Off Limits: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 2) by Ruby Dixon Page A
Authors: Ruby Dixon
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presidents, two VPs, two secretaries, you name it. Actually, I take that back. At the moment, they only have one treasurer—Solo, who’s currently beating the snot out of a punching bag in the corner.
I eye him as the others flood into the showers.
Solo used to be called Joker, but then he and Panther—his co-treasurer—went off to serve in Afghanistan for two years. Doing their part, and all that. Except Solo came back with a limp, and Panther came back in a body bag. And laughing Joker’s no longer a laughing sort.
He’s fucking hot, though. I stare at his naked back dreamily. Sweat’s running down tanned muscles. He’s working out without a shirt on, and he’s covered in tattoos up one arm and down the other. The big joker-with-machetes that’s the club logo covers his broad shoulders, and it’s clear he’s in here working out very often. I’ve never seen him in the ring, but I’m guessing after Afghanistan, chicken-fighting with the local roosters loses a bit of its appeal. But his body is a work of sculpted art, and his hair is thick and brown, and he’s got this incredible pair of sideburns that make me aroused just imagining how they’d feel on my skin.
Solo has an unlucky nickname like me. But his is because his partner and buddy, Panther, died. Solo is supposed to double-up with another one of the Butchers soon, someone to watch his back and handle things with him. But he hasn’t yet, and hasn’t in the last year, and it’s pissing Gem off. He’s tired of Solo being a solo act. Doesn’t reflect well on the club and their standards.
Not that I’m allowed to be in the club, of course. I have a twat and therefore I’m only old lady material.
Which is a joke, considering that because my brother’s Gem, no Butchers—paired or otherwise—are even going to give me the time of day. And no other club is going to look at me while my family leads the Butchers. Well, no other club worth having. I’ve been unlucky on that front, too. So like it or not, I’m Butcher property…but not quite part of the club.
Story of my life—lucky, lucky Lucky.
Solo’s not heading to the panty raid, it looks like. He’s still attacking the punching bag like it insulted his momma. He doesn’t make a move as the others throw on their vests and head for the doors, laughing and joking and in an otherwise great mood. When you’re in the club, you call it a ‘cut’ and not a jacket or a vest. I suppose because it’s covered in patches and it means something then.
Me, I don’t get anything because I’m the kid sister.
My brother Gemini winks at me. “Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t worry,” I call back, grinning.
“I want you to chain up the front, Lucky,” my brother tells me. “You and Solo go out the back.”
I give him a mock salute as I pick up the chains. Last year we had a break in and a rival club stole a ton of equipment, so we bolt everything down when we leave each night. The double-doors in front are easier to jimmy or to drive something through, so we make sure to chain those to stop most thieves. It’s something I do most nights, and I wink at my brother as I follow him to the door. “Try not to nail everything moving, all right? Save some for Dom.”
“No promises,” he yells as he heads out the door, and I see Domino clap him on the back as the metal doors swing shut. Then it’s just me and Solo alone in the Meat Locker. I run the chains through the door handles and put on the padlock, then return to my desk. Solo’s there, still boxing. I step over closer to him. “Hey, Solo? You’ll need to go out the back tonight.”
He grunts, and I suppose that’s an acknowledgment to me. I watch him box a few minutes more, as oblivious to my presence as he was to everyone else’s.
Then, I sigh and return to work.
Solo may have the official ‘treasurer’ title but since I have an accounting degree, I get most of the grunt work. I handle the payroll for the club and their
I eye him as the others flood into the showers.
Solo used to be called Joker, but then he and Panther—his co-treasurer—went off to serve in Afghanistan for two years. Doing their part, and all that. Except Solo came back with a limp, and Panther came back in a body bag. And laughing Joker’s no longer a laughing sort.
He’s fucking hot, though. I stare at his naked back dreamily. Sweat’s running down tanned muscles. He’s working out without a shirt on, and he’s covered in tattoos up one arm and down the other. The big joker-with-machetes that’s the club logo covers his broad shoulders, and it’s clear he’s in here working out very often. I’ve never seen him in the ring, but I’m guessing after Afghanistan, chicken-fighting with the local roosters loses a bit of its appeal. But his body is a work of sculpted art, and his hair is thick and brown, and he’s got this incredible pair of sideburns that make me aroused just imagining how they’d feel on my skin.
Solo has an unlucky nickname like me. But his is because his partner and buddy, Panther, died. Solo is supposed to double-up with another one of the Butchers soon, someone to watch his back and handle things with him. But he hasn’t yet, and hasn’t in the last year, and it’s pissing Gem off. He’s tired of Solo being a solo act. Doesn’t reflect well on the club and their standards.
Not that I’m allowed to be in the club, of course. I have a twat and therefore I’m only old lady material.
Which is a joke, considering that because my brother’s Gem, no Butchers—paired or otherwise—are even going to give me the time of day. And no other club is going to look at me while my family leads the Butchers. Well, no other club worth having. I’ve been unlucky on that front, too. So like it or not, I’m Butcher property…but not quite part of the club.
Story of my life—lucky, lucky Lucky.
Solo’s not heading to the panty raid, it looks like. He’s still attacking the punching bag like it insulted his momma. He doesn’t make a move as the others throw on their vests and head for the doors, laughing and joking and in an otherwise great mood. When you’re in the club, you call it a ‘cut’ and not a jacket or a vest. I suppose because it’s covered in patches and it means something then.
Me, I don’t get anything because I’m the kid sister.
My brother Gemini winks at me. “Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t worry,” I call back, grinning.
“I want you to chain up the front, Lucky,” my brother tells me. “You and Solo go out the back.”
I give him a mock salute as I pick up the chains. Last year we had a break in and a rival club stole a ton of equipment, so we bolt everything down when we leave each night. The double-doors in front are easier to jimmy or to drive something through, so we make sure to chain those to stop most thieves. It’s something I do most nights, and I wink at my brother as I follow him to the door. “Try not to nail everything moving, all right? Save some for Dom.”
“No promises,” he yells as he heads out the door, and I see Domino clap him on the back as the metal doors swing shut. Then it’s just me and Solo alone in the Meat Locker. I run the chains through the door handles and put on the padlock, then return to my desk. Solo’s there, still boxing. I step over closer to him. “Hey, Solo? You’ll need to go out the back tonight.”
He grunts, and I suppose that’s an acknowledgment to me. I watch him box a few minutes more, as oblivious to my presence as he was to everyone else’s.
Then, I sigh and return to work.
Solo may have the official ‘treasurer’ title but since I have an accounting degree, I get most of the grunt work. I handle the payroll for the club and their
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