Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC) by MariaLisa deMora Page A

consciously straightened his shoulders, standing taller,
determined to pull every inch he owned into play. “If there’s a
need, I’m all over it.”
    “No shit, Sherlock? Jesus . You want
my gratitude for givin’ me that? Fuck me . Hurley, there’s a
need, or I wouldn’t have fucking said I needed you to roll
the van to Chi-town for a fuckin’ pickup.” Slate, the Fort Wayne
chapter president and a man who wasn’t Hurley’s biggest fan, glared at him. Somehow between when Slate took over
from Bingo here in the Fort four years ago, and nine months ago
when Hurley patched into the club, he’d managed to run afoul of the
man no less than a half a dozen times.
    Slate glared across the bar to where Hurley
stood. It was Hurley’s night to serve as a waitress to club members. Not something he enjoyed, but
an assignment was an assignment. And that’s how you need to look
at this fuckin’ campout . An assignment. Nothing more, nothing
less. Not any kind of a slur or dig; just another meaningless task
to complete in his efforts to earn full membership in the club. Hurley swallowed, his mouth suddenly full
of acid as the thought of failure loomed.
    Shaking his head, Slate snapped, “Pros, you
should know by now that I ain’t gonna explain my fuckin’ ass every
fuckin’ time I tell you something. I say it, you do it. It’s a
simple fuckin’ exchange. What you don’t do is bow up and get your
panties in a twist every fuckin’ time someone opens their goddamned
mouth.” Slate shook his head. “You’re gonna have to bury that
shit,” he paused, and Hurley would understand why when the words he
most dreaded were finally spoken, “or you ain’t gonna make the cut,
man.”
    Threat delivered, Slate stared at him. With
difficulty, Hurley stood his ground and held Slate’s gaze until the
corners of his president’s eyes crinkled, signaling Slate had moved
past the moment and was sliding away from pissed. That was how Slate and most of the men in the club handled
things. Once something was in the past, it was forgotten unless you
fucked up again. Until , he corrected himself with an inward
wince.
    “DeeDee’s sortin’ all kinds of shit for the
trip. Talk to her, let her know if she’s bein’ unreasonable.” DeeDee was Slate’s mother-in-law, and a long-time
Rebel old lady, having been hooked up with one of the founders of
the Fort Wayne chapter. Hurley remembered Winger fondly and was glad DeeDee had found herself a life after
losing both her husband, and her daughter,
Lockee, to an accident. She remained immersed in the club, managing
one of the businesses, and was now old lady to a newer member,
Captain. Without saying the words, Slate was telling him even if she was an RWOL, DeeDee
wasn’t in charge. This had the pleasant effect of giving Hurley a
tiny sliver of his manhood back, even while acknowledging that
she’d probably be busting his balls. Hard .
    “You got it, Prez.” Hurley tried to imbue
the title with respect and love and brotherhood, all rolled into
one, and knew his brother understood everything Hurley was trying
to say when Slate stepped forward, reaching out. Hurley met his
grip, letting himself be pulled into a clinch, careful to steer
clear of the center patch on Slate’s vest when
he thumped with one fist. Not his place, not yet. Only patched
members should handle the colors that every man worked his ass off
to earn, and Hurley hadn’t made it that far. Not yet .
    Slate stepped back, and with a tip of his
head called Gunny and the other officers through the door behind
the bar. Business afoot no doubt, and Hurley stuck behind the
fucking bar for the night.
    Tomorrow he’d have a chat with DeeDee and
see just how screwed he was gonna be on this little safari. Didn’t
matter what anyone said, he knew up front it wasn’t going to be
anywhere near worth his time, because sitting in a forest listening
to the bitches play their games wasn’t within spitting distance of anything he