Chapter 13 – Clover
Clover pressed his cheek to Tank’s back, watching the orange sun make its final descent. The Harley trembled between their legs as it sped down the narrow asphalt road leading through dense woods. The scent of Tank’s leather jacket and the herby aroma of the wind blowing in their faces intoxicated Clover every time he breathed it in. He’d never been on a motorcycle before, and he still felt uneasy about it, but when Tank was the one riding, the increased risk caused a thrill rather than fear.
The others drove closely behind them on their way to a business meeting of sorts. Clover didn’t ask questions and went with the flow, trusting that his men wouldn’t take him anywhere unsafe. Though calling them his men might be a bit of an overstatement.
His relationship with Tank was developing fast, and since he’d come out about his feelings to Boar, the two of them also established a bond that felt tighter every day. Boar had insisted that since Clover’s ass was so sore after the rough fuck with Pyro, they’d stick to other activities, but once he’d approached Clover about anal sex last night, another barrier had been crossed.
Clover had felt a bit awkward about finding flower petals on the bed, but he knew Boar was doing his best to make Clover feel wanted, and the cheesy rom-com trick was yet another way to do that. The awkwardness had gone once they’d got down to business.
Boar had come inside Clover’s ass three times that night. Clover had worn glasses just to witness the ecstatic look on Boar’s face when his bare dick sank into Clover’s hole.
Things with Drake and Pyro were another matter.
Drake hadn’t said a word to Clover since he’d called him a ‘cumbucket’, and Clover wasn’t about to break the silence either. He’d had it with begging for attention. Drake was so adamant about his silence he wouldn’t even ask Clover to pass the ketchup when they ate at the same table and instead circled the table to pick it up from right next to Clover’s hand.
Oh, well. Clover couldn’t be everyone’s flavor, but it was a shame because--and he wouldn’t tell that to anyone under torture--Clover had developed an unhealthy fascination with Drake. There had to be a twisted kind of reverse psychology in action, because the more Drake pushed him away, the more Clover couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if Drake wanted him.
The bondage thing kept rattling around in his brain, and memories of Drake’s satisfaction when he was done immobilizing Clover found their way into Clover’s sexual fantasies. It didn’t help that Drake often trained shirtless alongside Tank for hours on end, as if they didn’t know any other way to spend time together.
Drake’s pale skin had gotten a pink tint to it lately, especially on the nose and shoulders, and the tan made him somehow more human than the perfect pallor he’d sported before. Drake’s body was all lean muscle, and his stomach was so ripped Clover doubted the man had more than five percent fat on him. But there were also marks—old scars on his back, pink dots of burned skin, and a darker mark of raised skin that looked like the letter A in a double circle, on his shoulder.
Drake had once caught him staring through the window, and the stormy glare he’d shot Clover was like bullets from a machine gun. Regardless of Clover’s hopes and dreams, it was obvious to everyone that Drake hated his guts.
Clover’s other problem shouldn’t have been so hard to crack, since Boar had assured him Pyro was crazy about Clover’s coloring and body type, but the guy kept his distance, as if he’d suddenly lost interest after that final fuck. Though Clover wasn’t blind and spotted him watching when he’d thought Clover couldn’t see him, so what was up with that?
Maybe Pyro’s unwillingness to associate with Clover in any way meant he hadn’t forgiven Clover for hurting Boar’s feelings, but since Clover didn’t want to cause any more trouble, he’d decided to wait for the other man’s move. Three days later, the two of them still hardly spoke.
At the end of the dusty road was a concrete wall that stretched into the trees all around them, and when Tank slowed down upon approach, Clover’s heart started beating faster. He was here with four dangerous men, but the aggressive paintings on the metal gate still made him hug Tank harder.
Motorcycles with fronts morphed into steel horse heads and riders in spiked armor populated the picture, and the forest of heads on spikes painted in the background extended beyond the painting into the landscape, with mannequin heads and helmets mounted atop the gate. Not too inviting.
