Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition by Elizabeth Knox (top 5 ebook reader txt) 📕

does his best not to argue. It’s not the first time or last that I’ll ask, so he may as well get used to it. I’m not that much of a dick, so I’ll throw some cash his way when I get back.

As quickly as possible, I wash and get back to my room. With my boots on, my t-shirt and cut in place, I’m ready to rock-n-roll on out of here. Fuck, my boots skid across the floor and I backtrack. In my room, I snatch my hat off the bed post and slide it on. I grin and wink in the mirror as I saunter out in my Wranglers.

To my surprise, Blade isn’t waiting for me, so I wait in the kitchen for him while a fresh pot of coffee brews. I prop my feet up and lace my fingers behind my head. I know he’ll be back soon, so I lean my chair back and relax, closing my eyes for just a minute. My body jerks and my hands fly forward, landing on the table. Blade stands above me, scowling. The dick shoved my boots off the kitchen table knowing I was half asleep. He might be my Prez, but he can be a fucking asshole at times. Pushing my hat back on top of my head, I give him my attention. He slams a cup of coffee in front of me, drops splatting around the table, and I run my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion and wake up.

“You’re good to drive?”

“Of course. I was just waiting for the sun to come up.” It’s probably closer to noon, but who’s in a hurry?

“I swear you could sleep anywhere,” he grumbles. “Cowboy, you’re hauling a load of shit across fucking state lines. I need you awake, aware, and on your game. His hard as stone eyes are set on me.

“I get it, Prez, it’s an important load. I know I party hard, but have I ever let you down?” My eyebrows bounce high, waiting for him to dispute that fact, but he can’t. “Never have, never will. It’ll get done.”

“Good. You’re hauling our drop and picking one up for Fuego to bring back.” Blade finishes giving me the details and rants about how Fuego, the Sacramento Prez, has been blowing up his phone, wanting the drop made. The best part of all this, wait for it, is I own the trucking company. That’s right, I have a deal with the club where they get a cut of profits and Spider brokers my routes according to where or what I’m haulin’. Sometimes it’s a legit transport of goods. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s both. Like today, I’m haulin’ produce over to a major grocery store and, on my way, dropping prescription pills off, and in trade, Fuego is giving us bricks of cocaine.

Picking up the thermos filled with black coffee, I set my mind to get to work and walk outside. My black semi-truck is exquisite. She has a sleeper in the back, and the best captain chairs and speakers. She is outfitted to perfection and always washed. Parked next to it is my black four cab pickup truck. My girls shine in the sun with fresh wax.

Placing my thumb and pointer to my lips, I rip a shrill whistle to call Lucky. My black pit bull jumps the fence and runs over to meet me with her tail wagging. “You ready to ride, girl?” She licks my hand as I try to pet her. To work out her energy before we leave, I instruct her to sit. She does and grows more agitated before I come back with a ball from the truck. Tossing it a few yards, I command her to go when the ball hits the dirt. We do this a handful of times before I holler, “Load up.” I never leave home without her.

Trucker legend states that right before an accident, a driver sees a black dog with red eyes running toward the truck. Either the driver is about to fall asleep and the dog wakes you up, or if it’s too late, the dog is the reaper coming to take you. I’ve heard some say the dog has even saved the lives of truckers like me. I learned everything there is to know about driving from my old man. We had a ranch growing up and, to help pay the bills, he hauled when times were tough.

I climb up right behind Lucky and turn the engine over. Her hum is comforting. “That’s it, girls, it’s gonna be a good ride.” After her purring response, I pull out of the clubhouse and pick up my load from a large farming company before I head over to California. Blade informed me our cargo is secured in the hidden compartment under the sleeper bed behind me. Another reason Lucky comes with me—she’s been trained to guard our truck, so she sits on the bed right behind me. My backup, my ride or die, Lucky.

The drop-off for the paid produce load goes off without a hitch. Lucky whines, alerting me she needs out, and it’s coincidently the same time I pull up to the Battle Born compound in Sacramento. In their oversized garage, I park the truck and we lumber out, ready to burn off some steam.

The garage door shuts, and Snake, Fuego, and Ghost are inside waiting for me. Snake knows the drill and calls for Lucky, taking her outside to do her business. I’m sure Abuela, his grandmother, has a snack waiting for us both.

“¿Que pasó, Cowboy?” Fuego starts in on the lecture I’m sure is coming. “¿Que hora es? I called last night to confirm an early drop. ¿Sabes que es eso?”

With a tilt of my hat, I respond, “Yes, sir, you did. I got it here for you.” Of course, I don’t address that I’m late and should have been here earlier.

Hopping up into my rig, the