Page 124 of Ridin’ Dirty

Joker bellied up to the bar and called out, “Get me a beer, would you?”

Carmine stopped what he was doing to scowl at the man from over his shoulder. “Not a probie. Get it yourself.”

“Walks like a duck, talks like a fuckin’ duck—you look like the help to me.”

“Fuck off,” Carmine grumbled, turning back to his task.

He was starting to despise Joker. He’d only been a Copper King for nine months longer than Carmine; but since Fang went missing, it was obvious Joker was buckin’ to fill the vacancy he left behind.

What a fuckin’ joke.

The man was halfway to the beer fridge when they both heard it and froze.

There was an incoming.

And it didn’t sound small.

The King closest to the clubhouse entrance jumped to his feet and ran for the door. He barely had to peek his head out before he was hollering over his shoulder, “It’s the fuckin’ Stallions. Someone get Prez.”

“Not fuckin’ deaf,” muttered Duke as he started to descend the stairs from the loft. He was in the process of zipping his pants, but he was smart enough to do it in a hurry. As he made his way to the door, everyone in earshot followed.

Even though Carmine knew the noise of what a brood of bikers sounded like, he was still surprised by what he saw when he stepped outside. The Wild Stallions had the Copper Kings outnumbered on a good day—but this was something else.

His message to Lyla was received.

His eyes roamed over the men, some of whom were still rolling in, none of whom had dismounted. When his gaze landed on Pistol, his heart hardened.

Three years ago, the man did Carmine a favor. He didn’t know it, but he single handedly fucked up an entire operation that took months to rebuild—the police crawling all over their asses until the case was closed and Pistol behind bars. Everyone knew he was the reason Fang was gone, and Carmine wasn’t too beat up about that either.

The night he took to Pistol like he was a punching bag wasn’t about him. He was an excuse to let out a little aggression. Seeing his sister on her birthday did him in. He liked her haircut. It suited her. In his opinion, a little too well. It pissed him off knowing she upped her chances to have men drooling over her—many of them Stallions, given her place of employment.

Then he found out she married that sonofabitch.

It was the last thing he wanted.

He hated his world, and he wanted her far from it.

The fact that Pistol locked her in meant he pushed her away all for nothing.

He’d lost.

Again.

But he was done with that shit.

It’s why he told Lyla about Max.

Movement near the middle of the pack caught Carmine’s attention, and he watched as two and then five men killed the engines of their hogs and began to dismount. A couple of them he recognized—Pistol and Nighthawk. The others were new players; though, by the look of it, certainly not new to the life.

The five Stallions maneuvered their way through their pack, walking to take their places in front of the congregation of Kings gathered outside. Duke, Grizz, and Razor—the Kings’ president, enforcer, and sergeant at arms—moved to the front of their crew, showing not an ounce of intimidation.

“There a rally I don’t know about? Cause I don’t see any other reason why y’all are rollin’ up here like you were invited,” greeted Duke.

“Would say ignorance doesn’t suit you, but I’d be lyin’,” spat Nighthawk. “You know good and damn well why we’re here.”

“I don’t,” Grizz said, folding his arms across his chest, smiling like an idiot. “You keep insistin’ Fang’s disappearance is on us, not you. This some sort of huntin’ party? You gonna help us find our man?”

Nighthawk took a step forward, but the older man to his left spoke before he could.