Dead Men Motorcycle Club Read Free

drink away from the same fate. I told him that Karen Waits had said I'd find a decent room here. For a moment I thought maybe Karen had played me false and was sending me to this fleabag as a bit of a hazing ritual or something. However, when I got to the room, I realized it looked a lot better on the inside than the outside. The sheets were clean, the lights were bright and the carpet had been installed sometime in the past decade. Maybe having Karen watching out for me wasn't such a bad thing.
    I laid down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and realized suddenly just how exhausted I was. I'd been driving all day and sleeping in my car for the past two nights, and my muscles were feeling it. I barely had time to get my boots off before a deep, dreamless sleep enveloped me.
    When I woke, it was early in the morning. I'd managed to sleep the whole night away on top of the sheets. The rays of the rising sun poured through the window - which was decidedly not an ocean view, despite the name of the motel. I stripped off my clothing and tossed it in the end of one of the bags I'd brought with me, and then headed for the shower.
    The old plumbing sprang to life and I managed a halfway decent - and halfway warm - shower. It was at least refreshing to be out of my clothes after so long, When I decided I was clean enough, I got out and wrapped myself in a towel I'd brought from home. I wiped away the fog from the bathroom mirror and stared at the reflection I saw before me. I was pretty enough. My dirty blonde hair was cut short - so much better for not getting tangled in engines - but it could use a trim. My eyebrows were starting to look a bit less than perfect and I found myself wondering whether there was a decent place to get waxed in San Viero.
    I stepped out into the room and tore through my bags, looking for something to wear. I settled on a pair of tough black jeans and a faded grey t-shirt. I was extremely happy that, in mid-January, I didn't have to bother picking out a sweater or a coat or something like that to keep me warm. No wonder people had been braving the journey across the country towards California for the past couple hundred years.
    Once I was dressed, I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder, across my body. Before I could even think about checking out the town , I needed to find some breakfast. I had little doubt that in a place like this, a decent breakfast was one of the things you could always count on. I hopped into my Charger and drove back towards Main Street.
    The restaurant I found was just the thing - a little greasy spoon called South of the Border, though, of course, we were north of the border. I excused their geographical faux pas and ordered a big plate of eggs, pancakes, sausage and toast. I ate my food and drank a cup of strong black coffee while pretending to ignore the conversations of the early morning diners around me. I didn't have the context to understand of what anyone was saying, but I began to pick up on a common theme. Through every conversation, there w ere mentions of "those boys." At first I thought they were referring to a notable group of school children, but eventually realized it must be the bikers I was soon to become very close to. It was also when I learned the name by which they rode, when one of the diners dared to openly mock them - they were the Dead Men. It was a suitably chilling name, but not unusual in biker circles.
    I paid for my breakfast and headed out into town to kill a couple hours. I left my car outside the restaurant for now and walked along Main Street, where businesses were starting to open and people were hustling about, getting ready to start their days. A few people nodded or said "good morning" as they passed me by and I returned the gestures. This was small town living; where everyone was friendly and everyone gossiped behind your back.
    I got my first look at one of the Dead Men as I stood outside a hairdresser's salon, trying to peer inside