Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) by Christie Ridgway Read Free Book Online Page A

one corner stood a couple of grills and a table heaping with food. Across from it sat a collection of coolers filled with water and sodas for the younger crowd. Taps trailed from a few different kegs of beers, but bottles of micro-brews chilling in slushy ice appeared popular, too.
    If the trend for craft beer continued, then hip breweries might move into the industrial section and, within half a decade, the tasting rooms/brewpubs springing up around them could change the future of the neglected properties and the shoddy single-family homes.
    Already a couple of the Unrulies were making beer out back for club consumption, and Eamon could see his father, “Irish” Rooney as he was known, pushing to make that process a commercial enterprise. Maybe that was also why his dad had purchased several of the crappier houses in the surrounding blocks as they came up for sale. Irish was a clever man who liked money and who also liked to survive.
    When interclub feuding had turned lethal and the cops ever more diligent, Eamon’s father had insisted on diversification. It wasn’t easy, even as president, to persuade the members to give up running drugs and guns, especially when there wasn’t an alternative as profitable. But turning barley, water, hops, and yeast into an authentic MC alcoholic beverage was rather brilliant when he thought about it. A livelihood for the club that could provide real stability and income.
    The guys who didn’t have the temperament or the talent for babysitting the ingredients from malting to bottling could do a variety of other tasks, up to and including rehabbing the shitty homes as the whole neighborhood came to new life.
    Of course, then the clubhouse would likely move. The Unruly Assassins were a group of bikers, not a country club, and they were better suited for seedy environs. Fix up the area and the guys would have to find a new place to party hardy on Saturday nights—and any other time that suited them—and hold church when the president decided he had an issue requiring he pound the gavel.
    Eamon knocked back the rest of his beer and tossed the cup into a nearby trash receptacle. Time for another drink. He’d come to put a certain female from his mind, and that was going to require more alcohol and maybe some woman to later warm his bed.
    “Hey, uh, hi,” a voice said, and Eamon looked up.
    A young man stood near the table, red Solo in hand. “Smitty” was penned in Sharpie on the side, which made Eamon smile. The bikers’ kids were always after them to re-use and recycle.
    “I’m new,” the guy said. Even in the dim light there was a hard look to him, his muscles wiry, his hair overgrown, a chinstrap beard edging his jaw. “Name’s Smitty.”
    “I see that.” Eamon obligingly moved down the table so the younger man had room to take a place beside him, ass on the top, boots on the bench. “Like it so far?”
    “Hard not to say yes,” Smitty answered, gesturing with his cup to a pair of dancing women illuminated by the flames of a nearby fire pit on wheels.
    They were young and nubile and wearing the kind of outfits you expected to see on a chick at biker party—that is, tight and showing lots of skin. But it was early hours yet, and so their movements were tame as they chatted and moved to the music.
    “Wait until later,” Eamon advised, as a passel of elementary school-age kids raced by intent on some game of their own. “When the under-eighteen crowd hits curfew hour and heads home, the action heats up.”
    Smitty nodded. Guys like him were “hangarounds,” here to get a feel for the club while the members and those attached to the Unrulies got a feel for him. If that went well, then he’d move up and become a “prospect” for an unspecified amount of time, ordered around and expected to do shit until the day he’d be allowed full membership.
    “How long have you been…visiting here?”
    Since birth. Hiding his next smile, Eamon swallowed the words. Couldn’t