by Kim Jones
“I won’t leave you,” Marty promises, as the car slows to a stop. “Thank you.” The reassuring tone he uses with me is nothing like the clipped tone he uses to thank the man.
With long, fluid strides, Marty leads us through a series of doors. I think we’re in a hotel lobby, but I keep my face buried in his chest. Wanting to avoid seeing anyone or anyone seeing me. To smother my cries. That. Just. Won’t. Stop.
I’m thankful for the hoodie that covers my naked body. The arms that support me. The lips that kiss me. The whispered words that assure me everything is okay. I hold onto that promise, that touch, those arms like they’re a lifeline.
The next series of events happen in a blur. My mind is too overwhelmed with all that’s happened to fully process everything. My limbs are pulled away from Marty. Face cradled. Lips kissed. Body stripped. Submerged in warm water that’s constantly drained and refilled—a little bit warmer each time.
Filth is gently scrubbed from me. I stare off in a daze as I’m washed from head to toe. Body angled, limbs moved, soft cloth in hard, yet gentle hands making sure no place is left untouched or tainted. Dingy or dirty.
I’m dried just as thoroughly, and impossibly kinder. Then I’m wearing his T-shirt. Sitting on a bed. Someone is taking my vitals. Handing Marty pills. Telling him I’m okay. I need rest. I want to say all I need is Marty. But somehow, I think he knows that.
When we’re alone again, I finally meet the pained, green eyes that study my face. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
His apology is sobering. Snapping me out of my mental state and reminding me of what I’ve done. What I begged him for. What he did for me. And until this moment, never realizing the anguish he might feel because of it.
Already knowing the answer, I don’t ask him if me being taken was part of his plan. If he did this—allowed me to get hurt—it was because it was the only choice he had. Some may think that’s fucked up, but I love him more now that I did before. Permitting another man to put his hands on me, didn’t make him weak. It made him the strongest person I know. Swallowing his pride and anger took a lot more power than pulling the trigger.
I want to thank him, but my voice catches. When I try again, he cuts me off. “Don’t say anything, Maddie.” His voice dips. Face twisted in turmoil. “Please, just…don’t.”
But I have to. I have to say this. He needs to hear it. Because chained to that couch, alone and afraid, it’s the only thing that kept me going other than hope for Claire.
“I love you,” I croak, tears filling my eyes again.
Fingers ghost across my swollen face. “You’re my everything, Maddie,” he whispers. “The strongest woman I know. The love of my life. The one thing I know I can’t live without.”
“You mean that?”
His lips curve on one side. “You know I do.”
“Because you killed for me? Twice?” I add, doing my best to match his smile.
He shakes his head. His look somber. Eyes burning with reverence. Compassion. Promise. “Because even when I thought I had everything, I realized I had nothing because I’d lost you. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Dropping to one knee, he kneels in front of me and takes my hand in both of his. “Marry me, Maddie Pittman.”
“What?”
He kisses my fingers. “I want to raise hell with you. Kids with you. Fight with you. Make love with you. Kill motherfuckers who wrong you. Wear my ring. My patch. Marry me.”
My heart sings. Soul rejoices. Moments ago I was broken, now I feel complete. William is dead. Claire is safe. My mission is complete. Debt paid. There’s no need for me to be someone I’m not anymore. Whitney at one time was someone I thought I wanted to be. But truth is, she’s been a part of me all along. She’d been hidden beneath years of sorrow and heartache. Fear and Weakness. It didn’t take Marty leaving for me to realize how strong I am. It wasn’t until he came back that I got to fully experience what having strength entailed.
He saved me. Not just from William. But from myself. From a darkness that only existed when I didn’t have his light. From an insufficient life that had me waking every day feeling like something was missing. Then I found that something. With him. If I had any doubt that he wasn’t the one, that alone should prove that he is.
