by Cheri Marie
I knock on the club door and wait for King to answer, knowing without asking he hasn’t gone home in days. This is the place all of us land when we have nowhere else to go, and sometimes when we do. The clubhouse is our home away from home.
King’s soon-to-be ex-wife never really had what it takes to be an old lady and refuses to wear her leather that says she’s his property. Which is an immediate reason to leave her ass in the dirt, if you ask me. I get it. Some women find it highly offensive if you refer to them as property, but fuck, a biker doesn’t take the term lightly. Not just anyone can bear these letters, so the fact that a brother wants to officially let the world know you’re his property, that’s saying something. It’s telling the world you aren’t a club whore, that you hold yourself at a higher standard. It’s looking society square in the eye and screaming out a huge fuck you to the pussies that wear their emotions on their sleeve.
In my opinion, she is and has always been too high-maintenance for anyone who chooses our lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong. Those bitches can be fun, and they’re usually worth the work you put into them because they only act that way because their insecurities are forefront when any decision is made. Which means they’ll do whatever you want them to, just to hear how beautiful they are and earn your approval.
My experience with women like that is this: they’ll do just about anything you want, and I mean anything, just to hear how amazing they are at it. There was one hang-around that did anything she could to please me, just to get my approval. It was the best blowjob I have ever gotten to date. As long as I told her empty promises of how she was so much more than what she undeniably was, a club whore, she was happy. We would get wasted, and before I knew it, her mouth was on my dick like clockwork. Afterward, when she was wiping her mouth, I’d tell her how phenomenal she was and she’d always return. Some women just want to know they’re needed.
These days, I tend to be a bit pickier of who I let on or around my cock. After Panhead caught a case of the dick cold and he told stories of how he never knew a dick could have a running nose, that was it for me. Everybody has their breaking point, and the idea of fluid constantly running out of my dick is mine.
“Hold your damn… Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?” King’s booming deep voice resonates through the clubhouse and forces through the door, letting me know I’m the reason he is awake.
“Glas. You dick.” He smiles, scratching his broad chest and then yawning. King got his road name for less obvious reasons than one would think. It isn’t the fact he has the literal word tatted on his knuckles. Although, that’s the vague story we tell the nosey ass pricks that think it’s their business to know why everybody has the name they do. Some would guess his name has to do with his size. The man is a fucking house. Ex-Marine. I work out and I have a pretty decent build, but hell, King’s muscles have muscles. We just leave society clueless to our road names, because typically there is something illegal tightly wound with the story that goes along with it. Plus, it’s none of their damn business.
“It’s two in the fucking afternoon, King,” I say, half-laughing, and walk into the main area of the house. Red lace panties are in the middle of the first pool table wrapped around the cue ball, and the second has a bottle of Jack taking up its mid-occupancy. I shake my head and smile, kind of wishing I had come here last night instead of going home.
“So it is.” He clears his throat and smirks. “Huh, that’s where I left that.” He grabs the bottle and walks around me and across the floor to the bar area, sitting on a stool and taking a swallow of Jack straight from the bottle.
“What’s up, brother?” he asks, looking down at the patch that has the words “Vice President” on it in disgust and brushes something off it. “Fucking whores.” He coughs, snagging a pack of cigarettes off the bar and packs them on his inner wrist where his 1% tatt resides.
“The fuck?” I ask and eyeball the area as something flies off his cut and onto the floor.
“Don’t ask questions. It was a wild one.” He shakes his head and presses the bottle to his lips again as he takes another pull.
After shrugging my shoulders and dismissing the unknown object, I say in a low tone, scanning the stairs that lead down into the rooms for the owner of the red thongs, “It safe?”
“Yep,” he answers, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it with his Zippo. “I gave them the boot last night. What’s on your mind?”
I give him a rundown of Memphis’ latest disappearing act to see if he has any info or knowledge of what could be up with him. If I thought everything Memphis is up to is completely legal, I could have just as easily sent King a text, but those are traceable. We never put anything that could be incriminating in writing and we always watch who we talk about certain subjects around. You never know who could be listening or watching, for that matter.
King blows out a puff of smoke. “Ya don’t say,” he simply answers, and I know him. He doesn’t like to unnecessarily lie to his brothers, so when he doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t. He just says something and lets people take it as they may, forming their own opinions of the situation. Probates are a different story. Mullet still to this day believes some of the far-fetched stories King told him when he was still in his probationary period.
He rolls his neck and it cracks as he lets out a sigh of relief. This too is something most people wouldn’t question. Anybody but his brother, that is. I know it’s a tic he has when he’s avoiding something. Instantly, I’m pissed. He’s protecting Memphis, and the fucker isn’t even his brother. I am a fucking Chained Rebel, just like him.
