Too Late For Regret: The Biker Queen

Raven" Du

rcelain edges of the sink un

bathroom, my eyes stayed fixed on the plastic stick lying

rough my stomach, pull

dwood. It was a tempo I knew in my bones-Bennet Cochran, President of the Iron Cross Motorcycle Club. My h

trash can, and buried it under a thick wad of grease-stained

pen, slamming against the

dy spray, and highway exhaust rolled into

ross skull patch gleaming across his broad chest. Right against the worn collar o

between us, my eyes dropping to the fad

cked-back dark brown hair. His hazel eyes were clouded with alcohol and so

ice flat, my thumb rubbing the smooth si

hall," he said. He did not ask. He gave an order, the same way h

" I said, cold bile rising in my throat. "She's a sweetb

e shadow swallowing me whole. His fingers locked aro

ace. "I'm giving her a bottom rocker and a property patch at the next Church meeting.

and hot, but I didn't flinch. I star

f I re

rror frame. He turned and kicked the plastic laundry basket acro

u have nowhere else to go. You can't survive off this road without my cu

ehind him, rattling the framed

lowly laid one hand over my flat stomach. Every lingering trace of hesitat

the bottom drawer, and pulled out a cheap prep

he ten digits I had

e before a raspy, com

iron-willed matriarch who sat on the supreme g

iver of light under the hallway door. "I am requesting an immediate

on the line f

her tone level. "Walking away from a President's color

scar on my left forearm. "He brought an unvetted outsider into the inner sanctum and h

e next circuit court is scheduled in exactly fifteen days. The Iron Cross territory falls under the outer jurisdiction belt. The envoy must complete three proced

colder. "Until then, you ha

n days.

snapped the burner SIM card in half, and dro

the club's founding builder who had poured his life into these machines, left me before he died-the proprietary fuel-injection schematics and cooling modifications t

e floorboards as the clubhouse bar raged w

ollars into the hidden l

asped the heavy silver dog tag engraved with "Bishop's Pro

creaked in

uff of a sneaker paused

work bag, stepped silently behind the doorframe, a