DIRTY DESIRES: A Devil Kings MC Story

by Nicole James

  He leans down and whispers, “I want to paint your belly with my cum, mark you with my scent, rub it all over you as you lay there, quivering from your release.”

  I nod, too limp to do anything else.

  He thrusts into me, quickening his speed until he suddenly goes up on his knees, pulls out, takes his dick in his hand, and shoots ropes of white hot cum all over my stomach.

  When he’s done and breathing hard, he takes the head of his dick and smears it all around, then collapses next to me.

  I look down at the mess and start to wipe it with the sheet.

  He grabs my wrist, stopping me. “Don’t. When that dries, I’m taking you in the shower and fucking you again.”

  “When this dries?”

  “That’ll be about the time my dick recovers.”

  “So, this is what, some kind of caveman style timer?”

  He looks over and grins. “Just kidding.”

  I hit him with the pillow.

  He tosses me over his shoulder and carries me to the shower where he makes up for it by tenderly soaping every inch of my body, then gently shampooing my hair and massaging my scalp until I moan.

  Then he turns me, slips inside me from behind, and fucks me, my hands on the tile wall and my breasts bouncing wildly.

  And I’ve never been happier.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tess—

  Hayley and I are exhausted from a long day of retail therapy at the mall where I picked up several sexy numbers I think Gypsy might approve of. But my shopping distraction only diverts my mind for so long, and soon I’m digging my teeth into my bottom lip, worrying about my problems again.

  It’s Monday now, and I can’t help wondering every time the phone rings if it’ll be a collect call from Rutledge State Prison. Growler has only called the house a couple of times since he was arrested. Mainly it was to get my mother to do something for him, like call his attorney or get bail money.

  I wonder how he’ll respond if and when I do go back.

  Hayley pulls up to the curb in front of my mother’s house to drop me off.

  I twist to lean over the seat and grab my Victoria’s Secret shopping bag from the backseat when Hayley slaps me on the arm with the back of her hand.

  “Oww. What?” I snap. She’s leaning forward and peering out my passenger window toward the house.

  “Whose car is that?”

  I twist in the seat and follow her gaze. There’s a blue sedan parked in the driveway. “Huh. No clue.”

  “You want me to stay?”

  “What for? Besides, Josh is waiting for you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll call you later.”

  “All right, Chica. Take it easy.”

  I climb from the car with my purchases and head for the front door. The screen slaps me on the ass as I push inside quietly. I can hear someone in the kitchen, ice clinking in a glass.

  “I’ve only got Vodka; is that okay?” my mother calls out.

  “Fine, thanks,” a woman responds. I set my bag and purse down and tiptoe from the hall to the back family room. The woman’s back is to me, and she’s digging through the old roll top desk that was my grandpa’s.

  “Hey,” I say, and she whirls.

  My eyes widen when I see it’s the woman from the prison. I’m taken aback not only that she dares to show her face here, but also by just how much Sylvia looks like my mom, except for the red hair. If this bitch’s hair was bleached blonde, the two women could be sisters.

  She looks panicked when she realizes she’s been caught snooping around.

  “Do you want an olive?” my mother calls out from the other room, obviously clueless that I’ve come home or that this bitch was rifling through the desk.

  “Oh, hey,” the woman says softly to me. “I’m Sylvia.”

  “I know who you are.” I point toward the front door. “Get out.”

  Her hand lands on her hip, and her brow lifts. “No need to be so snotty. I only came by to check on your mother.”

  “She doesn’t need friends like you. Get out before I throw you out.”

  Sylvia grabs her large tote bag and stomps from the room and out the front door, slamming it for good measure.

  I move to it and throw the bolt.

  My mother comes into the hall, carrying two drinks. “What’s going on? Where’s Sylvia?”

  “She had to leave. Something came up. Some emergency.”

  “She didn’t even say goodbye.” She frowns.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. She just said she had to run.”