Loud metal music banged from beyond the tall fence, but after Boar beeped his horn three times, a blond head appeared above the wall.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked.
Tank removed his helmet, looking up.“Brothers from Tank’s crew. Now open the gate. We’re all thirsty as fuck!”
Clover was surprised to see someone like him greet them instead of a whole bunch of bearded bikers Tank’s size. After all, the sign above the gate announced that they were entering the territory of the Steel Horde Motorcycle Club. It would have only made sense for the men inside to wear spiked armor and eat kittens for lunch.
Clover’s stomach tightened when the gate opened. “Will I be okay here?” he asked as soon as Tank stopped his Harley in front of a wooden structure the size of a freestanding restaurant. It was once they’d entered the property that Clover realized the vastness of its size. Cabins and sheds peppered the ground under tall trees, but he didn’t get to investigate further in the dark. The party inside the main building was going strong, though there were pockets of activity all around it, including in the well-lit hot tub occupied by a small crowd of topless women.
Tank patted Clover’s back. “You’re with me. Their prez and I go way back, so if in doubt, always say you came with me.”
Clover nodded, fascinated by the unusual setup of this biker compound. Half an hour’s drive away from the main road to get here, passing through idyllic landscapes, over a wooden bridge, and for a while, they’d driven by a shallow river where Clover had spotted deer. Being a poor city rat, he’d never seen one out of a zoo, and he’d made Tank stop so that he could get a better look.
Torches were attached to the front of the main building, and their light bounced off the long row of Harleys. The sound of a hammer hitting metal came from a mid-sized structure farther along the wall time and time again, as if this wasn’t a biker club but a medieval village with a blacksmith who spent his time making horseshoes and swords.
Groups of people watched the newcomers with mild interest, more focused on their drinks and whatever conversations they were having, but when the large door to the main house opened and a hot, long-haired guy rushed straight toward them, Clover could suddenly feel many pairs of eyes burning his skin. The stranger was dressed in black, with a leather vest featuring many patches at the front, and a streak of gray cascading down the side of his face. But despite his menacing posture and a large Y-shaped scar on his cheek, he beamed as he shook Tank’s hand before pulling him into a bear hug.
“It’s been months! How’re you doing, brother?”
Tank smiled. “Long time no see, Cross. Need to lay low for a bit. Let’s go talk.”
The others exchanged greetings with Cross, who was the president of the Steel Horde MC, while Clover kept to the sidelines, bewildered and doing his best to look casual.
But Cross’s eyes soon focused on him, and the sharp way that gaze pierced him made Clover both weirdly excited and uncomfortable.
“Is that a new member of your crew?”
Tank grinned and pushed Clover forward, tapping him on the right arm to signal that he was to shake Cross’s hand. “This is Clover. Our boy.”
The squeeze of the man’s hand was hard yet warm. “That’s how you call it nowadays? You guys tired of looking for hookups in bars?”
Clover’s face exploded with heat, but before he could have run away out of embarrassment, Tank kissed the side of his head. “He brings much-needed balance. Also, look at that pretty face.”
That, Clover could live
with. He smiled at Tank, relieved that he wouldn’t have to hide his sexuality. “The pleasure’s mine,” he winked at the biker, who burst out with laughter and patted Clover’s arm.
Another club member invited them all inside, to a huge open space made of stone and wood. Hunting trophies hung all over the walls, though Clover’s gaze was drawn to the mounted head of a deer, because there was an entire collection of women’s panties hung on its antlers. And below? A large pool table, a blackboard with female names and a tally.
He could only guess what that was about, but then he spotted ‘Travis’ among the names and wasn’t sure of his original assessment anymore.
Drake and Tank were soon gone to talk something through with Cross. Boar had been tempted by the promise of tasting beer the bikers—or rather their community—brewed themselves, which left Pyro with the task of watching over Clover. Within moments, they were alone for the first time in forever, because all the strangers didn’t count.
