“See you in an hour. I want to know what you can do with that piece of shit laptop and a network connection.”
“Uh… sure,” I lie. I don’t plan to be here when he gets back. “I’ll get right on that for you.”
“I hope you do.” As I turn to leave, he says, “Just remember. I’m head of the snake. I’ve got the power to change your life.”
“I’ve heard that shit before.”
“Not from me.”
“Yeah? Tell me how you’d change my life.”
“Be here when I get back. You’ll find out.”
I don’t wait for them to leave. I’m halfway down the block before he and his men cross the street. But his message plays on repeat in my head. That piercing stare kept assessing me, appraising me, searching me long after he left. And when I find his name in the DMV database I hacked in the library, something compels me to take notice.
Less than an hour later, I’m standing beside the row of Harleys and Choppers and custom bikes, squinting to block out the bright reflection of the sun on all that chrome, waiting for the man who’ll change everything.
Chapter 2
Tate
Present day
“Unsuspecting Los Diablos motherfuckers.”
I grind out a wicked laugh and throw my turn signal on. Jerking my bike to the left, I temporarily delay my arrival at Littlefield, Arizona, also known as Biker Canyon by those who understand this is motorcycle club territory. I’m supposed to be rushing to make it to my clubhouse, the Satan’s Saints MC headquarters, but this detour is more than worthwhile.
The sun beats down on all that chrome up ahead, glinting and glittering, catching my eye as though summoning me, tempting me to follow my repeatedly proven poor judgment and get up to no good as usual.
I eye the line of motorcycles outside the seedy bar. They all belong to Los Diablos MC members, my club’s most recent rivals. We’ve always had history, but after everything went down with the Padrino and our new common enemy, Lorenzo Giovanni, these Los Diablos pricks have a new spot reserved on my shit list. Using the motivation from my umpteenth energy drink of the day, I set my sights on playing a little mischief where it’s warranted.
“Yes,” I mutter to myself. “We got business.”
I pull off the deserted highway into the rich red desert dust. The Arizona sun beats down on my bike, hot and intense like a belt hitting my back the way I like it. That wicked heat leaves trails of sweat trickling down my spine. Licking my chapped lips, I run a hand over the top of my bright blue spiked mohawk haircut and pull my sunglasses hallway down my nose. There’s no mistaking what I’m seeing. Yes, it’s time to have some good old-fashioned fun.
Using the toe of my boot as I’ve done countless times before, I lower my kickstand but keep the motor running as I step off my bike. I crack my knuckles. A fast, clean getaway is on the agenda. Los Diablos insignia and emblems are all over the fuckers’ bikes, anything from custom rims, seat cushions, and flags trailing off the back. It’s a parade of Los Diablos pride begging for a beatdown, considering they’re this damn close to Satan’s Saints territory.
I’m not here to let these slackers get to me, though. They sure as hell won’t have the chance to ruin my day. Fuck no. This is the one bright spot in a week filled with a whole lot of suck—and not the kind where I can get off, either.
As the thought crosses my mind, I make a mental note to set up a session with my latest plaything.
Molly.
Her name makes her sound so innocent, but she’s far from it. Molly’s a naughty sex kitten inside a good girl. A nursing student with kinky tastes that almost match mine. I make up my mind to go check her out after I report back to the MC at the end of this Los Diablos diversion. The adrenaline rush of raising hell combined with the thought of hooking up with Molly later makes me horny as hell.
I hop off the bike. Time to remind them that payback’s a bitch and all’s fair in war. I stroll over to the rival bikes as if nothing is out of place about me being here, and then I whip out a switchblade. Within less than a minute I puncture every single bike’s rear tire before shoving the closed blade in the back pocket of my jeans.