So I make the decision to accept his proposal. To be his wife. Property. The one who steals wallets and starts bar fights. The one he makes love with. Has his children. Wears his ring. His patch. The one who will forever belong to him. Because there’s nothing I could gain in this life, that’s greater than what he’s offering me:
A Devil’s Love.
Epilogue
Marty
Today is the day I marry the love of my life. The beautiful, infuriating, brawl starting, wallet stealing, complicated, batshit crazy Maddie Pittman. I’m putting a ring on her finger. A patch on her back. My cock in her mouth—if she keeps snapping orders at me over the wedding planner’s walkie-talkie.
The only reason I agreed to this ritzy fucking wedding is because…well, because I’m pussy whooped. When she said she wanted a big wedding, I said, “Then that’s what you’ll get.” Then she smiled. And nothing else really mattered.
When shit started to get ridiculous and I lost patience with taste testing fucking salad dressing and sniffing flowers, her happiness grew. She loved pissing me off. She also loved having angry sex with me. Problem was, I loved it too. So I let her continue to boss me around and treat me like a puppet. Just so I could continue taking out my anger by fucking her until she lay limp in my arms.
I appear calm when I step through the side door of the church and make my way to the alter. But on the inside, I’m nervous. Anxious. Excited. Ready to see her walk down that aisle in white. Hear her vows. Say my own. Slip a ring on her finger. Officially make her mine. On paper. In front of God. My brothers. Our family.
Luke stands to my left—serving as my best man. Behind him are eight of my brothers. All dressed in uncomfortable suits. They hate weddings. Every man does. Like me, they’ve been subject to Maddie’s wrath. Forced to listen to their wives talk wedding shit. And because I’m an asshole, when I taste tested salad dressings and sniffed flowers, I made them do it too.
And they did.
Without complaint.
Loyalty.
I can sense their happiness—for me…for Maddie—despite their stoic expressions. All but Regg, who is winking at someone in the crowd. But when the music starts and Red steps out, Regg seems to forget that anyone exists other than him and the woman walking toward us. I can’t help but notice how he looks at her. How happy she makes him.
Love.
Nobody could possibly feel it as much as I do. As the twenty-third Psalm states: My cup runneth over. My heart is full.
Then I see her. And somehow, I love her more.
Pachelbel’s Canon in D plays. Everyone is on their feet. Turning to look. Watching as Maddie walks down the aisle. Dressed in white. The veil covering her face unable to hide the smile on her lips. The shine of tears in her eyes.
My knees go weak.
This girl has the power to do that to me. To bring me to my fucking knees.
Love isn’t a strong enough term. What I feel can’t be expressed in a single word. Not for her. And not for the young man escorting her. Logan Pittman. Her son. Soon to be Logan Yates. Our son.
Today is the day he gives his mother to me, and I’ll give them both my last name. Having the two people I love most in this world, accept my name with honor and wear it with pride, is a powerful fucking feeling.
A feeling you can’t get from riding.
Or from the club.
Six hundred and eighty days, I woke like any other man. Then I slid a cut over my shoulders and became something only a few can claim—a Devil’s Renegade. A brother. Protector. Enforcer. I’m still and forever will be all of those things. But now I’m a man with more.
More to live for.
To die for.
To kill for.
Today I traded in the cut for a tux. The patches for a ring. The life of a man who lost everything, for one who has it all. It deserves a new count. After all, this is the first moment of the rest of my life. And it’s exactly who I want to be.
A brother.
Husband.
Father.
Afterword
Want to see how the other half live? The whores who are always over looked? Well you’re in luck! I just so happen to have a series featuring them!
If you haven’t had a chance to read my whore series, you can check out the first chapter of Clubwhore and Patchwhore in the back of this book.
Also, if you’d like to become an exclusive member of Kim Jones’ House of Whores Facebook Group, you can do so by clicking here and requesting to join! It’s not hard. Hell, I’ll let anyone in.
Thank you for reading!
-Kim
CLUBWHORE
CHAPTER ONE
“That’s right…you know how I like it, baby.” For fuck’s sake…come already. “You’re so big.” Good thing I practiced my Kegel exercise this morning. “I love how you dominate that pussy.” Blah blah blah.