I help myself to one of his cigs, knowing it’ll get under his skin. I’m normally not a fan of cigarettes, only cigars, but I need something to keep my hands busy. I’d be an idiot to try to take on King. There’s a certain hierarchy when it comes to motorcycle clubs, and despite how bad I want to clock the motherfucker right now, I’d be signing my death note by doing so. Honestly, I’m probably overreacting. I do that. I let my rage lead me, which is the exact reason I’m a reaper. I do have anger issues. I don’t deny them. Instead, I put them to good use, but they’re nothing compared to Cobra’s. He’s the other reaper, often called Sargent of Arms in other MCs, and fuck if he doesn’t do our job well.
“Fine.” He holds the filter of his smoke between his front teeth as he puffs. “Memphis is into some shit. This is one of the things we’ll address in church. So if you breathe a fucking word,” he defensively warns and straightens his posture.
“I won’t,” I assure him, knowing it’s best for both of us if I don’t discuss this with anyone else.
“That new employee he texted you about. I’m pretty sure her first name is Crystal. Last name Meth.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, I’m gutted. I cough on the smoke as it rolls out and my eyes bulge, hoping I hear him wrong.
“Meth?”
“Yeah. Sorry, brother.” He stands and puts his arm over my shoulder, clapping me on the back. “Remember the shit we found in the bathroom and we figured it was one of the pass around’s shit?”
I nod.
“It wasn’t,” he points out, reaching over the bar for a glass to pour me a drink.
“You know, Bad doesn’t mind drugs. Hell, he usually brings it in, but fuck, if someone else brings it in our house, under our noses.” He scoots the brown liquid toward me with a look of pity on his face, like he regrets saying what he is. But, his eyes flash with hatred of the betrayal of Memphis, who ultimately is my responsibility. I am responsible for what he does in and out of this club.
“Fuck.” I shake my head, letting my mind race of the many ways Bad, our President, will retaliate. I know my brother is as good as dead to the club, but I don’t know where that leaves me. In this moment, I fucking hate my brother and feel pity for him all in the same breath. For the first time since joining the club, I’m actually questioning my decision of joining. I quickly shake that thought from my head and squa
re my shoulders one at a time, after tipping my head back and swallowing the whiskey.
King flips his phone over as it dings, types a quick reply, and flips the screen over against the wooden bar. “Bad is on his way, so sit tight.”
I force myself to swallow the lump of nerves forming in my throat, suddenly piecing together a few things I had noticed about my brother recently. He always liked looking out the office window and down onto the people below. It gave him a sense of power, but in the few times I saw him the last couple of weeks, I’d noticed him doing it multiple times throughout the day. He’s been on edge more than usual. He actually asked me when Sam’s party was a week after him reminding me. I thought he was just giving me shit and trying to see if I still remembered the date. Mostly, my brother has always had a naturally athletically looking physique, and as of recent he’s lost some weight. I assumed it was from the stomach virus that had been passed around at The Den.
“What a fucking idiot,” I enunciate each word and butt out the cigarette, most of it ashes now anyway. Placing my head in my hands, I turn my attention back to King and I want to say something, but I have nothing.
“Lucky day, man.” King laughs, looking at his phone, and smiles his huge grin. “Bad’s kids are getting dropped by his place, so he can’t make it here until church. We’ll see you then, brother.” He stands and squeezes my shoulder with his bear paw of a hand.
“10-4,” I quickly mumble, and that’s all the motivation I need to get my black boots on the floor and me out the door.
Chapter Seven
Scarlette
“You missed the party,” I point out the obvious to Glas before he can even climb off his bike. My tone comes out more hateful than I intended, and it’s not him that I’m pissed at. It’s his brother. I sent Memphis text after text. Hell, I’ve probably called him one hundred times and who knows how many messages I’ve left. Each time I heard his voice message, I was angrier than the last.
“Yeah, I had to take care of business.” He clears his throat and runs his broad hands through his wavy hair.
Instantly, every ounce of hate I have inside me for Memphis comes to the surface and I yell at Glas, “Fucking taking care of business. That’s all you two ever do. If it’s not trouble with The Den, it’s trouble at your clubhouse. I’m fucking tired of all this club business. Sick and fucking tired, Glas!” I know he doesn’t deserve most of my aggression, but I can’t stop myself. Defeat sets into my veins as soon as the last word leaves my lips, and I notice I’m almost to where he is standing. Right off his bike.
“Did Memphis not come back?” he asks, the honesty of his question clear as his eyes look past me and into the house, and he looks for Memphis’ vehicle in the driveway.
At this point, I can’t figure out if I’m more upset over his choice of words or if I’m scared because I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Memphis had to be tied up in some bullshit with Glas. There is no other reason why he would miss our kid’s birthday party. Tears form and crest along my eyelids when I think of the lie I had told Sam to cover for his dad. “Daddy had to go to work” is what I told him, knowing damn well wherever Memphis was it had nothing to do with his job.
I slowly shake my head to answer Glas and know this is my breaking point. I can’t put up the hard bitch façade in front of him anymore. I just don’t have it in me today. I ready myself for whatever asshole remark is about to come out of his mouth and plant my bare feet on the ground as if it will help me be stronger.
