by Joanna Wylde
“I can’t wear this,” I told him, shaking my head as I looked at myself in the mirror.
He stood by the counter, ignoring me.
“I can’t, Horse. I’ll die.”
“You’ll wear it,” he replied, obviously preoccupied as he wrote something in a ledger.
“No.”
He looked up at me, taking in my belligerent stance. His eyes narrowed and we stood frozen for nearly a minute, neither of us blinking or giving an inch.
“We gotta go over the rules again?” he asked finally. “Because the way I remember things, you were begging to do whatever it took to save your pansy-ass brother, despite the fact that he came to us, asked us to back him and then screwed us over. In my world, that’s a prepaid funeral. You changing your mind about our deal? Door’s right over there, babe.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said, voice low and unsteady. “You can be so nice sometimes. Why do you do this?” I asked, gesturing to the horrible outfit he’d picked. “Do you really hate me so much? I don’t think I deserve this, Horse.”
He shook his head, reaching up and gripping the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t hate you, babe,” he said. “You piss me off, but I can live with that. Hell, fuckin’ turns me on most of the time. But you don’t understand all that’s happening here and I can’t tell you without fucking things up. If this bothers you, I’m sorry, but there’s a good reason for it. You’ll just have to trust me.”
He turned back to the ledger, ignoring me for another minute. I watched him, seriously considering whether or not to back out of our deal, but I couldn’t do that to Jeff. He needed me.
“Shit, I forgot,” Horse said suddenly. “You need some shoes too. Go pick something out. Doesn’t matter which ones, any of ’em will do.”
Happy for a distraction, I wandered over to the wall of shoes, thankful that for once I could pick for myself. Then I realized why he didn’t bother telling me what to get, because each and every pair were clearly designed for stripping and nothing else. I settled on a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that would have looked almost demure if they didn’t have a four-inch spike heel.
Amazingly, almost every other shoe had even higher heels, some of them on platforms so tall I doubted I’d be able to take a single step wearing them. I grabbed the shoes and gave them to Horse, who didn’t say anything. His eyes darkened though, and he reached down to adjust his pants.
I felt a little thrill of desire and power roar to life, which bugged the crap out of me. Why couldn’t I decide whether I liked him or hated him? How could I go from being angry to horny so incredibly fast? It wasn’t fair. I changed back out of my clothes and he bagged them, along with some teeny tank tops and baby doll t-shirts that read “Support your local Reapers Motorcycle Club.”
At least the trip to the grocery store wasn’t bad. It took us about an hour to get everything on the list. Once again, people took care to stay out of his way, which worked just fine for me. We didn’t even have to wait in line to check out, everyone just waved us ahead of them.
“Is it always like this?” I asked him as we loaded up the groceries.
“Usually,” he replied. “We’re not the biggest club, but we’re definitely in charge around here. So long as they give us respect, it’s all good. Not many citizens up for taking on a Reaper, that’s for damned sure.”
“What happens if they do?” I asked.
He gave me a sharp look. “What do you think?”
Stupid question.
When we got home Horse insisted on unloading the groceries, telling me to go upstairs and put away my new things. While just thinking about the stripper skirt gave me hives, I had to admit that the shoes made me feel sort of sexy. I couldn’t resist trying on the bustier again, which wasn’t so bad with my hip-hugging jeans. I couldn’t see my whole body in the mirror on the top of the dresser, but I saw enough to know I looked good.
Really good.
Once I finished pulling off tags and putting things away, I wandered downstairs.
Horse was gone, but I found a note on the table.
Got shit to do—hang out and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back around seven. Have dinner ready. We’re going out tonight.
Not exactly the master of conveying information.
I grabbed Horse’s cordless house phone and a book, then settled myself on the front porch to call Denise and let her know I wouldn’t be back to work. I felt like a complete ass when I told her I couldn’t give any notice. She didn’t buy my excuse for a minute.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Don’t bullshit me, Marie. Your trailer burned down last night and now you tell me you’re living with some man you barely know? What’s really happening? Tell me why I shouldn’t call the cops.”
It was hard to do, but I tried to put just the right amount of concern about the trailer burning into my voice while still sounding happy about my new circumstances.
“Jeff called me last night and told me about the trailer,” I said, trying to sound earnest and sad. “He said he started it. I guess he left his pipe on the floor before going on a beer run. I’m bummed that it burned down, but I’m lucky because I already had all my stuff packed up and moved out. Jeff told me he’s crashing with a friend. He doesn’t want me to come back, says it’s his problem and he doesn’t have a place for me to stay anyway.”
“I see,” Denise said, although clearly she didn’t. “I don’t think that’s the whole story, but I guess it matches the newspaper story. Marie, I hate to say this, but I’m not going to be able to give you a reference.”
“I understand,” I replied, feeling depressed. She sighed heavily.
“You call me if you need me. I’ll respect your decision but things go bad fast sometimes. I’ll drive up and get you any time.”
“Thanks, Denise,” I said, eyes watering up. I didn’t deserve her kindness, yet she offered it without strings. As I put the phone down, I decided that sometimes kindness hurts more than getting hit physically.
Go figure.
