NOMAD'S BRIDE

Noa

One good thing about being in jail; it gave you time to think.

Noa Callas was pretty comfortable on the cell's wooden bench. His arm rested over his forehead as he stared up at the ceiling. There was a sting on his knuckles, bruised from the right hook he'd thrown in the bar fight that landed him here.

More than a few beers were in his system when he started to get heckled. A comment was made about his hair, one thing led to another and he was sliding a grown man over the top of a bar.

Most people stayed out of his way. It would have been that way whether he was in an MC or not. But every so often a tough guy would step up trying to test him. And they'd end up embarrassed, and occasionally in the hospital.

Tough guys used to annoy him, but over time learned to enjoy them.

Maybe too much.

This time he'd made the mistake of being too far from home. The cops in this section of Florida didn't know or give a shit about Death Skulls MC. They tossed him in the cell and seemed content to throw away the key for the weekend.

He wasn't alone. A meth head and homeless man occupied the cell with him. They retreated to their own corners once he was brought in and stayed quiet.

Noa appreciated it.

Between occasional naps, he spent this free time playing over the fight in his head. The guy must have been two fifty, maybe an inch or two shorter than his 6'4, probably in construction. Noa was completely minding his business at the bar. The intention was to scope the place out for some ass and go.

Then the bartender had to go and serve him the richest whiskey he'd had in his life; smooth not watered down. Almost worth the fight. It pissed him off he forgot to ask the brand.

A soft smile came to his lips thinking of the guy in his ripped plaid shirt, comatose on the bar floor as he was led away.

It always brought him deep satisfaction putting an entitled asshole in his place.

"Skorp, nothin' else better to do last night?"

Noa turned his head to see Mage 'Tin' Jeffries at the cell door.

Tin always looked like a man who'd been kept under Florida sun for a hundred years.

Regular beer consumption gave him a small gut, he was 5'9, thin, and punched like an anvil. He kept his wild salt and pepper hair pulled back in a braid, his long beard was frizzy and wild, resting at the center of his chest.

Noa sat up brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Nice to see you too, Tin."

The cop next to him carried a deep frown as he used his key to unlock the door.

"We don't need bikers around this town," he said sharply.

Noa stood from the bench and stretched. His back was stiff as hell and he could also use a fucking shower.

*

When they arrived at the clubhouse it was practically empty. It wasn't quite noon and everyone was still passed out.

Staring at the scattered unconscious bodies Noa realized he hadn't even gotten laid, which was the whole point of being at the bar.

Noa thought he would shower and fall asleep midday as usual, but after cleaning himself up he was still wired and left his temporary room to return downstairs.