Pawn

by Kerri Ann

  Washing up at Humble, I feel human again. The scars are internal now, but I still feel coated in filth.

  “This is fucked. You know this is fucked, right?” Jazzy states as we’re doing our make-up in the mirror.

  “I’m grateful we’re alive.”

  Blowing out a heavy breath as she’s applying mascara, Jazzy pauses. “I’ve always expected I could lose Bennett or the boys, but not you. I was so scared of losing you. You’re the closest thing I have to a sister, O. With everything, I don’t think I would’ve done well with losing you at all.” With a climactic pause, a lone tear drips down her cheek. “Fuck. Now I have to redo this.”

  I know her having to redo her make-up is just a diversion tactic. “Jaz, I was so scared I’d lose you too. I mean, once in that warehouse was enough for me, being in there a second time—” I choke on the words. “I didn’t think we’d survive.”

  Smiling, she turns from the mirror and looks at me. “We did. We’re strong bitches. We didn’t have to kick ass, but we survived.”

  It’s a statement, a testament to our will to live. It doesn’t require a reply, so instead, I hug her tightly. “There’s no one else I’d rather be kidnapped twice with than you, Oubliette.”

  “Ditto, Jasmine.”

  Hugging until the tension of the past few hours dissipates, we finish getting dressed and walk out to the club floor.

  Walking in, I’m relieved when I see Miss and Trigger joking and getting on. Yeah, Trigger talking is a surprise, but one I’m glad for. He’s always been so aloof and quiet. This craziness seems to have brought him out of his shell.

  Walking over, I ask the only question I need to. “How’d it go?” I know Miss was going back to the clubhouse to clean up there, and that Trigger was staying with Cap and Lucius, so for him to be here, that means something.

  “Good.” He smiles. “I left Radish back at the clubhouse to come get you. She’s found love in some monster, three-legged Mastiff named Kessel.”

  Monster is right. I’d almost forgotten about leaving my brother’s dog at the club. With everything, the damn thing has either starved or been overfed. And if he’s fallen for Radish, Grady will have a hard time getting Kessel back. I doubt he wants to fight Radish over her man to drag him home. I’ve seen that dog pissed off, and there’s no way I would get in the way.

  I turn to Jazzy for a goodbye hug. “See you in a bit?” I ask.

  “Why? She’s coming too. Busta’s orders,” Miss informs me with a wide grin. “Trigger and I will get Death. You two, go get in the truck.”

  Sweetly surprised, the two of us start for the doors. No one has to tell me twice that I was ordered by Busta. I need to see him. It’s a driving force. I need to know he’s okay and to see it for myself.

  The ride over for the most part is uneventful. Bennett, in pain, consistently grabbed up the bottle of Jack. Swilling down mouthfuls along with painkillers, it tells me he’s dealing with a world of hurt.

  Seeing the clubhouse gates, with the invisible, yet mental stains on the ground, I feel myself tighten. There’s no blood in the area where King knocked Sinew and the twins out, but my mind sees the destruction all the same. There’s no way anyone can get me to go to the bathroom or walk down the hall to the residences. The memories of those deaths, of Panna and of Scarlet, are just too painful. I’ll walk down the street to a house if I need to relieve myself, thank you.

  Hopping out of the truck, the sound alerted the masses that we’d arrived. As Radish rushes out from around the buildings, Kessel hot on her heels, the two of them bombard Trigger with love. Jumping for kisses, circling him and rubbing against his legs, it’s easy to see why he left her here. Once Kessel is content that he’s given Trigger everything he should, the big dolt comes to me.

  “Yeah, yeah. Hi, Kess, you big idiot.” With all this bullshit, I appreciate life and how crazy it’s been for me that much more.

  Pushing away and running after Radish, Kessel bounds off in his three-legged gait. Which leaves me to search out Lucius. Steeling my heart, guarding my soul and pulling in all the strength I have, I pull the door to the clubhouse open. The defused light splashes the space. The once joyous area is in mourning. Everyone is somber and saddened. I don’t blame them. There was no reason for Panna to die. Even now, I expect her light and airy persona to greet me as I enter.