True to his word, Horse disappeared until a little before seven. I spent my time alone reading and exploring the property. There were several outbuildings, including an old barn and a bunkhouse. The barn had been cleared out and converted into a shop where Horse seemed to be rebuilding a couple of different bikes. I found a fridge out there with some beer in it, which made me think of Picnic, Max and Bam Bam visiting me and Jeff in better times.
Horse also had a big fire pit out back, surrounded by stumps that appeared to do double duty as seats and chopping blocks as needed. There were four picnic tables, too, obviously hand-crafted.
I guess Horse was good with his hands in more than one way.
I fixed chicken and dumplings for dinner, one of my favorites because it always filled the house with a welcoming and comfortable smell, perfect for day’s end. I heard Harley pipes outside and then Horse walked in through the mud room.
“Smells great in here,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. I leaned back into him, enjoying the feel of his body against mine. Apparently nice Horse would be joining me for dinner instead of his evil twin. “After we eat, we’re going out. I want you to wear the clothes we picked up at the Line.”
I stiffened, pulling away from him. So much for nice Horse. He sighed but didn’t pull me back. Instead he walked over to the stove and peeked into the simmering pot. I glared at him, deciding he could serve his own damned food. He shrugged, taking a bowl and filling it before he put some salad on a plate. He carried it all to the table, sitting down and tucking in.
“You gonna eat?” he asked after a couple of minutes.
I wanted to tell him to go to hell with his strippers and their lurid, nasty clothing, but my stomach picked that moment to growl, totally ruining the moment. I grabbed food and sat down across from him.
“This place we’re going tonight,” he said. “It’s another MC’s clubhouse. Silver Bastards, ou
tside of Callup.”
“Where’s Callup?”
“Silver Valley, between here and Montana. Middle of nowhere, really. They’re a Reaper support club, run the valley for us.”
That led to about a hundred questions, all of which I suspected would fall under the category of “club business.” I decided to focus on logistics instead.
“How am I getting there?”
“Back of my bike,” he replied, like the answer was obvious.
“In that skirt and those heels? Not a good plan, Horse.”
“Not the most comfortable,” he agreed. “But we need to do it.”
“Why?”
“Gotta make the right impression,” he replied. “Enough questions. Listen up—when we get there, you stick with me, and I mean all the time unless I tell you otherwise. You got no property patch, you’re not an old lady. Every biker in the place’ll tag you in the first five minutes. That means open season, and wearing clothes like that will attract a lot of attention.”
“Then don’t make me wear them.”
“Just do what you’re told. Don’t take a drink unless I okay it. Don’t dance with anyone. You gotta pee, you tell me and I’ll walk you back to do it. Some bitch gets in your face while you’re in the bathroom, you scream loud so I can hear you. Got it?”
I agreed, not liking the sound of this at all.
“Go upstairs and get ready now. Your hair’s gonna be blown to shit on the bike, so don’t worry too much about it. I want to see a lot of makeup though. And don’t bother bringing a bag, just your ID. I’ll carry it for you.”
I grimaced. Of course he’d carry it for me. Stupid stripper clothes didn’t exactly come with pockets.
This was gonna suck.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t know quite what I expected from the Silver Bastards’ clubhouse. Some dark pit full of bikers and sluts screwing on tables maybe, or drugs changing hands in the street out front while armed guards with machine guns patrolled restlessly.
Not so much.
We pulled up around ten at a low, squat building that looked like every other small-town bar on earth. It sat outside the thriving metropolis of Callup, Idaho, located just six short miles from Bumfuck, Egypt. I saw a faded sign reading “Silver Bastards” over the door, and there had to be at least thirty bikes parked out front. A couple of guys hung outside, watching over the bikes, and when Horse pulled up they exchanged friendly grunts.
“Prospects,” he murmured, putting his arm around my neck possessively and pulling me tight into his side as we walked through the door. His body heat felt good. Even with my jacket (left with the bike, of course—wouldn’t want to risk covering up that classy corset!) the ride had been chilly. “See how they only have a bottom rocker, not three patches? That’s how you tell. They watch the bikes, run errands, shit like that. They’ll keep an eye on my bike even though they aren’t Reapers because this is a support club.”
I wasn’t too sure what all that meant, but remembering his warnings about club business, I didn’t ask. Inside, the mountain-side watering hole motif continued. Scuffed wood floors, a long bar on one wall with a hallway beyond, presumably leading to rest rooms. Lots of high tables with stools stood in the center of the room, with couches lining the walls and arranged in groups for conversation. The music was loud but not too loud, and several women dressed remarkably similar to me were dancing in an open area toward the back. A guy stood behind the bar, and when he turned away I saw he was another prospect.
Men stood up as we walked in, all rough-looking, all wearing cuts. A girl in a bikini top and Daisy Dukes asked us if we wanted anything to drink. The guys didn’t speak to Horse unless he spoke first, which was weird, because clearly they were eager to talk to him. I decided Horse must be the biker equivalent of visiting royalty. He did say this was a support club, so the attitude of respect and deference must be part of that. Strange that a whole different world of bikers, complete with their own bars and laws and leaders, could exist without regular people like me even knowing about it—yet here we were, smack-dab in the middle of that world.
