Crash by Jeanne St. James

Chapter Two

Crash’s gazefollowed the hot as fuck blonde as she carried the beer back to him, a smile still on her face. He wondered if she was just the type of person who was in a good mood most of the time. Or if it was an act, since her MC had visitors and they had been told to be accommodating to their guests.

Either way, the smile gave her face a glow and her eyes a sparkle that were hard to ignore.

Her long, blonde hair was on the darker side with lighter blonde streaks running through it. Her skin looked smooth to the touch and was golden brown, like she spent a lot of time out in the sun. Her eyes were almost the same color, a light brown with some gold and maybe some flecks of green in them.

Large and observant.

She was slender but with curves in all the right places. Her hips, her ass and her tits. No doubt she worked hard at her figure. Her hard work paid off.

“Sorry, I’m not a bartender. I just play one on TV,” she joked as she placed the red Solo cup filled to the very rim in front of him.

A few gold rings encircled her slender fingers, nothing bulky or gaudy but simple. Her long fingernails were painted a color that matched the color of her lips, he was sure the red color had some sort of fancy name that he couldn’t give a shit about. To him it was simply red.

“Horrible with head.”

Crash lifted his gaze from her hand holding his cup to her. “What?”

Her ears had multiple piercings but they were all small gold hoops that lined the delicate outer shells and the lobes he wanted to suck from what he could see under her hair. All of her jewelry, even the simple black cord that hung around her neck with a pendant hanging from it, were nothing outrageously expensive or blinding like a huge diamond.

She could dress simple and still look like a million bucks.

She didn’t appear to be high maintenance but she also looked like she could easily slip into that role if she chose to. She could stand next to her ol’ man and fit in, wearing exactly what she was wearing now. Just like she could wear a fancy dress and be on the arm of some guy in a tux with a champagne flute in her hand.

She could get her hands dirty or keep her nails clean and look natural either way.

He liked that.

He liked women who left you guessing how dirty they got behind closed doors.

“I said I’m not good at pouring a draft. The head ends up being too high or thick or whatever it’s called. There are people around here that can serve a draft beer better than I can.”

He lifted the cup and swallowed some of the foam until he got to the beer beneath it. “Don’t matter. It’s free, it’s cold and it’s bein’ served up by the likes of you.” He winked at her and hoped to fuck it didn’t look as awkward as the girl who winked at him earlier.

She grinned, planted both palms on the bar and leaned forward. He tried not to eye up her tits like the other guy had down at the other end. Though, he might have peeked. For more than a second. Or two.

“You’re sweet. Your patches say Shadow Valley and Crash. I’m assuming you’re an Angel, then?”

He was hardly a fucking angel and he would love the chance to show her that. But he had to figure out what the fuck her cut meant first.

He nodded as he took a long pull of the beer. He went to wipe the foam off his top lip but remembered his facial hair no longer existed for it to get caught up in.

Again, that was going to change starting this weekend. He didn’t pack a razor on purpose.

“I’m also going to assume that Crash is your road name and your momma didn’t name you that at birth. I’m sure there’s an interesting story behind it.”

“Not really.”

“So, you never crashed anything?”

“Oh, I fuckin’ crashed shit. Plenty of shit—”

She grabbed his hand and lifted it, inspecting his calloused fingers and permanently black-edged fingernails. No matter how many times he scrubbed his hands with pumice soap, they never got clean enough. He finally gave up trying.

“Real working man, huh?” Her warm fingers lightly traced the back of his. Then she flipped his hand over and drew a fingertip along his lifeline.

“Not just a pretty face,” he murmured, following her finger’s path and liking her soft touch.

“What do you do?”

Would like to do you.“Turn a wrench.”

She released his hand and snagged a deviled egg from his plate. “A mechanic? We have a few of those around here.” She popped the half an egg into her mouth.

Her eyes closed briefly as she chewed and released a little moan. “Mmm. That’s good.”

He watched her throat roll as she swallowed.

Fuck.

He reached down and adjusted his dick since he now had a semi and it was caught in a spot where it shouldn’t be. “Not just a mechanic, I run a garage.”

Her eyes opened. “We have one of those around here, too. Do you own it?”

