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eyes firm. “Just know,” he said, “You answer for her, Cox. She’s your responsibility.”
    “Of course, Bogart.”
    Images and thoughts of Nikka danced around Cox’s mind He thought about her more and more. The way that she bit her thumb, her tight, fit little moves – oh, yes. But more than that. She understood him, and she made him feel different somehow. Made him think of himself like he was a better man.

The Weight

    I saw Beanie, shuffling out of the woods at the back of the yard, pale with a hollow look in his face. I went over and asked him, “What’s wrong Beanie?” and he couldn’t speak, but his eyes were so empty, I knew it was something bad. Something very, very bad.
    Emotion can be hard on a prospect. They’d rather die than let a full member see it. I sat him down behind an outbuilding so he could have some time before any club members saw him. I fired up a joint and handed it to him. His eyes were blank but he took it, then I went in to grab a bottle of bourbon and a couple of shot glasses.
    He had hardly moved when I got back, and his fingers were trembling on the spliff. I handed him a shot glass with a good sized slug, and he slung it back without his eyes moving. As the bourbon hit, he shook, once, hard. Then he looked at me.
    The horror that he had seen shocked him so hard, its impact was still stamped on his face. “Cap,” he said and his bottom lip trembled. I knew it. He got a hold and he said, “They opened him, Nikka. They opened him up.”
    I thought of Trols’ big, shiny serrated blade.

Gypsy

    Hacker pulled up outside the Meathook, leaned his Harley in a dark patch of the parking lot, near the road, far from the bar and the line of bikes by the steps leading to the club doorway.
    On the way in he checks that Jake, Shank and Boxers rides are all in the line. There they are, engines still warm and ticking.  
    From her perch at the bar, Gypsy watched as he strode into the bar, and the background noise of the Meathook changed key. He was a tall, rangy, biker with hair the color of straw. His cheekbones and jaw, even his short mustache and beard, they could all have been chiseled from granite. The short, neat beard can’t hide a deep cleft in his chin. His deep, emerald eyes were hard and penetrating. His expression was rock solid. The barroom floor could have burst into flame, his face wouldn’t move.  
    Her kick-ass leather waistcoat had black tassels on the big sliver buckles, and it was open over a white cotton shirt with a tall collar. The shirt was open most of the way, exposing a black lace bra that struggled to contain her hefty, heaving beauties. Sinuous Thai silver chains lay across the tops of her breasts, so as to show them as they when they rose and fell.  
    Sheer dark gunmetal nylon sheathed her long legs, with a tiny tight black leather mini skirt, a couple of tassels each side for added interest. Black lacy tops of the hold-ups peeked out just below the hem of the little skirt. The huge Mexican silver buckle on the wide black belt was low and loose on the sheen of leather stretched over the curve of her stomach. Short black Spanish hand-made cowboy boots with embroidery and raised heels helped to focus attention on her calves and thighs.
    Gypsy sent her tried and tested not looking at you look to Hacker, along the bar. For a long time. When his attention was engaged, that look was supposed to be followed up by the disdainful tilt of the chin to say, You thought it was YOU I wasn’t looking at? Hah! Only his attention didn’t register her, Not at all. Not even in a not looking at you, either kind of a way. Not even in a didn’t you once take off all your clothes in high school? kind of a way. Gypsy wasn’t used to that. Hacker was talking to the barman, Grinder. Grinder looked like he was made out of two or more truckers. When she rolled her practically empty glass around and looked into it, Grinder noticed. But Hacker didn’t.
    She wanted him. She wanted him