“I read the sign.”
“Reading ain’t obeying.”
“I need Hot Mama.”
The women exchange a look.
The shaved-haired one says, “Everybody thinks they need Hot Mama until they get her.”
“I’ll risk disappointment.”
Shortie studies me for another long second, then lifts two fingers to her mouth and whistles.
A sharp sound answers from deeper in the campground.
The braided Queen circles around behind me on her bike, not touching Widowmaker but making sure I know turningaround fast ain’t my first option. The shaved-haired one stays to my left. Shortie walks ahead of me like she expects me to follow.
I do.
Slow.
Through trees, the campground opens.
I see it the way a man sees enemy ground first.
Sight lines. Cabins. Windows. Bunkhouses. Main building. Garage with too many bikes. Women on porches. Kids near a sandbox. Smoke from a fire circle. Laundry hanging where someone could hide a weapon.
I see children. Not just August.
Several kids, running under watchful eyes.
This ain’t only an MC compound.
It’s a refuge.
That makes it harder to hate.
Annoying.
A few women turn as I roll in beside Shortie. Their eyes hit my cut, my bike, my face, then move to my hands. Assessing. Deciding. Not impressed by my patch. Not scared enough.
Good for them.
Bad for me.
Hot Mama comes out of the main building like the whole porch was built for her entrance.
Everything Legend said was true and not enough.
She is older and hot in a way that makes age look like another weapon. Silver-streaked hair piled high. Red mouth. Curves. Boots. Leather cut with Prez stitched under Queens of Anarchy. She walks like every man who ever underestimated her became a story she laughs about when bourbon is good and fire is high.
She stops three feet in front of Widowmaker and looks at me like I’m a horse she may or may not buy.
“You Derby?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes move over me.