  Seeing a few familiar faces, the man I’m looking for isn’t there. Retribution, slumped in the corner, slowly drinking himself into oblivion speaks up, “He’s in church.”

  Which means to leave him the fuck alone. That’s not somewhere I go. It’s not my place. Starting toward the bar, as I move to take a seat, Quiver smiles weakly. “Why aren’t you going to see him?”

  “He’s in church. I know the rules.”

  He laughs. “Sweet girl. He’s in there. No one else. Go.” He places two shots on the bar. “Take these with you. I have the feeling you could both use it.”

  Picking up the offered shot glasses full of liquid, I smile. “Thanks. When I get back, I’ll return the favor.”

  Turning down the hall toward their sacred room—the place that business gets done—the door is wide open, and the large form of Lucius sits with his back to me.

  “Lucius?” I ask with trepidation. Maybe Quiver was wrong. Lucius might like to be alone. After all, I know what happened. His world has been set to spin cycle—the axis flipped and he’s in a heavy tailspin.

  Turning in the chair, his body stiff, his stance is compacted and strained. Raising his hand, he calls me over. “Come here, Obi.”

  I start inside. “Shut the door, love,” he states as a side comment. I bet his throat hurts like hell after the damage he took, and the interrogation he went through after. I left when he asked, but I saw the pain in his eyes that it ached to speak.

  Laying the little cups from Quiver on the long table, I close the door and start toward Lucius after grabbing them back up. Stopping between his legs, offering him one of the glasses, he smiles softy as he takes it. Downing it quick and setting it on the table, I do the same.

  Fire Whiskey. Quiver, the prick. He knows I hate that particular liquid. He’ll get a Dirty Cocksucker for that later.

  Bending low, concentrating on Lucius, I kneel on the floor before him, taking him in. He’s not broken, he’s upset.

  “I never thought that it would come to that. I’d hoped that finding our family was going to be a good reunion, not one where you see your father killed all because he had no qualms about harming you. I always thought I was King’s pawn. I was wrong. I was a pawn in my father’s game. None of us really meant anything to him.” Laying his head in his hands, he rests his arms on his knees.

  Kissing his forehead, he accepts the sweet touch as he’s warring with the outcome of today. Grasping his bearded face, softly stroking the skin of his cheek, Lucius leans into it. “You weren’t a pawn. You were a player in his game, but you came out. You won. King, Rook, Queen—you took the board. The pawn can be a strong player if used right. You didn’t lose it all. He did. You succeeded, and you’ll live to make things better for you, your clubs, for everyone.”

  Pulling my hands from his face, Lucius kisses me as if I’m the last bit of goodness in the world. His tongue is soft and imploring, taking, but not rough. His hands hold me, but it’s more like he’s confirming I’m real. “Oubliette,” he breathes out, full of need and desire. “I couldn’t handle if you were hurt.”

  “I was fine, Lucius. Because of you. Because of what you did.” He needs to hear it, to have a confirmation that his actions were the right ones.

  Taking me again, Lucius’ kiss morphs. From the sweet touch, to the feel I’ve come to enjoy. His determination to mark me as his is evident in the way his tongue wars with mine. Breathing into it, absorbing all the bad and accepting what he offers, I decide I want more. I want all of Lucius.

  Breaking away, I kiss him gently on the nose, then on his lips once more. Moving my hands, unhooking the button on his jeans and
releasing the zipper, I reach within. I have a need to remove all the bad thoughts racing through my head and replace them with good moments. Good thoughts. Good memories.

  Grasping his warm heat, I wrap my hand as far around as I can, and slowly begin to move up and down. I’m teasing him, and I know he won’t allow that for too long. He’s a man of control. But I want control. I want to be the driver. I want to show him who’s in charge—sometimes.

  Pushing off his lap, resting on my knees, I pull his cock free from the confines of his jeans. “Sit back, Lucius.”

  He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice, woman.”

  Resting back as commanded, I pull his jeans lower so that the whole of his cock is uncovered. Bending above him with my mouth covering as far as I can, I move up and down with the strokes of my hand. He’s more than my little mouth can handle, but I love the reaction that I’m pulling from him in this one simple little act. Looking up at him, seeing his head back and the wound on his neck visible, I know I’m not the only one who needs new memories.