Pyro cleared his throat, his chest already revealed for the party, since he’d pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and dragged it behind his head. It was hot, but Clover felt too exposed to follow his example and stayed in all of his clothes. He’d chosen a green T-shirt with a big four-leafed clover and the slogan: Kiss me, I’m Irish but wasn’t so sure about its message anymore. He didn’t know the rules this community lived by, and things could get awkward here real fast.
“So yeah… have fun,” Pyro said, nudging Clover toward a gathering of women, who ogled him as if he were the most curious thing they’d seen in a long time.
‘Have fun’? That was the extent of Pyro’s help in socializing? Well, Clover wasn’t born yesterday, so he knew a diss when he got one. He smiled and walked off, wishing Tank was here to guide him through things. Since he didn’t know anyone, he smiled at the women.
One of them, an attractive blonde with a distinctly cougar vibe, gestured at him with one long-nailed finger, but it might have as well been a message from the whole lot of the female spectators who’d ogled him since he entered the room. He approached, but before he got to speak, one of the women grabbed the front of his T-shirt and gave him a damp yet short kiss.
“We love Irishmen.”
Clover laughed. “I’m not actually Irish. But my name’s Clover. Do you all live here? It’s like a village.”
“His name’s Clover,” the woman said a bit louder, so that the others could hear her over the loud music, and that scrap of information caused an eruption of smiles. The woman who’d called Clover over earlier picked up a bottle with no labels and had it passed to him. Clover thought it was some kind of homemade juice at first, but the thing smelled of spirit so strongly he recoiled, making all the women laugh, as if it were all a gag. He wasn’t sure what to think.
“I’m Mina,” the girl who kissed him said before grabbing Clover’s hand and directing it so she could have a long sip from the bottle while he was still holding on to it. “Just try. We make it here ourselves.”
Oh. So this was some Idaho moonshine. His head wasn’t very strong when it came to alcohol, but he figured it was only polite to sample what he was offered. Like minty fire on his tongue, it burned all the way down his throat, bringing tears to his eyes, but he tried to smile at them even as he started coughing.
“Very… good,” he rasped.
He hadn’t intended to become a mascot, but one thing led to another, and fifteen minutes later he sat on a sofa next to the cougar, whose name was Star, and answered millions of questions about his albinism. And about his life with Tank’s crew, because his role in the group fascinated the women from the get go. Apparently, Tank had a bit of a reputation when it came to his tastes in men.
The moonshine became more palatable with each sip, and he loosened up, listening to Star’s prophecies and various comments about the sexual prowess of the men present. He didn’t intend to get it on with strangers, but he enjoyed the anecdotes nevertheless, especially that it turned out he hadn’t been wrong about the blackboard.
“Travis should really step up his game now that you’re here,” Mina said, nuzzling Clover’s ear in a way that bordered on sexual. Then again, they were all too drunk to stick to boundaries.
Clover shook his head. The last thing he needed was Twink Wars. “No, no, I’m no one’s competition,” he said with a slur. Only now it struck him that he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable when drunk. Not because the moonshine was strong, but because he always had to stay on his toes, always on the lookout for danger, whereas here, with the guys somewhere around, he could relax.
Still, he didn’t want to lie dead in bed tomorrow, so he excused himself and gravitated toward the area where food was laid out. The full effect the liquor had on him was only revealed once he rose, and he decided to take the longer route along the wall, just so that he could steady himself against it.
He could vaguely hear Pyro’s voice and spotted the blue Mohawk in one of the rooms next door where some sort of drinking competition was underway.
So much for helping him out, then.
Then again, Clover might have gotten far too used to being coddled. If he’d survived in the streets then he’d be fine being tipsy at a party. His smile widened at the sight of the most perfect tiny tarts with vegetables and meats. At an event like this, he’d expected nachos and wings for food, but lo and behold, someone had put a lot of effort into feeding the guests homemade delicacies.
“Hey there, cutie. Heard your name’s Clover, but it looks like it’s my lucky day.”
Clover snorted. If he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that, he could’ve bought two meals at the Cheesecake Factory, including dessert.
