The Broken and the Damned: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance Read Online Free Page A

is the Damned MC Clubhouse.
     
    It’s hard to find, and that’s how we like it. What’s more, once you’re there, it’s a little slice of paradise on earth.
     
    Sure, it looks like a shack. Really, two shacks: one is the garage—that’s where all sorts of “work” happens, by which I mean one of two kinds: working on your ride, or working on your body. The two are basically one in the same for any good member of the Damned, because your bike should be an extension of your body. Most guys will knock out a few deadlift sets or squats in between fiddling with their rides.
     
    Others take a more structured approach. I fall into that camp. I was strong when I got out of the service, and lean, but the months of immobility as a result of my injuries, plus the addiction, started to make me soft, skinny, but flabby. Once I joined the Damned, I tried to stem the tide of addiction by adopting the most rigorous of physical training schedules: an hour of hitting the heavy bag in the morning, every morning, with two hours of weight lifting in the evening four times a week, plus regular pick up basketball and football games with the guys.
     
    Now, it was an addiction as much as the heroin had ever been. Maybe even more so, because I couldn’t have the blessed smack anymore. I kept hideously, absurdly detailed notebooks tracking every aspect of my progress, how much I was lifting, how I was feeling as I lifted, how strong I was getting. Focusing on that helped keep the desire for smack out of my mind, if only for a few hours a day.
     
    So, there’s the workshop, and then the other shack is the clubhouse proper—where you go to lounge, to sleep, to eat, to drink, to fuck, to fight—though, an update to our charter last month specified that all fighting was to be done outside as much as possible, since we were tired of smashed TVs and broken glass littering the couches.
     
    It’s like a fraternity house inside, but a fraternity house on steroids. A bar adorns the living room, with faded and jaded couches surrounding a coffee table, and a handful of pool tables in the corner. The bar is always well-stocked with whatever you’d like to drink—beer, run, tequila, whiskey, gin, vodka, even wine for the ladies, on the off chance you bring in a lady or (more likely) a hooker who doesn’t want straight whiskey.
     
    Though, we by and large prefer our women to be the types who drink bourbon straight, no chaser.
     
    Off of the living room is a staircase leading up to the second floor, with bedrooms, “offices” (really, just empty rooms, to be used for whatever), bathrooms, and a small kitchen. A few of the Damned live here full time, but most of us have other apartments, even other jobs. It’s only a few that can make a full time living as a biker.
     
    It’s not much—but it’s home, or a home, of sorts.
     
    I sat at the bar one Saturday afternoon after meeting with Doug. Some of the Damned stood around, shooting pool, while others were piled onto the couch, watching the FSU game. Upstairs, we could hear the tell-tale creek of a bed as someone got lucky, showing his old lady a good time.
     
    “Making too much fucking noise up there…” Dog muttered from the other side of the bar. Jim “Dog” Tiller. He’s a scrawny shrimp of a bastard, with a ratty looking beard and goatee. A real mutt. He’s an ex-Navy man too and, as a Marine myself, you’d think we wouldn’t get along. But we were Damned now, and even though I made jibes about the Marines being the Men’s Department of the Navy, I would trust Dog with my life.
     
    “Then stop fucking listening,” I muttered, sipping at my whiskey. I shouldn’t be drinking but damned if I cared. I knew where I had to steer the conversation and I wasn’t looking forward to it, but here it went.
     
    “When I bring my newest bitch around, you’d best not listen,” I growled, continuing the train of the conversation. “If you do, so help me god, I will break a fifth