Bear

Chapter 3: Bear

Two days had passed since Razor and I had been on that run, since I had been shot, since the sexy doctor patched me up in her kitchen in the middle of the night. 

My shoulder is still pretty fucked, and would be for a while— the good thing is I could still ride. As long as I can ride, that’s all that matters to me. Nonetheless, Pres said I’d be on the sidelines until I’m healed enough to start back going on runs, until then Ripper or Boulder would fill in as enforcer. 

My shoulder, however isn’t the only thing that’s utterly fucked. I can’t stop thinking about her— her curly hair, her lips, her gorgeous body and those damn fluffy socks. 

She isn’t even the kind of bitch I typically enjoy, not that I have a type. But the soul suckers tend to do the trick, not that I care to get my dick wet anyway. But ever since that night, I can’t even look at any of the soul suckers at the club without  picking them apart— too skinny, tits too small, hair not the right texture. 

There’s just something about her that I couldn’t pull away from, that I need more of. I want to feel her pressed against me, wrapped around me. I need to have her, to be in her. At least if I have her once I could get her out of my system and go back to normal. 

“Oi, Bear you up?” A voice calls from the opposite side of the door. “Church in 5.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a sec.” I groan, my shoulder aching painfully as I roll out of my bed. It still hurts too much to try and pull a shirt over my head so I don’t even bother, pulling on a pair of jeans, my boots and my cut before heading down the stairs.

The clubhouse is still trashed from the debauchery of the previous night. There are empty bottles, empty snack bowls, and cigarette butts strewn all about the place. Someone’s jeans are on the floor, a Cut hung up on the bespoke Harley Evo mounted on the wall. 

Pres definitely wouldn’t appreciate that if he saw it. That engine was the only surviving piece of our previous president and club founder— Pres’ dad’s—bike after he died in a motorcycle accident. 

A few of my brothers are still asleep in booths, flanked by half naked women. The few that are awake sit at the peanut shell scattered bar, nursing mugs of steaming black coffee courtesy of Jugs, our resident barmaid. 

The barmaid in question was a short, busy, bronzed skinned woman, with a pretty smile and chat enough to keep the mood at the bar alive. Though this morning she looks just as knackered as all the boys. 

She shoots Brute, self professed pussy whisperer, a searing glare when he sends a flirty pick up line her way and a request for a refill on his coffee. 

I lean against the bar on my good arm, the pain in my shoulder blurring my vision for a moment.

What'd that chick tell me? Something about a kleptic or…? If I'd paid more attention to the words coming out her mouth and not her tits, I might have a clue. 

Can't say I regret it too much though. 

Besides I've been shot, cut up, stabbed before, and I'm pretty sure the healing part has always hurt like a bitch. As much as I would love to rock up to A&E and have my sexy Doctor look after me again, I ain't no bitch. 

Pres strolls into the bar, I presume coming from his back office. He nods his head towards the partitioned room where we usually gather for our meetings. 

His eye catches the cut on his pa's Evo, his dark expression unreadable as he walks past it into the room. "Whoever owns that Cut better remove it before I walk back out this door, or I'll be removing their patch and their dick."