Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

Biker Chick
Campout

Rebel Wayfarers MC
Story #8.5

MariaLisa
deMora

Copyright © 2016 MariaLisa
deMora

All rights reserved. This
book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any
manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author's
imagination,
or are used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

First Published
2016

ISBN-13:
978-0-9967486-2-9

DEDICATION

To my son, who amazes me every day
with his capacity for love and life: Love ya, bubba.

BIKER CHICK
CAMPOUT

The segregated circles in which motorcycle
club princesses and prospective members travel seldom collide. When
they do, if romance is involved, it can be an improbable match at
best.

Carmela Estavez is tired. Tired of being the
princess, she’s had enough of never living up to family
expectations, and she is seriously fed up with people watching her
every move. Riding her motorcycle cross-country to meet up with
friends, she’s ditched her daddy-mandated escort and is ready to
spread her wings and fly. She just hopes she doesn’t crash and burn
in the process.

Justin Youngblood has wanted to be a member
of the Rebel Wayfarers MC for as long as he can remember. Hurley,
as he’s not-so-fondly known, is powering through his prospect
period, but not always on the right side of his brothers in the
club. This means that at nearly a year into his tryout, he’s still
getting slapped with the punishment details. This weekend is a
perfect example, chaperoning a hen’s party in the middle of nowhere
that won’t get him any points with anyone.

Then what looked to be a boring weekend
turned into the ride of his life when in rolled a honey-skinned
beauty. He’s supposed to be on guard duty, not on the prowl, but
there’s just something about this one. She’s got trouble written
all over her, and if there’s something he likes, it’s getting into
trouble.

Biker
Chick Campout

Thank
you

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Originally written as a short story for the
charity anthology Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance,
what you are reading now is a
much-expanded
version. In the original short story, we saw everything from
Carmela Estavez’ perspective. Now, we have a window into Justin
Youngblood’s world, and I hope you like what you see.

Enjoy!

Woofully
yours,

~ML

Biker Chick Campout

“You gotta be fuckin’
kiddin’
me.”
Justin Youngblood ground his teeth together in irritation when his
brain belatedly caught up
with
his
mouth,
and he realized he’d spoken those words aloud.
Snapping his lips shut on the
mutter
that was
just barely underneath his breath, he froze in place, hoping no one
had heard. Quickly tipping his chin down, he broke the stare he’d
been directing towards his chapter president.

Not good. Not good
,
Justin’s
head supplied about five seconds too late. This
was something he already knew because the vibe in the room had
gotten
heavy
, the air thick, hard to breathe.
That shit happened when you had fifteen pissed off alpha males in
the same space.
Time for damage control
. “Sorry, brother.
Respect. More than willing to do whatever’s needed, Slate, but you
sure I’m the one you want in that van?”

Justin had just been informed he would be
the sole escort for a weekend bash some of the brothers’ old ladies
were planning. The timing sucked, because recent chatter across the
entire club was about a possible rollout to Indy, and maybe beyond,
depending on how things shook out. The call was expected any day,
which meant if this bullshit assignment stuck to him, he would be
in the woods on the western edge of the state and not in place to
make a play.

And he needed to make a play.

Said
play
would be
calculated so he’d be part of something important, the success of
which would help solidify his place in the club. It had to be big.
Bigger than this girls’ night out party, for sure. He groused
silently,
Get stuck with this, gonna be a fuckin’ perpetual
prospect
.
I need a real chance to show the club what I can
do.

Rebel Wayfarers MC
were
his family. A true family for him, and had been for years. But,
things had stalled since he’d
sewn
on the
prospect patch, and
lately,
it felt as if he
was skirting a little farther away into the weeds instead of
drawing closer to the inner circle.
One fuckin’ chance, is that
too much to ask?
Every
major
run the club
dealt with seemed to happen when he wasn’t around, and that kind of
repeated slight looked intentional, which cemented his
feelings.

He knew from the sympathetic looks turned
his way he wasn’t the only one under the impression the old guys
were keeping him at arms-length. His instincts said those men still
thought of him as the snot-nosed kid who’d been running around the
clubhouses and garages since before he was old enough to grow a
beard. He reached up, stroking across his cheeks, feeling the rough
stubble of a five o’clock shadow.
Put the lie to that every
day
, he thought,
now if the OGs would just pay goddamned
attention to what’s right in front of their faces
.

“
Prospect
.” A warning growl whipped
through the air, the
curt
tone drawing a
stinging line down his ego, as intended. That would be Gunny, the
member he most looked up to. A man who was mentoring him, bringing
him along and making sure Justin didn’t fuck up too badly. He’d
given Justin his road name, too, after a particularly bad night of
celebration. Not a name he’d expected—or liked at first—but
regardless the origin, he’d embraced it in a way that made certain
everyone understood his pride. “First, his
title
is
president, not brother. When he tells you to do something, that’s
who’s speaking. Second, and do not mistake this as being less
important, Hurley, tell me you did not just disrespect our
prez?”

“Unintentional, SAA.” Hurley backpedaled,
hating every second of moments like this because he knew it would
look exactly like what it was: him trying to save face. A tactic to
which he seemed to resort far too often. Gunny was the Fort’s
sergeant at arms, and he drilled protocol and rules into Hurley all
the time. Just didn’t seem to stick. “Respect, Gunny.”
Gotta
watch
my alligator mouth
,
he thought, feeling the eyes of every man in the room on him.
Hurley 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 wanted to do. And with DeeDee,
you never knew what to expect. He’d known her a long time, and she
could be up for a lot of things. He’d suspected he’d get an inkling
of her plans from whatever shopping list she’d thrown together, and
then be able to sort out what he wanted to push back on from
there.

“Pros.” He heard his—
please
God
—
temporary
title called and looked over
at
the pool tables to see a group of members
looking his way. Worm, another of the many long-time members, that
very longevity a tribute to the worth and value men found in the
club, waggled an empty bottle his way, calling, “Beer, bitch.” With
a nod Hurley bent back to his tasks for the evening, pulling three
bottles from the cooler stashed behind the bar and slipping a
bottle opener from the back pocket of his jeans.

“On it, brother,” he called.

***

“She’s gonna try to piss you off, but don’t
let her get to you.” That was DeeDee speaking from behind him as
they wound their way through aisle after aisle of the grocery
store. She’d laid claim to his assistance the minute Slate passed
the
word
along, and the past couple of days it
seemed all Hurley had time to do was tend to chick business and
listen to her talk. Right now she was yammering on about Ruby,
Slate’s old lady, but she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t
already know. Slate’s dislike of him had bled through to his woman,
and Ruby expressed that dislike every chance she had.
Vigorously
.