  Massaging the base, attempting to take more of him in, his hand comes around to hold my head in place. Stroke after stroke, he moves along with me, never pushing me too far, but guiding me. This is the first time I’ve done this with him, and I know he has to show me what’s right for his enjoyment.

  As he shifts on the chair, thrusting his hips out toward me, leaning into it, I know that what I’m doing is right.

  “Christ, Obi. I’m gonna blow if you keep that up.”

  Isn’t that the point, Lucius? I think to myself. But I continue my assault on him, hoping to give him the best experience possible.

  With a harsh, “That’s it,” he picks me up off of him and stands me up, releasing the jeans I was wearing in a desperately quick motion. I’m standing in the room with only a thin tank top. Yeah, I changed at Humble, but my clothing options were still limited. This was the best I could come up with.

  “Fuck me, Oubliette. You’re beyond fucking gorgeous.” Lifting my legs, he lays me down on the table, the tiny shot glasses zinging to the floor. With his mouth on my pussy and a hand on my breast, Lucius holds me hostage to his whims. It’s amazing, and it goes straight to my core. Biting my lip to stop from screaming out—because we’re in a clubhouse that’s had enough death to think something’s happened again—I feel every nerve firing in my body as his tongue swipes toward my release.

  Just as I’m cresting, ready to explode, he rises up and slams his cock deep. “You’re mine. No one else will touch this. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. Do you understand, Obi?”

  Right now, I’d agree to being a sex slave in a harem if he asked. “Yes,” I say, breathless and wanton between his thrusts.

  “You are mine,” he states with determination. “Be mine. Say it. Say you’ll be mine. Wear my patch.”

  I hesitate. “Lucius...” As my climax takes me, I scream out, “Yes!”

  While his end comes upon him, and his thrusts become harsher, then slower, Lucius lays his body across mine, fully sated and satisfied.

  “You know, women aren’t allowed in here. And sex on the table is strictly forbidden.”

  I giggle. “Good thing I have an in with the president.”

  Kissing me on the nose, he helps me to stand. “Yeah. Good thing.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Busta

  Walking back out after our mind-blowing sex, the common room is abuzz. The men stare at me wide-eyed, while the old ladies and whores smile. With Oubliette’s hand in mine, I kiss her gently on the forehead and watch as she walks off to the bar.

  Slipping behind it, she shoves Quiver in a playful way. “Had to give me Fire Whiskey. Don’t worry, I’ll get back at you when you least expect it.”

  Looking at the remnants of our club, the men we’ve lost, the kids that will climb the ranks, and everything we’ll need to change, I figure there’s no time like the present.

  “Church, boys,” I state authoritatively.

  “Don’t you want to give it a spray and wipe down first, Pres.” Miss laughs, smiling and being his cocky old self. With an arm wrapped around a whore, he’s settled back in after a day of death.

  “Just grab the boys up, cocksucker. And the prospects too. Everyone in,” I say, not taking the barb. Noticing that Trigger and Death are here, I ask, “You two in too?”

  Yeah, I know. Another club in on church. It’s more than odd. Today is a day for change, though. We might as well kick this off with a bang.

  Slightly taken aback by the request, the two look at each other first. “Yeah. We’re in, Busta.”

  Rising off the couches and chairs, boys trickle by me and start for the meet. With taps on the shoulder with either congratulations or a sorry, I nod and accept them all. Walking up with a limp, Death stops beside me. “You sure you want us in on this? There’s still a ton of animosity toward the Horsemen after True and Strike. Not to mention everything else.”

  “Brother’s in blood is stronger than patches. Come on.” I smack him on the shoulder as I help his limping ass to the room.

  Ten minutes later, we’re all settled, and even with the questioning glares, I know this will be a good thing.

  Running down the events—starting with Obi, Panna, and Scarlet, then including the Cruel Intentions and Alta Noche, the boys of my club listen on, absorbing it all.

  When I’m done, I open the floor for questions. “Anyone have questions or concerns?”