The great thing about being on your knees while getting pounded from behind by a drunken biker who closes his eyes in hopes that it will lessen the guilt he feels in his chest because you aren’t his wife? You don’t have to look at the bastard. For example, right now I’m studying the shitty job my manicurist did on my nails.
As if he can sense my boredom, I finally feel him pull out moments before warmth spreads across my ass. I throw in a few grunts and groan for the hell of it, while he pumps his cock with one hand and kneads my ass with the other—like I actually enjoy that shit.
My name is Delilah Scott. I used to be referred to as Scotty D—weird, I know. But around here I’m known as just plain old Delilah. I guess it’s easier to bang a chick named Delilah rather than one named Scotty. By the way, “around here” is the Devil’s Renegades’ clubhouse in Hattiesburg, Mississippi—my place of employment.
I call myself an entrepreneur. I use my skills, body and brains to make my way in this world. Sure, I do it in a manner that some would consider unethical, but who gives a shit what they think? And the “they” I speak of are the ones who call me a whore. In reality, I’m not.
Whores get paid for sex. That’s not what I do. I get paid for providing company to lonely men. If that entails having sex, fine. I consider it an extent of my gratitude to the men who I enjoy being around.
“That was great, babe. Always is.”
I look over my shoulder, offering a wink and a sultry smile to the man who’s just come all over my back. “Pleasure was all mine.” And really, it was.
Even though this man isn’t a Devil’s Renegade, he’s a friend to the club. Therefore, he’s a friend to me. I don’t generally get pleasure out of fucking married men and this was no different. I was assured that he’s in the middle of a divorce. I’m not so sure it’s true. But, looking at the bigger picture, I’m glad I could be of service. In turn, I’ve been of service to the Renegades. And that always pleases me.
I stay on my knees while he dresses--not wanting it to be awkward when I cringe at the way his dried come pulls at the tiny hairs on my back. With his pants zipped and his cut back on, he slaps my ass and leaves the room. Hell of an exit. I mean, nobody has ever done that before.
One of the great things about living at the clubhouse is the en-suite bathroom I have all to myself. Okay…so maybe it’s not that great. But it is an added bonus. I have two hundred square feet designated especially for me. A nice, spacious bedroom with a view of the backyard, equipped with a king-sized bed, a vanity, dresser, closet and a bathroom with a whirlpool tub. The Renegades know how to take care of their own.
Luke Carmical, president of the Hattiesburg chapter, has always made me feel comfortable, safe and appreciated. Not once has he ever looked at me like I was beneath him. In addition to his hospitality and my room and board, he pays me three hundred dollars a week. In return, I provide around-the-clock pleasure for anyone who walks through the clubhouse door, keep the place clean, and make sure there’s always hot coffee and cold beer.
Not a bad gig for a whore, huh?
Even though the men are great, the same can’t be said for some of their ol’ ladies. I know a lot of people say “They’re just jealous” to make themselves feel better, but really, they’re just jealous. They don’t like the fact that I’m here with their men. They don’t like that I’m loved by the guys. I’m easy to get along with, outgoing, fun and I’m not too hard on the eyes either. That alone is enough for them to hate me.
I’ve never slept with any of the chapter members who have wives—contrary to popular belief. I’ve been with a few from other chapters, but they’ve all been in open relationships. Most of those men like to share me with their wives too—something I’m definitely not opposed to. I don’t consider myself a lesbian due to the fact that I would never have a relationship other than sex with a woman. It’s just business, really. And speaking of business, I have shit to do.
Showering off the scent of the man whose name I can never remember, I let the steaming, hot water cleanse me before switching it to cold. I’m always sleepy after sex—the reprieve I feel from my internal damaged, twisted need is mentally exhausting. But the frigid water never fails to revive my senses and wake me completely. By the time I step out of the shower, I have a renewed passion to get the night started.
