Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett Page 0,84
mean any that Peg would call plastic-built crap are heavily discouraged. I, myself, had fallen foul of that when I’d had to pick up a cheap Harley to gain entry into the Tucson club. Here, in Utah, while the majority of men are faithful to Indians or Harleys, the speed and handling of Japanese or European bikes were discussed, not dismissively, but with admiration. I found it a refreshing change.
The Kawasaki model Grinch had spoken about is one of the fastest street legal bikes, and to be honest, I couldn’t wait to put it through its paces. I started riding trials bikes, then progressed to off-road Enduro. Trials require the skills of controlling the bike when you’re going slowly, a question of throttle and clutch control and maintaining your balance. Enduro is that, but with the additional requirement of high speed and the ability to cover long distances. A bike such as the Kawasaki ZX14R has the ability for fast cornering as well as high miles per hour on the straights. I couldn’t wait to try it out, having never ridden such a fast bike on the road. The main thing to take into account is unlike most fast bikes where my leg would need to be bent up around my ears—something difficult after my injury—this bike doesn’t require the riding position where I’d be hunched over, but still provides enough speed and manoeuvring to satisfy me.
Whether it’s because I’m a new face and everyone seems to want to find out more about me, or put some story to the facts that Swift had managed to dig up, one by one all the brothers come to speak to me, and each one brings me a beer or a shot. I don’t want to appear rude, so I drink them. I know I pass my limit early, but my guard is down. I don’t get the impression anyone wants to hurt me. But after numerous beers and chasers I start to think, even if they did, I’m so drunk, I wouldn’t care.
The girls here, well, they’re eyeing me like a prize to be won, but none get my head turned their way. There’s only one woman I want, and she’s the one who won’t give me the time of day. Or, at least, not in the way I want her to. Even when I’ve been deep in conversation, my eyes have been following her. I watched her ass flex as she played that games machine, and darn near got a chubby when she bent over the pool table. I’d quickly looked away before my mind could conjure too much up, like ideas of ramming my cock deep inside her.
The girls who’ve come to the party are pretty enough, but Swift has them beat in every department.
I know how to party, and can normally control myself better, but after the number of drinks that I have had, even I know I’m drunk off my ass. When I see her at the bar, I stumble my way across the room, my inebriated self having decided it’s a great idea and the perfect time to approach her.
I don’t remember much more. But I don’t recall getting a knee to my junk for which I’m grateful. I struggle for consciousness, not sure where I am or how I got here. There’s an external sound competing loudly with the heavy thumping of my head. It takes me a moment to place it. When I do, it’s the sound of a fucking fire alarm ringing loudly.
Shit. This place is on fire. I’ve got to get out of here.
Rolling out of yet another unfamiliar bed—clean sheets but the room is shabby as hell—I switch on the light, blinking in the sudden brightness, then pull on my t-shirt and cut which seem to be the only items of clothing I removed last night. Sliding my feet into my boots, I put my hand to my head.
Fucking shut up with that screeching sound. It’s not a constant ringing, just a few short blasts, and then it repeats.
Opening my door, I sniff, but can smell no smoke. I do hear loud voices and follow the direction they’re coming from.
“What do we know?” Pip snaps as I enter the clubroom.
“Not a lot. After the power was cut, not one damn camera was working.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about, and why we are all hanging around if there’s a fire? Just as I’m thinking that, the alarm thankfully shuts off.