by Skyla Madi
All the things he could show me…
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Creed warned through hooded lids.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to peel you out of your panties and do things I shouldn’t.”
Heat flooded me. It swirled in my cheeks and soaked me between my legs. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, so I lowered my head and looked at the carpet. Outside of masturbation, foreplay, and oral, I had limited experience in sex. Not like Creed. Maybe that set us worlds apart. I couldn’t please him. I wouldn’t know how.
“You can slap me now…” I uttered.
He hooked his fingers under my chin, forcing my head up. When our gazes locked, he captured my cheeks in his firm grip and kissed me hard. His lips conquered mine until it wasn’t enough and he pushed his tongue into my mouth, claiming me, owning me. My head spun, and I melted into him, kissing him back with everything I had.
He broke the kiss, and I gasped.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered then slapped me hard across the face.
I shouted, and my head was tossed to the side as fire began to burn in the wake of his violence. He righted my head with gentle palms, and my eyes welled with tears as I looked at him through the blur.
“Good girl,” Creed murmured, smoothing my hair and swiping my cheeks with his thumbs. I closed my eyes and choked on a single sob, but I wasn’t sad. I was relieved. I dragged deep inhales through my nose and out through my mouth until I garnered the composure to look at him. When I did, when our eyes locked, blue to honey-whiskey, I felt like a different woman. Was that stupid? I licked my lower lip and tasted my own blood. No one had ever messed me up before or ruined my perfect image. I was the fucking sweetheart of Exeter, and everyone demanded perfection everywhere I went. Not Creed. He had no problem messing my hair, ruining my clothes, or turning my skin pink. And that drove me crazy.
“Look at you,” he said, touching my sore lip, the salt from his skin stinging it. “So wild. If you weren’t the offspring of such a cunty human being, I’d take you as my bitch.”
I balked. A bitch? I wanted to be his woman—his only woman. I wanted to feel his heated skin under my fingertips and for him to cherish it. “I have no interest in being anyone’s bitch.”
He scowled. “No? You live in a pit full of vipers. Every relationship you’ve ever had has been superficial and short lived. You wouldn’t appreciate the honor of being my bitch.”
Creed grabbed his gun, lifted himself to his feet, and turned away. He said bitch like it meant something, like it was something to be proud of, and I didn’t understand. I sniffled as he stalked to my vanity, took the photo of Pierce and me, and smashed the glass on the surface. Without a glance in my direction, he took it from the frame, ripped it in half, and slipped one half in his pocket. The other he tore into little pieces and scattered them on the floor.
“Creed!” his friend boomed from wherever he was, making me jump. “Let’s go.”
Stuffing his gun back into his waistband, Creed stomped toward the door.
“Wait!” I called, shuffling forward, lifting myself higher on my knees.
I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to be thrust back into my boring life, into my bubble of perfection where I wasn’t allowed an opinion or a single hair out of place. I didn’t want to go back to fantasizing about the man in leather and denim who rode a motorcycle so loud it hurt my ears. I didn’t want to go back to imagining my boyfriend’s touch as his. Creed turned around, a breathtaking frown on his face, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“What?” he demanded, his nostrils flaring impatiently.
“I’m enjoying your company.”
He blinked at me, confused, then barked out a laugh, raking his eyes over me. “You are, aren’t you?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he stepped closer then lowered himself to meet me eye to eye. I leaned forward, bringing my chest closer to his, my lips too. “Take me with you.”
I was crazy for asking. My father would end Creed and his gang if he took me from my home. Still, I wanted to risk it. Anywhere was better than here.
Creed shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
“Why? Why not?”
“Creed! Let’s fucking go,” his friend shouted, closer this time.
Creed lifted himself to his feet and turned away. I watched, deflating by the second, as he sauntered toward my door and pulled it all the way open.
“See ya later, Blondie,” he called over his shoulder then crossed the threshold, leaving me alone with a busted lip, bound by a pair of my own panties.
TWO
C R E E D
Twelve months later
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, knowing exactly who was calling.
“Yeah?” I answered, leaning my ass against my bike.
“Light it up,” Judge ordered. “Then come on back to the clubhouse. Plenty of booze and whores waiting for you.”
Hanging up, I took one last drag of my cigarette and flicked it. I watched as it sailed through the air, the red ember glowing with finality. It was finally over. The cigarette hit the crumpled pile of piece of shit Klan members who encroached on our turf, and it ignited the gasoline we doused them in. In the blink of an eye, the ground caught fire, and their not-so-secret warehouse went up in flames.
“Whoo!” Modo cheered, clapping from his bike. “Fuck you!”
I smirked over my shoulder at him. He sat atop his all-black Triumph Rocket III, draped forward, resting his thick forearms on the handlebars.
“You liked that, did you?” I asked, pushing off my bike.
He grinned. “You know I love fried Klansmen for dinner.”
“Just not enough to cook them yourself.”
