Brigands M. C. Read Free Page A

head straight. He felt really confused and if Joe hadn’t been standing there, he probably would have started crying.

2. ANIMAL
     
    It was eleven by the time they left the clubhouse. Dante strapped on his helmet and locked arms around his dad’s waist as the V-twin engine rumbled to life. Some Brigands ran beautiful bikes with custom paint and expensive chrome components. Scotty preferred what’s known as a rat bike.
    His twenty-year-old Harley-Davidson Softail had clocked 178,000 miles and was finished in matt grey, streaked with rust. The leather seat was cracked so bad you could see the springs inside and only Scotty’s love had kept it running, long past the point where it would have been cheaper to buy a replacement.
    The Scott family lived amidst farmland a fifteen-minute ride from the clubhouse. Dante loved riding with his dad, especially after school pickups when he got to put on a cool leather jacket and a crash helmet while his mates clambered into people carriers. But it was two hours past bedtime, the roads were near deserted and the whole way home Dante was scared that he’d drift into sleep and fall off the bike.
    Scotty didn’t want to wake his other three kids, so he cut the engine and freewheeled down his front driveway. The house got a lot less love and attention than his Harley. The driveway was badly overgrown and the kitchen light shone through a boarded window that Dante’s brother Jordan had smashed with a cricket ball several months earlier.
    Scotty pulled up under a car porch next to a stack of kids’ bikes. Dante yawned as he stepped off the Harley and unbuckled his helmet.
    ‘Kitchen light’s on,’ Scotty said. ‘Your mum’ll be waiting in ambush. Whatever you do, don’t tell her about the fight.’
    Dante raised an eyebrow as he unzipped his leather jacket. ‘I know, Dad, I’m not stupid.’
    ‘Oh!’ Scotty blurted as he saw the dried blood all over Dante’s T-shirt. ‘Take that off.’
    ‘It’s freezing,’ Dante complained.
    ‘Hurry up, before she comes out to see what we’re up to,’ Scotty said, as he put his key in the front door. Dante pulled his shirt over his head, but he had no pocket big enough to tuck it into so he threw it behind a shrub as his dad stepped into the hallway.
    Dante’s mum, Carol, stood in the kitchen doorway. She wore a pink dressing gown and slippers, but a tattoo of coiled snakes ran from her ankle up to her left knee and marked her out as a biker chick.
    ‘Don’t give me a hard time,’ Scotty begged, giving his wife pleading eyes as Dante pushed back the front door.
    Carol was angry, but kept her voice down because eleven-month-old Holly was sleeping in her parents’ room at the top of the stairs.
    ‘A hard time!’ she hissed. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. Dante’s eight years old and he’s got school in the morning. Do you know the job I’ll have getting him out of bed?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Scotty said quietly. ‘I was discussing the development deal with the Führer and it just dragged on forever.’
    Dante put his foot on the bottom step.
    ‘Wee and teeth,’ Carol told him stiffly. ‘Then straight to bed and keep the noise down. Everyone’s asleep up there.’
    ‘Can I get a glass of water?’ Dante asked.
    ‘I’ll bring it up for you,’ Carol said. ‘And where’s your shirt?’
    Dante couldn’t think of an excuse so his dad butted in. ‘He got hot running around with Joe and took his shirt off. We had a look around, but we couldn’t find it. I’ve got to go back tomorrow morning and do some work on the bike. I’ll take a proper look in daylight.’
    Dante found his mum’s fluorescent pink fingernail waggling under his nose. ‘I’m fed up with you losing things, Dante. If that shirt doesn’t turn up, the replacement’s coming out of your birthday and Christmas money.’
    Normally Dante would have protested, but he was so tired he could barely keep upright.
    ‘Goddammit, Scotty,’ Carol said, as Dante