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Every one of them meant something to me. They were my battle scars. Far worse than the ones I got in war. In the eyes of others, they were just colorful, intricate art. But to me They were my solace and my pain. Nothing had changed since the last time I fucking lived in this godforsaken town. No welcome home party from family or friends, no thanks or parades from the town residents for serving our country. Not one fucking thing. Everything I had done, I had done for my family, for the MC, for her,,, I fought for my fucking brothers.

I fought for my goddamn country. I fought for my girl. Never realizing,,, I might fucking die for them too. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that fucking shit.

I once read that every warrior hoped a good death would find him. I always went looking for mine, but not even the Reaper wanted me. I thought fighting for something I believed in would make me a good man. In the end, it never mattered. I would always be on the wrong side of the tracks, and they would always lead me to the wrong station. Changing my people, places, and things throughout the years didn't help change the outcome of the choices I'd made. Of the things I'd done. At the end of the day,,, I was already nailed to the cross.

I was fucking born on it.

She was a new club whore with a banging body, huge tits, heart-shaped ass, and way too much fucking makeup on her mousy face. She'd been eye-fucking the shit out of me since she showed up at the clubhouse a few days ago. I was never much for dabbling in the club bunnies that bounced from one cock to another, but that didn't stop me from letting them suck my cock. After the day I'd had, I fucking earned it. On your bike? Trying to pretend like she'd never done this before.

We were tucked behind a row of trees on the club's property. My go-to spot for quickies, and the only place I could ride to on my bike. My pops gave me a sleek Harley Davidson Sportster for my sixteenth birthday almost two years ago. I'm pretty sure he didn't pay for it, but who was I to complain, it was a sick-looking bike. It had all matte black components, custom fenders, seat, and gas tank with the club logo painted on it.

Not to mention the killer engine and exhaust system, visible on the sides. A set of shortened handlebars, and a massive front headlight that completed the badass machine.

The clubhouse was barely visible in the distance, making it impossible for anyone to see us. Not that I gave a flying fuck. Her eyes widened. Dark and dilated. Biting her pouty red lip that I couldn't wait to have wrapped around my dick. Women's place in an MC's life was always in the fucking background. The club came first no matter what. We all carried the same principles-honor, respect, and brotherhood. A family made up of ruthless motherfuckers right down to their goddamn bones.

All led by the shadiest son of a bitch known to man. My pops. The first chapter established, making him the top fucking dog of the MC. Even though every chapter below had a president of their own, they couldn't make executive decisions without his final approval. Getting a visit from him only ended in death. He would only step in if he was fucking crossed or shit hit the fan in a catastrophic way. Other than that, the chapters did whatever the fuck they wanted, it was a fucking free-for-all.

My old man could do no wrong in everyone's eyes, when in reality that was all he ever fucking did. Cops' pockets were greased with dirty money to turn a blind eye to all our illegal activities. Everywhere we went, people looked the opposite direction and moved the fuck out of our way.

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Devil's Rejects were known to all, spread out all over the community, the state, even nation fucking wide. The only enemy we had was the law. She smirked, cocking her head to the side, slowly licking her luscious lips as she casually reached for the front of my vest. Teasingly skimming her long red fingernails down the front of it, never taking her sinful eyes off mine.

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Mine's-" "Not fuckin' important, yeah? Our black leather vests or cuts as we called them, were the MC's brand, our signature trademark recognized by everyone, especially women and civilians. They were each chapter's identification, who we were and what we stood for.

On the back of our cuts were the club's colors, a badass looking tattooed pin-up girl with huge fucking tits sporting devil ears and a tail. Straddling a custom chopper, holding a skull with flames beating out of its eyes in one hand and an AK47 rifle in the other. Above the logo was a crescent-shaped red patch that read "Devil's Rejects" in black acidy lettering. Below the logo was another crescent-shaped patch with Southport, NC stitched on it. On the front left of our cut was a "one-percent" patch that was worn with fucking pride, indicating we were outlaws.

There were no rules to follow unless it came to the club or our brothers, fucking laws became obsolete. Devil's Rejects had been around since the forties and had more than proven their loyalty to the MC world. Quickly becoming one of the most feared clubs in society. One of the select few that was branded as a "one-percent" club. We were diehard bikers who would stop at nothing, even murder, to prove ourselves worthy. Honorable fucking killers. I've seen the brutality firsthand.

It's not a pretty sight. Fucking Neanderthals, not to be fucked with, or else.

Nothing happened in Southport without our knowledge or control. Not one damn thing. Our cuts were our holy grail. Her fingers skimmed the right front panel of my cut, over my "MC" patch that only true motorcycle clubs sported. You'd never see this on a HOGS vest because let's face it, they were just a bunch of pussy-ass wannabe riders on expensive bikes, never willing to get their fucking hands dirty. Haven't served much time, huh? I was never one for fucking chit chat.

The black leather was a blank canvas for now, but eventually, it would be filled with random duty patches scattered around. All representing what I had done and what I'd fucking do for the club and the brothers. For now, I was at the bottom of the fucking chain, itching for my day to come. I couldn't really complain much, though, having my old man as Prez definitely had its fucking perks.

Respect was one of them.

Anyone fucking crossed me, they'd be crossing Pops, too. A fucking death wish you didn't want to sign up for. I spent the last seventeen years of my life watching him rule with an iron fist, annihilating what so many Jameson men built before him. My future was sealed the day my parents found out I had a cock. I would follow in the long line of men in my family, taking over as MC Prez one day.Usually his communications to me were the briefest of notes, saying he would be in London,.

He was there magnetic not to get me an script.

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I've seen the brutality firsthand.