He balked. This was his fucking job. I shouldn’t be out here. I should be at the clubhouse, relaxing, after chasing four grimy Twisted Sons out of our town last night. Modo was supposed to purge the remaining Nazis and burn the warehouse to the ground. I should be drunk off my ass and balls deep in blondes who resembled the mayor’s daughter, but Modo couldn’t get off his damn bike. Because his dick hurt.
“Hey,” he protested. “It’s not my fault I pulled my groin—”
“Shouldn’t jerk off so much.” I swiped at my forehead as sweat built from the heat of the fire.
“Fuck you, Creed. You know I’m not afraid to do dirty work.”
He was right. In fact, he loved to do dirty work. Francis, the crazy British bastard, got the nickname “Modo” for feeding his parents to an illegally acquired Komodo Dragon. I didn’t know the details, he never told them, but I knew they hurt him, so he hurt them back.
“Just ask his boyfriend,” Cyrus quipped, tossing something into the flames.
The boys and I looked at Ayr, Modo’s best friend, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, piss off.” Ayr scowled, kicking gravel toward our bikes. “I hate you all.”
We roared with laughter. Ayr and Modo were far from gay, but we tormented them every chance we got. A siren squealed, and red and blue lights flashed from the dirt road ten feet out. I turned and watched as the sheriff drove by with his deputy in the passenger seat. They glared at us, and we stared back, daring them to get out of their car and fucking try us. We were untouchable. We paid, blackmailed, and threatened Mayor Laurent enough to know we were safe doing our business, as long as we didn’t mess with the locals. For the most part, Exeter locals avoided us like the plague, except wild open public nights at the clubhouse—like tonight. Local women came out of the woodwork when our parties were open to them.
As always, the cops continued on their way, knowing better than to get involved in our business. I wished they would, so I could take out all my frustration on the sheriff, who also happened to be the father of a spoiled, handsy, preppy little cunt named Pierce. Izzy still dated him. She still lived her life like she didn’t ask me to take her away, to make her mine.
Like I promised Judge, I kept my di
stance, but I saw Blondie in town with Pierce sometimes. In private, late at night, when I was hanging around places I shouldn’t, I saw him kiss her with his sloppy, rough lips. I watched him peel her too quickly out of her clothes, not stopping to savor how perfect her body was or how soft she felt in places she kept hidden under flowy fabrics. She was thicker around the thighs and ass, and her breasts were more than I could hold in my hand. It wasn’t fucking fair. I wanted her the moment I saw her, alone in her room in her underwear. I planned on getting her too, until Judge made her off limits to me. Off-fucking-limits. I’d never been good at following rules, but whatever Judge said went. He was president of our chapter—sometimes a damn ruthless one—and I owed him my life. If he marked a bitch off limits, then that was where she stayed until he said otherwise. So, out of honor and respect, I stayed away and let the pig’s son continue to put his disgusting, unappreciative, unworthy hands on her.
“You and Judge still got the mayor under your thumb?” Armi, our Sergeant-at-Arms, asked, sauntering to stand beside me.
I nodded, my stare glued to the taillights. “There’s a new election coming up, though, and we need to make sure Laurent wins again.”
“If he doesn’t?”
A small part of me flared with hope and excitement. If Jonathan Laurent didn’t win the next election, Blondie was fair game and all mine.
“If he doesn’t, we’ve got a lot of shit to move before the law comes crashing down on us.” I turned toward my bike and threw my leg over it. “It’d only be temporary. Judge would get the next mayor under control eventually.”
I started my bike and headed toward the dirt road, eager to leave this complicated Nazi bullshit behind me and get the hell home.
* * *
Laughter erupted from my table. Bottles of beer clashed together, and chairs screeched against the tiled floor. The usually spacious clubhouse was packed to the rafters. There were no familiar faces, just bodies…lots and lots of bodies, crammed in like sardines. It stank in here, like beer, sweat, and fucked pussy.
“Fire’s out,” Judge announced, and I lifted my head as he slid a fresh, cold beer across the table. It slid effortlessly, clashing lightly with the glass I already had. “The warehouse is a shell, the guts completely burned out of it.”
I scooped up my beer and downed the last mouthful, pushing the glass to the side. “Good.”
Judge sat across from me and leaned his elbows on the table, his leather cut hanging open.
“That one’s giving you the eyes, VP,” Casino, our treasurer, said, kicking my boot. “Go say hello. You deserve it after cooking those Nazi cunts.”
I turned my head, following his golden stare to a brunette by the bar. I flicked my gaze down the length of her long, slender body, appreciating the way her jeans clung to her legs and her crop top hugged her big breasts.
I grabbed my new beer and drew it to my mouth. “Nah.”
“Creed has a type,” Judge said, sitting back in his seat, and I cut my eyes at him.
Modo scoffed. “Who has a type? What the hell does that even mean? I’ll take any bitch as long as she’s got a working pussy.”
“Yeah, Modo, we know.” Casino laughed, his green eyes flashing. “The challenge for you is getting her to want you back.”
We laughed as Modo huffed. He told us all to go fuck ourselves and that he could get any bitch in the clubhouse he wanted—if it wasn’t for his groin pain, of course.