  “Oh.” My mother’s shoulders slump, and I wonder if she’s that desperate for friendship. Did she really have no clue about Sylvia and Growler? I take one of the drinks from her hand and grab her elbow, steering her to the sofa.

  “Sit down, Mom. We need to talk.”

  She takes a sip from her glass. “What about?”

  “Who was that woman?”

  “She was Rat’s ol’ lady. He was your father’s VP.”

  “Was?” I ask, knowing full well what happened to Rat.

  “Rat ain’t around anymore.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “No clue. He just took off after Growler got convicted.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sylvia did. It’s so sad, really. Leaves her out in the cold, too. I guess you could say we’re both in the same boat in that regard.”

  Through the hall, I have a line of sight to the road and see the mailman pull to the box, shove mail inside, and drive on. I need to check for Growler’s letter. I have to know what it says before my mother sees it.

  I glance down at the drink I’m holding. “Could you make me a drink, Mom?”

  “Have that one.”

  “It’s got an olive. You know I hate those.” I don’t really want a drink, but I have to distract her while I check the mail.

  She puts two fingers in my glass, fishes the olive out and eats it. “There. No olive.”

  My lip curls up. “Gross. Besides, it ruins the taste of the drink.”

  She rolls her eyes and stands, grabbing my glass. “Fine.”

  Once she’s gone toward the back of the house, I quietly slip out the door and dash to the mailbox. I yank it open, scoop up the small stack, and flip through them. It’s there, buried between a home repair flyer and the electric bill. The envelope clearly marks it as a letter coming from Rutledge State Prison.

  I tear it open and read the one page letter that’s just two paragraphs long. It only takes a minute to read, and it’s exactly what I feared. He’s asking, no telling my mother he’s divorcing her and to expect the papers from his attorney soon.

  That fucking son-of-a-bitch! He’s been jerking me along this whole time.

  I lower the letter and stare back at the house. Now I have to go inside and tell her. I have to explain about Sylvia and now this, too. As much as I hate having to clean up the mess between my parents once again, I just can’t let her find this news out in a letter. For whatever reason, she loves Growler. He’s everything to her, and I know this will absolutely destroy her.

  I take a heavy breath, suddenly feeling weighed down by it all.

  And on top of everything, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get that money for her now.

  Perhaps, like Gypsy said, it’s somewhere in the house. Sylvia was certainly looking for something, and she had zeroed in on that desk. Does that mean that’s where it is, or was she just randomly searching?

  I walk toward the house, deciding it’s best to just get this over with. The minute I’m through the door I hear my mother call out.

  “Tess, did you take my purse?”

  I walk toward her voice and find her in the family room. She’s bent over and digging through the pillows on the couch.

  “No. Where was it?”

  She straightens and looks around. “It was here. Right here on the couch.”

  My eyes connect with hers. “Sylvia.” />
  “That bitch,” she hisses and stalks toward the front door, but I grab her arm and stop her.

  “Wait. I’ve got something to tell you. It’s important.”

  “Now? Can’t it wait? That little witch is probably running up my credit cards at this very minute.”

  “Now. Sit down, Mom.” I snap and point a finger at the couch.

  She’s not used to me talking to her like this, and it stuns her enough to lower to the cushion. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Growler…and Sylvia.”

  “What about them?”

  “She was visiting him last week.”

  “Bullshit.” She pulls her chin back. “She’d have to be on the visitors list. Why the hell would she be on the visitors list?”

  “I saw her.”

  She shakes her head violently in denial. “No. No, you must be mistaken. You must have seen someone who looked like her or maybe she was there to visit someone else.”

  “The guard came to the table and told Growler he had another visitor waiting. Dad cut our visit short, so he could see that other visitor. He knew who it was. He wasn’t even surprised. When I was escorted out the hallway, Sylvia was being escorted in. It was her, Mom. I swear.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. She never said a word. She would have told me.”