I stayed close to Horse as he exchanged back-thumps and manly hugs with some of the other guys. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him toward a couch against the back wall, which magically cleared for us. I nearly fell over trying to keep up in my ridiculous heels. He took a spot on one end, spreading out and relaxing as he pulled me down onto his lap sideways, my back against the arm rest, legs dangling down over his. His left arm cradled me and he dropped his right hand down to my leg, fingers sliding up the inside of my thigh. This pushed my skirt high enough that the big, burly man who sat down on the other side of the couch had to see my bright-red thong-style panties. Not cool.
I leaned over and whispered in Horse’s ear, “Why don’t you just pee on me and get it over with?”
“Don’t flip me any shit, Marie,” he replied softly. “You wanna fight with me, do it in private. It makes me hard when you run that mouth of yours. Right now I’m picturing it wrapped around my cock. That’s between you and me. But tonight, in public, you do what I say or things will get ugly. Nobody insults a Reaper in front of an audience, not without consequences, and they are always extreme.”
He squeezed my thigh for emphasis, brushing a fingertip against the front of my panties to make his point. His cock grew under my ass and I shivered. Horse talking tough turned me on in a way that my brain insisted was flat-out wrong. My body remembered exactly how good it felt to take him inside, though, and it wouldn’t be happy until he filled me up again. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering. I wiggled a little more to get back at him, enjoying the sharp intake of his breath as my butt teased his dick.
“Kelly, get your ass over here with a drink for the man,” the guy next to us bellowed. He was probably ten years older than Horse, with just a hint of gray in his hair. A lot of the bikers seemed to wear beards, but his face was clean-shaven, and he wasn’t shy about checking me out. I didn’t get the impression that his appraisal was personal though. More like he was sizing me up, trying to judge me on some level I couldn’t understand.
Bikini girl showed up with a tray full of beers and shots, which she unloaded on a little table in front of us. The guy next to us handed a beer to Horse, who reached around me to take it in his left hand. The man offered me a beer next. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I looked to Horse.
“Have at it,” he told me.
“Damn, that didn’t take long,” said the other man, laughing. “Mousie knows her place, I take it?”
I stiffened, and Horse’s hand squeezed my thigh again in warning. “She’s learning,” he said. “Gonna be interesting. You heard the news?”
“I heard something. This is her, I take it?” the man replied, glancing toward me. I chugged down almost half my beer, more than ready for a little liquid courage.
“Collateral,” Horse replied and his friend grunted.
They ignored me as they started talking about people I didn’t know, so I let my eyes wander around the room, starting with the guy sitting next to us. He had tousled, deep-brown hair and greenish eyes. His cut had “President” written on it, along with a one-percenter patch and a few others I didn’t recognize. Picnic had a president patch too, but I’d never seen anything identifying Horse as an officer. The Reapers must be pretty powerful if a regular guy like Horse got this much respect from the president of another club. I took another long chug of my beer, surprised to discover I’d finished it. That seemed funny to me, and I had to catch myself before I burped.
What can I say? I’ve always been a lightweight.
I looked longingly toward the remaining beers on the table, thinking another would really hit the spot. Bikini girl reappeared, winding her way toward the couch. She leaned down low to take my empty, boobs hanging right in Horse’s line of sight, ass pointed at the other guy. That sort of pissed me off, but when I tried to glare at her she just offered a friendly wink and handed me another
beer.
Not such a bad sort, I decided.
I glanced at Horse, catching his eye before I started drinking again. He nodded absently, fingers starting a slow slide back and forth across my thigh as the conversation continued. The guys ignored me for the most part as they shot the shit, talking bikes and business, using words that had to be code because the conversation didn’t make any sense to me at all.
Occasionally other men walked up and took a chair for a while, then they’d drift away. Certain words and phrases jumped out at me as being potentially important, but I couldn’t put it all together. Respect. Something about a charity run for toys (which seemed totally out of sync with the criminal-biker-vibe hanging in the air). Meeting up with the Mexicans, whoever they were. Border patrol and “fucking homeland security.”
I tuned them out because there were far more interesting things to do. Drinking a third beer, for one. Watching the crowd. There had to be fifty or sixty people in the room. Most of the men wore Silver Bastards’ cuts, with big patches on the back that had a stylized picture of a skull wearing a miner’s hat. There were lots of women around, too. Most of them were dressed like me—slutty as hell—and they circulated through the crowd, handing out drinks, picking up empties and occasionally settling in to make out with one of the Silver Bastards. There was a lot of groping, and not limited to individual couples. The guys seemed to have a real thing for being double-teamed. I saw several girls disappear down the back hallway, giggling as men dragged them away.
Then the front door opened and a tall blonde woman with tasteful makeup and an air of authority walked in. She looked around for a minute, spotted us and cut straight through the crowd. She was different from the other women, anyone could see it. For one thing, she wore jeans that were tight enough to show her figure, but not painted on. She had on a black tank top with the Silver Bastards’ emblem on it, which displayed her rather well-developed cleavage perfectly. Her hair had been highlighted by a professional who knew his shit and she wore a black leather vest.
