Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett

1

Road…

If I was able to, I’d stomp my way across the clubroom as I answer a summons from my prez. Instead, I have to pick my way carefully, concentrating on every step.

“Hey,” a sharp voice interrupts. “Where’s your fuckin’ stick?”

“Don’t need it.” I round on Peg. “Stay out of my fuckin’ business.”

He holds up his hands, palms facing outward. “You should use the stick or strap your leg up. You fuckin’ fall, you’ve only yourself to blame. But why should I give a damn about you making it worse and setting yourself back?”

Nothing could make things much worse than they already are. Tossing him a glare, I continue, carefully, trying to walk straight, putting my weight equally on both legs. Which is okay until I step on something and stumble. Luckily, there’s a nearby chair that my hand catches hold of to break my fall. Looking down to see what I’d stepped on, I find it’s one of the kid’s fucking toys. Could be Eli’s, Olivia’s, Noah’s—the list goes on. Too many fuckin’ kids in this clubhouse. My brothers seem to be breeding like rabbits, but between the club and my sport, I’ve no time or inclination to find a woman of my own, yet alone a desire to procreate.

Hearing a noise as I catch my breath, I see Peg half out of his seat. I shake my head at him, then righting myself, proceed in the direction I was going with even more care, staring carefully to avoid stepping on half made Lego models or toy motorbikes and cars.

I’m in no better mood when I reach Drummer’s office, but why the fuck should I be? A few weeks back, I was all set to take the champion’s cup. Pride comes before a fall, they say, and my fall had been quite spectacular.

I knock. When Drummer barks out permission to enter, I do and sigh with relief as I make it to the seat he points at without further incident.

That his eyes soften with sympathy really does nothing to improve my mood. “What do you want, Prez?”

Now his gaze changes, hardens, and I’m subjected to his full-on stare. “Should be using the stick,” he tells me.

I heft a sigh. “Not you as well. I’ve just had this from Peg.”

“Who knows what he’s talking about.” He doesn’t. Nobody does. Drummer’s steel-grey eyes seem to see right down into my soul, then soften as he states, “It was a shame about the championship.”

Shame? Something that I’ve been striving for all my adult life? Is that all it is, a fucking shame? It’s a shame when you go to the store and the part you want is out of stock. A shame when you find a stain on your favourite shirt. It’s too insignificant a word to use when what you thought impossible a few years back had been so close you could almost touch it, and then to have it snatched out of your grasp. Shame doesn’t begin to describe it.

“Have you heard back?”

I don’t ask who from. “I’m not allowed to race again.”

“This year, or…?”

There’s no point lying to Drummer. I tap my head. “Two concussions now. No one wants me to risk a third.”

“Then there’s your leg.”

My anger seeps away, being replaced by a deep sadness. There is, indeed, my leg. The surgeons had done their best to put it back together, but I’m left with a knee that won’t always cooperate, the muscles around it being too weak to hold it in place. If I step down on it wrong, it’s likely to dislocate. Trial bikes have been developed over the years to handle rough terrain and fast. They are lightweight and are completely stripped of any luxuries or comforts. There’s no way in hell I could ride one now.

Drummer nods as though I’d answered a question he hadn’t asked. “Wanted to talk to you about your future, Road.”

“I can still ride,” I spit out, my eyes widening. Drummer can’t be talking about throwing me out of the club. No fucking way. I’ve been on my Harley since my crash, have ridden it with no problem. He’s even seen me. Sure, my still-healing leg starts to ache after a while, but I can fulfil the requirements of the club. I can ride.

“Huh,” Drummer barks, laughing. “Nothing to stop you still being a member, Road. You’ve been around this club long enough to know we’d give a man all the time that he needs to come right. Hell, you could lose