“Club does. It’s actually a body shop where we do some general repairs but mostly customize bikes. That’s where most of our scratch comes from. Been workin’ there since I turned eighteen and became a prospect.”

“Been an Angel for your whole adult life.”

“Will be one ’til the grave.”

“Dedication.”

He tipped his head. “Loyalty’s a big thing in our club.”

“Here, too.”

“Good to hear it.” He popped a pretzel into his mouth, then washed it down with another long pull of beer. “They call you Lizzy. That your real name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“You prefer Lizzy?”

“No, but it stuck.” She hesitated. “I don’t hate it.”

“What do you prefer?”

“Before…” She paused. “Before…” She waved her hand around, indicating The Barn. “The people in my life called me Liz.”

He studied her. “They still call you that?”

Her bright smile extinguished. “There’s nobody left to call me that. At least not anyone close.”

“Sure there is. This whole farm’s full of people.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Know what you meant. Demand they call you what you prefer.”

She tilted her head and stared at him. “I’m not in a position to make demands.”

Any ol’ lady in the DAMC who made demands had those demands met. Maybe the ol’ ladies in this club had zero power, which was typical in most MCs. The Angels were a bit different since they liked to keep their women happy.

Happy wife, happy lifewas the saying. That boiled down to keep your woman happy and, in turn, she’d keep her man happy in a variety of ways.

“Tell me, Liz. Why you wearin’ a ‘property of’ cut without a name on it?”

She drew a finger across her name patch. “It has my name on it.”

“The name you don’t prefer. But you know what I mean.”

She gave him a half-smile. “I know what you mean.”

“So, explain it.” He was already getting a clue. And if he was right, she wasn’t off limits, but he wanted to make sure first. He didn’t need to step on anyone’s toes and cause issues between the clubs.

Before she could, a man wearing a cut came up behind her. Not just behind her but he grabbed her hips with both hands and pressed his crotch into her ass.

An obvious move to claim what was his.

Crash read his patches. Ozzy. Secretary. Manning Grove. Original.

He belonged to the Fury. Just like Liz.

Maybe he was her ol’ man because he couldn’t imagine doing what this Ozzy just did to one of the ol’ ladies of the DAMC, not unless he wanted his nuts shot into orbit with a well-placed knee. And after that, he wouldn’t be worried about finding his nuts since he’d be dealing with one of his fellow brothers. And not a happy one.

“Oz, this is Crash. One of the visiting Angels,” she said carefully as if the Fury member needed a reminder.

“Yeah, I know. Why I came over here,” he said to her, pushing her hair off her neck and planting his lips on her skin. As he did so, his eyes made contact with Crash’s and held. When he was done pissing on his territory, the man about Crash’s age straightened and said, “She’s BFMC property. Maybe you can’t fuckin’ read.”

BFMC property. Crash found that claim telling and he was starting to believe his guess about the woman standing between them might be correct.

“You claim her?”

His hesitation also told Crash a lot. Ozzy still had a tight grip on her hips and kept her pulled against him, keeping her back pinned to his chest.

“Is she yours or is she all of yours? Because that patch on her cut indicates to me that she belongs to all of you. That bottom rocker don’t have your name on it. That to me also indicates she ain’t yours. Maybe she’s Fury property but she ain’t property of Ozzy.” He leaned over the bar, reached past Liz and poked Ozzy right in his own name patch.

Ozzy released Liz’s hips, stepped up to the bar and nudged her out of the way. Now only the bar separated Crash and the other man. It wouldn’t take much to have nothing between them. Only two steps to the left, since Crash was sitting on a stool at the end.

He waited to see if Ozzy took those two steps. He didn’t. Most likely because he was trying to claim property that didn’t exclusively belong to him.

Finally Ozzy growled, “She belongs to the club.”

“But not you.” He glanced at Liz. “He claim you?”

Her gaze sliced back and forth from Ozzy to Crash while she gnawed on her bottom lip. Her sunshine attitude was long gone and storm clouds had moved in.

He was kind of annoyed that his interest had caused it but he wanted to make a few things clear before he backed down. If he backed down. He hadn’t decided yet.