  “Would she? She’s not your friend, Mom. Gypsy told me she and Growler were having an affair. Everyone in the club knew about it, apparently.”

  “No.” She shakes her head again. “No, that can’t be right.”

  “It’s true, Mom. And there’s more.”

  Her eyes slowly lift to mine again.

  I hold up the letter. “Growler sent you this. He’s divorcing you.”

  “What?” She snatches it from me and reads it, then crumples it up and throws it, bursting into tears.

  I squat in front of her. “Mom, please. He’s so not worth your tears.”

  “I loved him. Since I was nineteen, Tess, I’ve loved that man. And this is how he treats me?”

  “Mom, there’s more.”

  Her brows lift as if I’m joking.

  “I think he told Sylvia where the key to the safe deposit box is. I think it’s here in the house somewhere. When I walked in today, she was rifling through the old desk.”

  “Are you shitting me?” She surges to her feet. “That fucking whore! I’m going to rip every strand of that harlot red hair from her head.”

  I step in front of her, stopping her from storming out. “That’s the thing, Mom. If she gets that key and she bleaches her hair blonde, I think she could pass for you.”

  “But she’d have to have my driver’s license…”

  She trails off as she realizes her purse and wallet and driver’s license are now gone. “That fucking bitch!”

  She tries to shove past me, but I hold her back.

  “Mom, stop. We have to think this through. We have to be smart.”

  “Smart? Smart? I’m going to put a gun to her head. How’s that for smart?”

  “No, you’re not. I can’t have both my parents in prison.”

  She grabs her drink glass and throws it against the wall. It shatters into a million shards, the liquor splashing down the wood paneling.

  She jerks from my hold. I watch helpless as she methodically breaks everything she can get her hands on. Every vase, ashtray, decorative plate… she smashes everything.

  Then she starts in on all of Growler’s prized beer steins. I can see her shameless intoxication with wrecking something so important to him in a fit of spite.

  All I can do is stay clear of the projectiles and hope this is somehow therapeutic for her. It breaks my heart to see the torment on her face.

  “Mom, please. He’s not worth it.”

  Suddenly she shakes a finger at me from across the room. “Don’t you pity me! Don’t you dare pity me!”

  She begins in on the liquor bottles, breaking every last one except the Vodka. That one she grabs and stalks upstairs. I hear her stomp down the hall and then her door slams.

  My shoulders slump. I’m sure she’ll stay up there until the bottle is empty. Then I’ll have to pick up the pieces and try to put our lives back together. I stare at the devastation that is my mother and father’s life, smashed all around me.

  I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.

  I collapse on the sofa, put my face in my hands, and have a good cry.

  I stay that way until the ticking clock on the wall pulls me from my sorrow, and I glance at it, realizing the house is way too quiet. I stare at the ceiling. She’s stopped her pacing back and forth, and there hasn’t been a sound for some time.

  I push to my feet, knowing I’ve got to check on her. I trudge upstairs and try her door, but it’s locked.

  I tap on the wood. “Mom. Let me in.”

  There’s no response.

  I try again. “Mom. Are you okay?” Still not a sound. I rattle the door and pound on it. “Mom, please let me in.”

  And then for the first time the thought seeps into my head that she’s got all kinds of pills in there. Uppers, downers, you name it, and I start to panic. “Mom!”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I slam my shoulder into the door, but it won’t give. I try until I can’t take the pain anymore.

  A hammer. I need a hammer. Or an axe. Do we even have one?

  I race to the garage, but can only find a hammer. I rush back up and start hitting the door. It makes a bunch of dents, but it’s not busting through. This home is old, and the door is oak.

  I rest, breathing heavy, knowing I have to get help, but if I call the cops or the fire department, she’ll be busted for the drugs. I yank my cell phone out and dial the only person I can think to call.