“Yeah? How so?” He asked with his mouth full, turning to the man who’d approached him. He was a muscular specimen who wore his biker vest over bare skin. Tattoos depicting wild animals covered most of the exposed flesh and his eyes were like two lasers cutting patterns in Clover’s flesh.
A warm hand squeezed Clover’s nape, making him freeze while his brain tried to catch up with this new development. “I wanna put your name on our blackboard, pretty boy.”
The flush to Clover’s face was so sudden he got dizzy. His eyelids drooped, but he forced himself to stare up at the man. His brain rang in alarm but his body was too drunk to react fast enough.
“Oh. I’m not sure about that.” He smiled to soften the blow but wasn’t sure how to proceed. This guy was not only twice his size but also technically the host, so Clover didn’t want to spoil this new friendship by telling him to fuck off.
“I know you don’t sell yourself cheap. Drake told me. We may live in the woods, but we’re not savages. We’ve got cash.” The man smiled as he massaged Clover’s nape.
Cash? Drake had told people Clover was a rent boy? The fucking nerve of that guy!
The guy’s hand traveled lower and dove under Clover’s jeans. He should have expected it but he still froze, unsure how to react. The stranger ducked and hauled Clover over his shoulder, hand on Clover’s buttocks and already rubbing the fabric above his hole. The world spun, and he barely registered the howls of encouragement as the floor under him started to move.
“No… that’s not—” he tried, but in this position blood ran to his head, making thinking even harder than speaking without a lisp.
He shuddered, shocked at the ache in his buttock when the biker bit it through his pants, already enjoying what he felt he was owed. A second pair of feet followed close by, and a tattooed hand grabbed Clover’s face, two fingers already sliding up his tongue and making him taste the sharp bite of nicotine and smoke.
“I hear you like threesomes, boy. Bet your throat’s tighter than any pussy I can get around here.”
Clover mumbled around the fingers, torn between biting down, antagonizing the biker, and finding a polite way to get out of this mess. Then again, what talk of politeness could there be when the man carrying him had his hand between his legs?
Pyro’s voi
ce was a godsend Clover hadn’t expected. “The fuck you think you’re doing?”
“You gotta wait your turn if you want a piece,” said the guy carrying Clover.
Pyro’s growl was so loud Clover heard it despite the loud music. “He’s not free-for-all, K. He’s ours.”
“I don’t see him protesting,” the owner of the hand said, scissoring his fingers to obscenely stretch Clover’s lips. But before Clover could have uttered a sound of protest, the digits were out of his mouth, and Pyro’s flame-printed boots came into view. “He doesn’t get a say in this for as long as he rides with us!”
“I’m not for sale either!” Clover protested, looking to Pyro for help. His head was mushy from the moonshine so he wasn’t sure if he was reaching out in the right direction, but hoped Pyro would understand his situation anyway.
“Why’s your friend going around saying it then, huh?” asked the biker still carrying Clover. “Don’t you think it sends a mixed fucking signal?” He turned around to face Pyro, which again brought Clover farther away from his man.
“And who the hell told you he’s available to everyone here, huh? He’s not a whore,” Pyro said, relieving Clover that at least he still felt protective over him, regardless of persisting animosity.
“Drake.”
“Drake doesn’t know the difference between deadpan humor and being serious. Put him down before I lose it and put you down!”
“You threatening me in my own clubhouse?” the biker asked, but when he patted Clover’s ass, it must have been the last straw for Pyro, because the nearest wall moved toward Clover’s face all too quickly, and his only salvation was using his arm to protect his head when Pyro shoved the biker back.
“I don’t care if this is your grandma’s cottage, or if you own all the land I’m standing on. Touch the boy one more time, and there’s gonna be blood. I said he’s ours! His ass is ours, his mouth is ours, his hands are ours, and his pretty face is ours. Get it? Put him down!”
Their Bounty (Dark Gay Harem Contemporary Romance) (Four Mercenaries Book 1) Page 15