He took another swig of his beer and slowly placed it back on the bar. Then he looked Ozzy directly into his gray eyes and said, “Basically what you’re sayin’ is she’s good enough to be on her back as a regular in your bed, but not good enough to wear your name on her back.”

“Puttin’ words in my fuckin’ mouth.”

“Just tryin’ to understand your thinkin’. Why you’re bein’ possessive of someone who ain’t yours.”

“She’s ours.”

“You keep usin’ ours.” He glanced at Liz, whose eyes now held a bit of worry. She also had a tight grip on Ozzy’s arm. Probably a silent reminder, again, that Crash was a guest and the two men shouldn’t get into any kind of brawl. Especially only a couple of hours into a long weekend of getting drunk and rowdy. They all expected some minor scuffles but not when everyone was still sober. “He the only one whose bed you land in?”

She shot a quick glance at Ozzy but faced Crash when she answered, “No.”

Crash nodded. He had guessed right on what the bottom rocker on her cut meant. He’d never seen one like that before on a sweet butt. Especially since most sweet butts didn’t stick around for any length of time. Mostly because they thought being a sweet butt was a guarantee to make them an ol’ lady. That rarely happened, so after a while they got tired of being passed around and would move on.

But maybe they did things a little differently around here. Even so… “Didn’t know sweet butts were off limits this weekend unless it was their choice. As agreed, we brought ours, Knights brought theirs. You guys seem to be the only ones holdin’ out on sharin’.”

“Nobody’s holdin’ out on shit. Plenty of sweet butts available between the three clubs.”

“Maybe so, but you had to make your way over here to make it known that Liz here belongs to your club. Takin’ that to mean you don’t wanna share her. That right?”

Ozzy raised his bearded chin that held a bunch more grays than Crash’s did when he had it grown out. “That’s right.”

The man seriously wanted to rip out Crash’s throat right now. Crash could see it and he was ready for Ozzy to lunge across the bar at him at any fucking second. The motherfucker didn’t want to claim the woman before him but also didn’t want her going anywhere else.

He held her in limbo, which was bullshit.

“Is it your choice to be off-limits? Or his?” He hated to put Liz on the spot like that, but fuck if he wasn’t pissed right now. When he didn’t get an answer from her, he said to Ozzy, “Sounds a bit fuckin’ selfish to me. But then, if she was mine, I’d be fuckin’ selfish, too.” He hopped off the stool and said, “Catch you later, Liz.”

He ignored the other man and took his still-full plate and what remained of his beer and headed back outside. He needed to remove himself from any temptation to knock Ozzy the fuck out and then take his “woman” from him.

Would serve the motherfucker right if he did.

But he shouldn’t, so he didn’t. Instead, he’d go find someone else. Though, whoever it was wouldn’t be the blonde woman standing behind that bar.

And that fucking sucked ass.

* * *

Rig’s rollbackat home was a hell of a lot nicer than Trip’s, even though Crash was sure it did the job. The flatbed tow truck with Buck You Recovery hand-painted on the doors wouldn’t be used for hauling any vehicles this weekend, but instead, it had been parked in between the courtyard and the field of tents.

Nash’s band had set up their equipment on the back of it and would be playing tonight and Sunday night, too. Tomorrow, Nash would be taking the night off so he could party after the wedding since the BFMC had hired another band to come in and play.

Crash only hoped that other band was half as good as Dirty Deeds, who would have a recording deal right now if it wasn’t for Nash not wanting to be gone from Shadow Valley and his man, Cross, for any length of time.

Nash had chosen the pig over fame and boatloads of scratch. The band still did decent since they were in high demand at smaller venues along the east coast and some of the states to the west and south of Pennsylvania. Cross, when he could, also joined Nash on tour.

That would probably soon stop and Cross would end up staying home while Nash traveled once the adoption was finalized on an older set of twins, a brother and sister, who had been in the foster system for way too long and couldn’t be separated.

A huge bonfire, made up of scrap wood and pallets, roared to the right of the tow truck. The glow from the flames cast light and shadows onto the crowd in front of the rollback as people danced, smoked and drank themselves into oblivion.