  Silent brothers surround me, and it’s unnerving.

  Finally, Munch pipes up. “Busta, I’ve known you this whole time. If you were gonna let us rot in jail using the DEA, you’d have done it while DG was pres, or when True was pulling the bullshit he did with the Horsemen.” He looks to Death and Trigger. “I’m sorry for the parts we played in hurting your club. Family is sacred. True was wrong to do what he did, and I hope that Curse is doing better. I for one think you have it right, Busta. We need to work as a single club. A single ideal. I’m in.”

  “You know that means you might be voted out. You could be the low man on the totem—no offense,” Miss states, looking at Death, joking about his heritage. It seems the two of them hit it off well.

  With a smile and a returned quirky look, Death swills a few gulps of the bottle he’s carrying around. “None taken, asshole.”

  “Then are you okay with that?” Miss asks us both. “I mean, it could be Busta and Death, or even someone else that could be voted as president of this ragtag bunch.”

  Looking at Death, knowing what we’ve talked about before the FBI showed up, I shrug. “I know. I’m good with it.”

  “Yeah,” Death states with a smile. “For the good of the clubs, I’d do anything. Our families deserve us fighting for them the right way.”

  As the rest quietly talk among themselves, Retribution stands. He’s not smiling, he’s too broken for that. This has taken a heavy toll on him. “Busta, I’m sorry. I’ve lost too much to this. I need time to grieve.” Laying his cut on the table, I feel for him, knowing what he’s lost. I can’t deny him the request.

  Moving toward him, picking up the discarded vest that is as much a part of Ret as his own skin, I hand it back to him. “You do what you need to, Ret. We’re your family and we’ll be here when you return.”

  As he walks out with rounds of apologies and condolences, he closes the door behind him.

  Flight, being the smartass, he pipes up cynically, “What would we be called? I’d hate to have to fix my tats and badges on the bike. I doubt you guys are up for it either.”

  As I’m about to answer, Quiver interrupts. “This will include the other clubs that were involved with your little shoot ’em up too, right?”

  Scoffing at his question, Sinew, the pretty boy, laughs at Quiver. “Like you worry about real estate on your skin, Flight. Wondering about skin and stickers, that’s a good one.”

  Flight and Quiver asking questions, tells me they’re contemplating it. Sinew—not even pat
ched in—wouldn’t normally have a stake in this, but with us changing the landscape, prospect and patched is a blurred line.

  “We hadn’t really thought that out yet. Suggestions?” Death asks with a slight slur.

  “The Brotherhood?” Fletch, the twin with the scar down his cheek, asks. It’s the only way to tell them apart. As we turn collectively to look at him, he continues. “If you were to work as a collective on things that matter, and work as a team to gain profits—no infighting and no wars, then everyone wins. We’ve always put brotherhood above all else, why not be the Brotherhood and keep our titles? Be like the mafia. Each has their domains, but they work as a group. No cuts, no color, no changes.”

  Huh. Not bad.

  As the boys talk amongst themselves, Death and I confer. “It’s an easier way. Written as a coalition?”

  Death nods his approval. “I’m good if you are. Then no one is the power. The combined strength is better. Think your brother will go for it?” he asks.

  “Yeah. That I’m not sure of. We’ll have to tread with Cap for a bit. Losing Raptor is a big blow. He’ll need space.” I turn to Miss, who’s seated beside Trigger. “Think you can have a chat with Sinner? See if we can grab a meet in the weeks coming?”

  “No idea why not. He knows we’re all in this for the best of our businesses. It should be a no-brainer.”

  Asking one final time if anyone objects, we cast the vote.

  Only three were decidedly against it, but the rest saw the positives of working as a group. Keeping our noses clean, losing the 1% and becoming stronger in legal dealings, this was a step forward for us, and not having to look over our shoulders.

  With church ending and everyone spilling out, after talking so long, my throat was killing me. Thing was, it wasn’t what was on my mind. The dull pain of it was minimized by the reminders of Obi’s body laid out like a buffet on the church table. The only thing I have in mind is to get her home and fuck her until she can’t even sit on my bike.