  Gypsy roars up on his bike in less than five minutes. I dash outside to meet him on the lawn. He yanks a big sledgehammer free from where it’s strapped to his handlebar.

  “Show me where,” he grunts, and I lead him in.

  “I tried to check on her but can’t get in.”

  We dash inside and take the stairs two at a time. With four swings he’s busted through a panel and reaches an arm inside to flip the bolt. He opens it, and we both rush inside. She’s on the floor, an empty pill container and the bottle of Vodka next to her.

  “I’ll call 911,” I say, reaching for the phone.

  “No time for that. The MC’s doctor is right behind me.”

  We hear a shout from below.

  “Gypsy?”

  “Up here, Doc. Hurry.”

  A middle-aged man rushes in, huffing with exertion, a young woman right behind him.

  He bends down and puts two fingers to my mother’s neck. “She’s got a pulse.”

  The woman starts digging through a bag and pulling equipment out.

  “Give us some room, please,” the doctor says. “Gypsy, lift her up on the bed for me, will you?”

  Gypsy scoops my mother up and lays her out.

  The man begins doing chest compressions while the woman prepares a shot.

  “Be better if you two wait outside,” the doctor says, and Gypsy grabs my arm and pulls me from the room.

  I try to resist, tears spilling down my cheeks. She may not have been the greatest mother, but she’s the only one I have, and I don’t want her to die.

  “Babe, come on. Doc’s got this. Don’t worry.”

  I collapse against his chest. I don’t know if what he says is true, but right now I want to believe him. I have to believe him.

  “Breathe, Tess.”

  I drag in a long, shuddering breath and try to pull it together.

  “You okay?” He tips my head up with a finger under my chin. I nod, and then clutch him tighter. His arms wrap around me, and I just let myself take comfort in that. It feels like I’ll be okay as long as he’s got me. I want to believe he can fix all of this, even though my brain tells me he can’t. I so want to believe.

  “We need to get her to a hospital, but we have no
insurance,” I murmur against his shirt.

  “Doc’s taking care of her.” His big hand strokes the back of my head.

  Minutes drag on and finally after what seems like hours, the doctor emerges. “She’s stable now. We pumped her stomach.”

  “Thank you.”

  His eyes move between Gypsy and me. “I understand the sensitivity of the situation. We can move her to my clinic and watch her, or you can take her to a hospital. It’s up to you.”

  “Clinic will be fine,” Gypsy answers for me. “She’s Growler’s ol’ lady.”

  The doctor nods as if that is explanation enough. “I’ll send the club the bill.”

  “Send it to me,” Gypsy corrects. “Club doesn’t need to know about all this.”

  “I understand.” His eyes move to mine. “She’s going to need some ongoing treatment. I know of a rehab upstate that will take her for a five-thousand-dollar deposit. Think you can swing that?”

  I’ve got about four hundred dollars in the bank until my next paycheck. Right now five thousand dollars sounds like a fortune. I have a credit card, but it will max it out.

  “I’ll see it’s taken care of,” Gypsy offers.

  “No,” I snap. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ve got that kind of money, babe?”

  “I can put it on my credit card.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, thank you for everything, both of you.”

  “Think you can carry her out to the van?” the doctor asks Gypsy.

  “Of course.”

  He scoops her up in his strong arms and carries her down. I ride with her, and Gypsy follows on his bike.

  We arrive at the clinic and enter through a back door. The doctor stops me there. “We’ll take good care of her. She’ll be closely monitored all night, but she’s not going to wake up for a while. You should go home and get some rest. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

  Gypsy pulls on my arm when I want to protest, peering to look down the hall. “But—”

  “Come on, babe. Doc’s done this before. She’s in good hands.”

  I let him lead me out to his bike, where he pulls the spare helmet from his saddlebag and holds it out to me.

  “Tess, I saw the destruction in the family room when I walked in. You don’t need to be up half the night cleaning that shit up, and that’s exactly what you’ll do if I take you back.”