out a paper bag and shoved his clothes inside it.
“Yeah. He’ll be outta commission for the rest of the rodeo. Heard he’s gonna go back to Arkansas.” Jack shrugged. “No sense in stickin’ around if you can’t compete.”
“When’s he leaving?” Flux clenched his jaw.
“Probably soon. I don’t know for sure. Charlie’s talking to him now.”
“Keep me informed. I like to know whose ass I’m protecting in the ring.”
“Will do,” Jack said then ambled away.
Flux went to the stalls in search of Pete to ask him to give Flux a ride to the motel. He couldn’t wait to get back to Maggie and find out what Charlie’s response was to everything he and Maggie had uncovered with Chet taking shit and Eddie doping the bulls. Flux rubbed his forehead. It was enough to give him a nasty headache—everything was so damn screwed up.
But none of that changed the importance of Maggie’s competition the next night. Flux knew Maggie wouldn’t put herself on the sidelines when she had so much riding on her performance, and her sponsors would want her out in full force during the big night. A quick check of his phone confirmed there weren’t any missed messages from his woman. After the bullshit with Chet, and Flux having b
een out on club business, he hoped Maggie was resting instead of worrying about things. She needed to be back in form before riding Odysseus the following night.
The semi-rodeo finals competition was what Maggie had been training for her whole life, and Flux planned to take his woman out to celebrate her victory. If she won in barrel racing, she’d be heading to Las Vegas in December for the finals, and he’d be right by her side with the biggest grin on his face. In Las Vegas, the competition was for a giant cash prize and the prestige to take her pick of jobs from any rodeos in the country. The following night would determine if she’d compete in Vegas—the Super Bowl of rodeos, and Flux was damn honored to be in on the journey with her.
Flux took out his phone and shot a quick text her way wishing her luck in advance, sending his love, and slapping on a few sappy, stupid emojis. It wasn’t really his thing, but he knew she’d appreciate the sentiment. As a quick side note, he typed out a shortened version of the fantasy going down in his head and sent that too.
Within seconds, his phone beeped in response and a text fired back on the screen’s window.
Maggie: U got it, big guy. But if I’m 2 tired tonight, I’m making u do all the work. U’ll be riding me. Think u can tame me into submission?
Maggie included a fucking little “winky face” at the end. Flux snorted. Hot little vixen. He was thankful she was feeling more up to her regular self after what had happened with Chet. Despite all the teasing, that night Flux would be sure to take it as slow as Maggie needed in case it triggered something or if she had any reservations.
He frowned, his hand tightening on the phone. Another text sound beeped through and he checked his messages.
Maggie: I’m okay. Everything is okay.
How the hell did she know? Flux blinked and shoved a hand through his hair. Damn, everything about their relationship had felt right from the beginning, so he guessed it only made sense that they’d read each other like an open book. Fuck, he was starting to sound like those sappy, made-for-TV movies.
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