Most of the morals and clothes that remained would soon disappear. Along with couples, even threesomes, ready to get down and dirty for real.

Fifty-five gallon drums dotted the large courtyard, all lit and also casting light on faces and bodies as they passed. While The Barn had outdoor spotlights to light up the area, they’d all been shut off once the band started playing and the children were shuttled off to wherever they were taken.

In passing, he’d heard they were having a movie night with snacks and a sleepover somewhere far from where the “adult activity” was taking place. The DAMC kids certainly weren’t sheltered and had seen plenty of “adult activity” before. Everyone made sure not to make a big deal out of nakedness, or even sex, since most of the parents wanted their kids not to be self-conscious of their own bodies.

He’d met plenty of women with hang-ups and he hoped all of his “nieces” grew up accepting themselves as they were. Even as young as all the girls were—Violet being the oldest girl at thirteen—they were more than confident already and actually a bit stubborn. But that, of course, ran in the blood.

Crash sat on top of a picnic table under the pavilion with his boots planted on the bench as he listened to Dirty Deeds play their last set. He wasn’t sure when things would wind down but the way they looked right now, it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

To him it looked like a “Parents Gone Wild” reality flick.

Crash snorted, lifted the joint and took a long drag before flicking off the ash. Rig joined him with the same girl who had served Crash his food and offered herself up as a meal at the same time.

Christ.Apparently, Rig didn’t give a fuck how old she was. And Crash guessed the girl didn’t care how old Crash’s business partner was, either.

Both of them already looked trashed.

“How you gettin’ back to the motel?” Crash asked him, already knowing what the answer would be.

“We’re takin’ my sled.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” Rig squeezed his arm tighter around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her against him. “Yeah,” he repeated, then frowned. “Me an’… an’…”

Crash snorted again and took another hit off the joint. When the answer still didn’t come, he lifted his eyebrows.

The girl laughed and whacked Rig on the arm. “Callie.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Rig told her. “Your name’s Callie.”

“Oh brother,” Crash groaned. “She said she got a tent out there somewhere. Maybe you oughta stay in that tonight.”

“Too old to be sleepin’ on the ground.”

“We’re not going to be sleeping!” Callie exclaimed with a drunken laugh and another whack on Rig’s arm.

“Too old to be doin’ babies,” Crash reminded Rig.

“I’m twenty-one!” Callie yelled and pouted.

“More power to ya, brother,” Crash said, shooting his brother a look.

“Willin’ to share,” Rig offered, totally not picking up what Crash was putting down. He held his hand out and Crash passed the joint to him.

“I’m not,” Crash answered. “You have at it.”

Rig inhaled deeply, held it and then blew the smoke out in a thick stream. “How ‘bout you?”

“Still lookin’,” Crash answered.

“Wait too long and you’re gonna miss out.”

He already missed out. Who he wanted came with a forty-something pain in the ass attached to her.

Crash lifted his beer bottle, realized it was empty and put it back down on the table.

Rig automatically said, “Go get us a beer…”

“Callie,” she supplied for him.

“Yeah, that. Go get us a beer.”

“How ‘bout you don’t, Callie, and go show Rig your tent and your tits, instead. He’d like that more than another beer.”

Callie broke free of Rig’s hold and then ripped her shirt straight up, covering her head but uncovering her young, perky tits.

“Meant in your tent while you’re ridin’ his dick,” Crash said dryly but also slightly amused.

She pulled her shirt back down and laughed. “Oh.”

Crash shook his head and muttered, “Ah, Christ. Better you than me, brother.”

Rig chuckled and hooked an arm around Callie’s neck. “Yeah, some bush sounds better than beer right now.”

“I don’t have a bush. You want to see?” she asked.

“Yeah, baby, wanna see it when it’s on my face.” Rig turned the girl and said, “Later, brother. Don’t wait up.” He laughed.

“Don’t plan on it,” Crash muttered as he watched the two of them wander through the dark to the field behind the band.

With that problem taken care of, he realized he now had two more that needed solved.

He needed to find someone to fill his empty bed back at the motel that he shouldn’t waste, especially if Rig ended up staying all night in Callie’s tent.

He also needed to find himself another beer.

Not necessarily in that order.