“Come here.” Glas pulls me to his chest and wraps his strong arms around my waist. His smell is intoxicating, a mix of gasoline, musk, and man. I always keep Glas an arm’s length away from me for this very reason. As long as we don’t touch, other than a simple pass here and there, I’m safe. Now I’m in trouble.
“Memphis has gotten himself into some—”
“Danger?” I interrupt him and push myself out of the moment and look up to Glas, my nerve endings pulsating with fear.
His body silently shakes as a devilish smirk flashes on his face before he bites the corner of his lip. “No, Scar. What he’s mixed up in isn’t the definition of danger.”
“How do you define danger, Glasgow?” I say, using his full name, mostly to fill the air, but more so to distract myself.
“You.” If any question remains within me, his green eyes answer my every unanswered thought as he honestly speaks, running his finger through my hair, and then he cups the back of my head. My body stills beneath his hands. I should ask more questions about Memphis—I know I really should— but I can’t. Glas’ honesty has me holding my thighs together to try to stop the ache his words create.
Chapter Eight
Glas
I run my greedy hands down her body, and my mind screams in agony as bumps rise on her skin in response. This is a bad idea, maybe even the worst to ever cross through my brain, but it doesn’t stop me. Even if I could stop, I don’t know if I would. I realize it’s late, but she’s in an oversized T-shirt and barely-there shorts.
Stopping momentarily to look into her eyes, needing her to tell me to stop, I see she wants this as much as I do. She guides us to my bike and climbs on top of me, fisting my hair. “We should stop.”
Finally. One of us has clarity.
“We should,” barely leaves my lips before she devours them with hers. Everything about her tells me the reasons I need to put a slamming halt to this, but with my cock as hard as it is and her grinding against it, there’s no fucking way I’ll be the one to stop her.
In the dark, you feel as though you’re safe, that no one is watching. Your insecurities are at bay. In reality, you are only openly sending out an invitation for any bad blood you’ve stupidly let yourself forget in the moment to be spilled all over your fucking body.
Needing more of her, I hastily pull her shirt over her head as she lifts her arms up for easier access. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her ivory skin contrasts the night sky, and my hands immediately go to work on her nipples.
“Fuck me, Glas,” she begs through gritted teeth as I roll her nipples between my fingers.
“I want to. Do I fucking ever, but this. You. It’s beautiful.” I pause momentarily, and my eyes find hers that are filled with raw desire.
Normally, I would have already flipped a woman over my handlebars and been balls deep inside her, but with Scarlette I want to savor it. We’ve been playing cat and mouse for so long the build is worth it.
“Nico,” she says point-blank and brings me back to the here and now, taking my hand and guiding it underneath the thin material covering her sweetness.
“I. Want. You. To. Fuck. Me,” she slowly purrs in sin-laced words, pushing my hand to her slick clit.
“And I will,” I demand, rubbing her slowly until she starts rubbing herself against my fingers. “All in due time.” I laugh, knowing I’m torturing her, enjoying watching her squirm and working her like a puppeteer.
“Mmm,” she moans, and I catch it with my mouth, releasing a noise similar to hers. Right now, it’s just us on my ride. Nothing else matters.
As soon as I feel her pussy clench around my hand, I stop and pull her shorts down as she lifts her ass to make it quicker.
“All right,” she quickly says. “My turn.” She undoes my jeans and springs my hardness free, rubbing herself with the tip, teasing me. She knows exactly what she wants, and it’s hot. I’ve been with plenty of women, but no one has ever met the hunger that I have.
“Fuck, Scar,” I seethe and give in to her wishes, taking my dick in my hand and guiding it to her opening. We both hiss out of pleasure, and I almost come undone right there. I know it makes me an even bigger asshole, but I figured she would be loose. Holy shit, she is the complete opposite, much to my surprise.
There are certain people the world tries everything to keep apart, and I know that applies to Scarlette and me. We shouldn’t be together. I’m a dirty biker, and she’s not old lady material, but fuck, if I care right now.
My fingers grip her hips and I push all of my length into her and we both moan. I’m not sure if it’s out of pleasure or pain, but shit, I like both. From that point on, we lose ourselves in one another.
As I bury my sins within her skin, it is clear who would break first. Initially, I thought I would be the one to ruin her. The way her tongue is moving in unison with mine, reality sets in. She claimed me the moment our eyes met. We both know this shouldn’t happen, but we’re both so broken, I think we just need something to believe in. It’s funny, as humans we walk this Earth, most happily wearing rose-colored glasses. They keep us from seeing the feverish nightmare of reality, but it never protects us.
Her walls clench around me, and I let her take the reins, enjoying every minute of it. She’s almost there.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me,” I whisper into her ear and catch her earlobe between my teeth and then nip her neck.
That does her in. Her body shakes as she falls apart around me. “Now it’s my turn.” I devilishly laugh, lifting her up and flipping us over. “Grab the grips,” I instruct her and pull out for a second to allow her to do so.
Without question, she does and it leaves her plump ass up in the air. She looks back at me, a smirk playing on her lips. I pull my jeans and boxers down farther and eventually have to take off one of my boots to make taking her from behind work, because this position flowed better in my head.