“What’s Creed’s type anyway?” Modo asked, looking at Judge, who smirked back at him.
“Young, blonde, and busty,” Ayr chimed in, grinning as he lifted his whiskey to his mouth.
I watched, my attention flicking between them as they exposed my attraction to Izzy for Modo to pick apart. They all knew my type, and Modo would too if he bothered to pull his head out of his ass.
“Blue eyes,” Casino said.
“And off limits,” Judge added, pinning me with his stare.
He had to remind me often, especially when I got into one of my moods—like now—when Blondie was all I could think about. Lifting himself out of his seat, he sauntered across the room to the poles where topless thong-clad clubsluts danced, drank, and waited for a member to choose them.
“Christ, VP. You still hooked on Laurent’s daughter?” Modo snorted, and I turned my head to look at him. “She’s sexy, but—”
“But what?” I bit out, clenching my beer.
He stroked his ridiculously long copper beard. “I don’t think she’s all there—in the head, I mean.”
Ayr and Casino sucked air between their teeth as I thinned my eyes. Was he serious? Of all the people to comment on someone’s mental capacity, it was the dumbest asshole I knew?
“You’ve never fucking met her,” I pointed out, and he exposed his palms, as if I were a wild animal he needed to pacify.
“I know, but I’ve seen her, and she seems…”
“Shut up, Modo,” Ayr hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Dumb. She seems dumb, you know?” I lifted my eyebrows as he turned to his best friend. “What do you think, Ayr?”
“I think you should shut your stupid mouth before VP murders you.”
Modo looked at me, completely oblivious to the issue. “But do you understand what I’m saying?”
Casino cursed, shifting in his seat. “We understand what you’re saying. You haven’t been vague.”
“At all,” Ayr added.
“I’ve seen bricks that look smarter than that bitch—”
Growling, I shoved the table at him, breaking cups and spilling everyone’s drinks. Casino and Ayr shot back in their seats, swearing and shouting as good beer was wasted and their clothes were wet.
“You don’t know shit,” I ground out, adding pressure.
Modo gripped the edge of the table, his teeth bared as he sucked air between them. He tried to push back, but I held it steady. He was tough as nails, damn psychotic when he was mad, but I was stronger. I was vice president for a goddamn reason.
“Ah, fuck. My ribs.”
A piercing whistle cut through my ears, and I grimaced, whipping around to face the sound. Judge approached us, his expression pinched in a frown. “You know the rules. You wanna fight, take it outside, or I’ll have Armi kick the shit out of the both of you.”
“Well.” Modo exhaled, pushing the table away from him until it bumped my thigh. “I would, but I pulled a—”
I groaned. “If I hear you say that one more time—”
“What? It’s true.”
I’d die for my brothers, any one of them, but Modo was the most annoying motherfucker this side of the U.S. He had no filter, no standards, and no self-control, but he was a maniac who wielded a killer axe, and we needed that.
Hanging onto Judge’s cut, a tiny blonde woman caught my attention and stared up at me. She wasn’t a natural blonde, and she didn’t have big tits, but she was pretty—for a patchwhore. Funnily enough, I was never a man who had a type—any willing hole was a goal—until I met Isabelle. That night, she was ready to throw it all away for me. I should’ve taken her, should’ve made her mine, but a beautiful young thing like her had no business being with a bad man like me. I was no good, rotten to the core. I killed my first man at thirteen—my uncle. Got sick of him beating my aunt, so I sank a kitchen knife into the back of his neck. Afterward, my aunt did everything in her power to have me locked up for murder, even denied the brutal beatings my uncle gave her. I didn’t understand why she protected him and threw me under the bus, still didn’t, but it wasn’t all bad. I ended up in a maximum-security detention center, where I met Judge. He killed someone, too, but he never told me who it was.
“I picked her myself,” Judge said, pulling me from my thoughts as he pushed the woman toward me.
His voice was confident, like he knew I wouldn’t turn him down. Valid, since I hadn’t turned his offerings down in the past. He knew I liked them blonde, no plastic, no piercings, no ink. I needed them looking as c
lose to Blondie as possible—for selfish reasons and for business reasons. After I finished with them, I took photos and texted them to Laurent from a burner phone to keep him on his toes.
The woman switched to me without protest and touched my tattooed arms, rubbing her naked body against me. It should be enough to get me going, but I wasn’t in the right headspace. I got no sleep last night and spent the first half of tonight beating Nazis to death. All I wanted to do was drink and sleep.
I pressed my hand to the small of the woman’s back and pushed her toward Judge.
“Not in the mood,” I said, and she pouted.
“Jesus, Creed,” Modo shouted. “That’s not a type. It’s a fucking fetish.”
This asshole. I pushed past them and headed toward the front door in need of fresh air before I got another drink. The gyrating crowd parted for me, not wanting to get caught in my way or crushed under my heavy boots.
“Where are you going?” Judge called after me.
“For a piss,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Why, you wanna watch?”
“Fuck off, Creed.”
My lips twitched as I exited the clubhouse and stepped into the cool, fresh night air.