I guess I can be considered sexy. I’m tall, falsely tanned with jet black hair and brown eyes. I’ve been called Pocahontas more than once and I’ve always taken it as a compliment. To keep the interest of the men around here, I have to stay in shape. I do so by eating Doritos by the bag, getting extra pepperonis on my pizza and drinking plenty of carbonated beverages. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me one day, but right now, I plan to take full advantage of my high metabolism.
“Delilah? You in here?” The infamous Red, property of Devil’s Renegades VP, Regg. I’ve always hated he was married…
Red falls under the category of “ol’ ladies that don’t really like me.” Although she’s never been rude or forthcoming with her thoughts of me, she always makes it a point to remind me that Regg belongs to her—expressing an extreme amount of PDA when it’s really not necessary.
“I’m in here.” My bathroom door is opened without warning and Red takes a minute to size me up. There must be a stamp on my forehead that reads “If you’re bi-curious, I’m your girl.” Or at least that’s the vibe I’m getting from the appreciative way Red is looking at me right now.
“Are those real?” she asks, glaring at my breasts unashamedly.
“Yes.” My deadpan answer is meant to draw her attention away from my chest and to my facial expression that clearly says, “Are you fucking kidding me? Of course they’re real.” But she can’t be distracted. Humored, I ask, “Wanna touch ’em?”
“What?” That got her attention. “No. I mean. No.” She pulls her eyes to mine and I can’t help but smile at her embarrassment. It’s a first for her. “The Eagles have a Prospect that’s getting his patch tonight. Luke wants to know if you’re interested in giving him a…show.”
My heart warms a little at her words. This is why I like Luke. He always asks, never demands. Why did he have to be married? All the fucking good ones were gone. “What’s his name?”
“Drake.” Drake…sexy …
Pulling a brush through my hair, I turn and watch Red’s eyes follow mine to the mirror, fighting like hell to stay focused on my face and not drop to my tits. I wonder what she’s like in bed… “Of course I will. I’ll be out in thirty.” My words are dismissive and Red leaves, reluctantly, while I continue getting ready for Mr. Drake.
The Eagles are a riding club that supports the Renegades. This means that if the Renegades call, they come. A lot of the patch holders from the Renegades came from the Eagles. It’s like a starter club. To get to a three patch MC, you have t
o start somewhere. And the Eagles are a pretty damn good place to start.
As promised, thirty minutes later I emerge from the confines of my room and walk the long hallway that leads to the main area of the clubhouse. The place is built on Luke’s property, sitting right behind his house. It’s a massive building consisting of ten bedrooms, a large open area with a bar, pool tables, tons of seating and a kitchen that sits off to the side. On special occasions, a makeshift stage equipped with a stripper pole is assembled where the other girls and I can dance for the men’s—and sometimes the women’s—entertainment.
I don’t know shit about this Drake, so I didn’t dress according to his preference or fetish. Instead, I chose a generic outfit of leather. I have yet to find one man who didn’t approve of it. Black leather boots, corset and matching panties.
Yes…leather panties.
No…they’re not comfortable.
An ensemble like that can’t be complete without a leather riding crop. So I have one of those too.
Not to be conceited, but I’m a showstopper. And when I saunter into the main room, all eyes are on me. I hear the catcalls and whistles that come from the familiar voices of the Renegades. But tonight I have a mission, and I only have eyes for one man—Eagles’ Prospect, Drake.
I can’t help the disappointment I feel when I see him. He’s tall, lanky and ugly as hell. Why can’t he be married? Like I said, the good ones are gone. His brothers grab him and he looks like he might shit his pants. Even when they force him to take a seat in the center of the room, he still has no idea what’s going on.
Grabbing the iPod from the docking station, I find the playlist I’ve made specifically for dancing. Finding it more than appropriate, I select Nicki Minaj’s “Only.” The song crackles through the room. Immediately, the electricity swims through me. Boasting from every speaker in the building, the hypnotic tempo reverberates off the walls.
