Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  Neither can appear weak, especially now, not after Rowdy’s extensive medical challenges this year and his approved but questionable transition from one MC to another, something unheard of.

  It’s a good thing he holds the financial strings to the Hells Guardians. I applaud his genius in setting that shit up. I know he had help from Spyder and Grinch, Boone too.

  Part of their plan hinged on me. I’d been positioned to take over the Guardians as the permanent president, but that didn’t turn out as planned.

  So Wrench was handpicked by Rowdy as soon as he recovered enough from his gunshot wound to select his successor.

  A second generation member, with strong business ties and community connections, as well as advanced computer skills, Wrench is going to make a solid president and carry on the changes we were working toward.

  From this point on, the gavel is in his hand, and club decisions will go back to the table for a vote, without Rowdy’s or my feedback. Rowdy will act only as the club’s banker, in relation to the funds he fronted and is owed.

  One of my supporters keeps me in the loop, and call me impressed, because Wrench already removed the offending members who supported Crusher’s crusade against Rowdy.

  I’ll keep an eye on the Guardians long-term, through my contacts. The club’s success is personal, and I want them to break away from any lingering guns and drug-related connections. Without me standing between them and the authorities, they won’t have the same protections in place.

  Fuck. I’m sick of all this damn reflection, and I have at least a week, likely two, before my meeting with Rowdy and Boone.

  I’m bored...lonely even. I miss the action I’m accustomed to, juggling work for three distinct but entangled organizations. I’ve never just done nothing, and trading hotel rooms isn’t my idea of stimulation.

  While in limbo, I have been working out like a bodybuilder training for competition. My former flabby gut is showing significant definition, and a serious six pack is achievable for the first time in my life.

  I’ve gone from the chubby kid, to the massive man with a Santa belly, to a fit, muscular, very tall man.

  Women look at me in a whole new way. It’s kinda nice but uncomfortable at the same time.

  It’s not like I didn’t have willing club girls eager to suck my cock or share my bed before. But it was all about my position as VP and eventually as acting president. My accent seemed to be a magnet too.

  These days, I’m forgoing my leathers, so no one will label me as some big, bad, biker dude. Yet even without my club colors, fluttering eye lashes and long glances are becoming commonplace.

  But it doesn’t matter. There is only one woman occupying my mind.

  I glance at the paper again. What have I got to lose? In a few weeks I may be running for my life.

  Pulling out my latest burner phone, I pick up the wrinkled paper. If I don’t call soon, I’ll no doubt wear the digits right off, although it doesn’t matter. I memorized her number the night she gave it to me.

  Cheryl Cunningham is an interesting and extremely beautiful woman. I wonder if she’ll see me with the same stars in her eyes after three months.

  I guess it is time to find out.

  Trina

  I know I’m gawking like a kid in a candy store, but I can’t stop. There is too much decadence going on around me. I don’t know where to look next.

  The Dungeon has been transformed into a 1920’s speakeasy with jazz music blaring and numerous patrons dressed to represent that bygone era.

  Because of who Rowdy is and who he’s related to, we were ushered in to the Soul Scorchers’ establishment through a separate employee and VIP members-only entrance.

  I’ll ask him more about the VIP status later. I’m curious about the benefits, seriously curious.

  After our trek down a steep staircase, my unease swiftly changed to excitement at the sight of so many bodies on a dance floor. A few of the wannabe flappers are making me envious with their exaggerated twists and kicks.

  I gasp when a blonde bombshell touches her toes; gravity can’t help but play havoc with her dress, giving anyone looking a panty-less preview, heart-shaped ass included.

  She pops up, shimmies to the side, skirt fringe flying, and continues to dance as if she didn’t just flash her goodies.

  “We made it just in time for the next scene,” Rowdy whispers in my ear, prompting instant heat between my legs. His voice does that to me, and when his lips touch my ears, or any part of my body, I become putty.

  “It’s a theme night. I’m sure you’ve figured out what they’re going for,” he chuckles.

  Like his whisper, his low laugh stokes my inner flame even higher, making my temperature rise another degree...or ten. There is no question why I respond the way I do to his advances.

  Through the good times and the not-so-good times, sex with Rowdy remained a constant source of pleasure and security. Recently, we’ve gone as far as simple role playing; me being restrained spreadeagle across the bed; him administering numerous spankings and utilizing a wide selection of toys.

  Just those brief memories have me squirming and pressing my thighs together. Add in the atmosphere and Rowdy’s teasing, and I’ll do pretty much anything he asks.

  Keenly aware of my predicament, because he is always mindful of what ignites my passion, he grins down at me, his hooded gaze a sure sign of his own escalating arousal and the mischief that often accompanies it.

  I’m well aware he has an abundance of kinky ideas he hopes to turn into reality. I’m not certain he is aware that I have some ideas of my own, ideas that might shock even him. And I can admit, I’ve been interested in coming to The Dungeon since learning of its existence.

  Olympia shared her initial Dungeon experience with me over a shared bottle of wine. Holy hotness! I’m not sure I’ll be as brave as she was her first time.

  Sex on a stage with a roomful of people watching, nipple clamps, a swinging apparatus, and a strange woman licking chocolate off her body―her detailed description was a lot for me to take in. But I won’t deny, my body responded to the images when I replayed them later in my mind.

  Not to mention, she admitted Boone rents a private room and is the big shot Dom with admiring fans. She is now his sole sub unless they choose to add additional players.

  Thankfully, tonight, Boone and my closest friend are not in attendance.

  I think all of us here; doing whatever it is we’re going to do, would seem strange. Maybe someday, but I’m definitely not ready to see them in action.

  “So, Mrs. Richards, like the party or do you wanna split?”

  We’re the Richards now, by the way. Rowdy officially changed his surname to match Bone’s and Boone’s. I decided to adopt the name as well. I like being Mrs. Richards.

  “Split? You’re kidding right? We just got here.” I’m keeping a close watch on the empty stage, anticipating the main performance.

  “That’s right. I almost forgot. I married a naughty nurse.” He reaches down and squeezes my ass, making no effort to conceal what he’s doing.

  Considering the multiple make out sessions in progress, his wandering hand seems pretty tame. Besides, I’ve already been exposed to plenty of debauchery at the club parties. They can get pretty wild and raunchy.

  The Dungeon, in comparison, feels more controlled, somehow organized even with such an erotic ambiance and enthusiastic assortment of customers.

  I start to ask a question, but stop when a spotlight fixes on the stage. The black velvet curtain is closed, but it appears to breathe and ripple, evidence of the last minute preparations taking place behind it.

  “Let’s get closer,” Rowdy says, taking my hand and guiding me through the heated bodies.

  I barely hear him over the musical introduction, a twenties jazz hit, The Dumber They Come; The Better I Like ‘Em―a song so offensive to modern ears, I’m surprised they risked playing it. But then again, this isn’t your typical crowd, and it is without ques
tion a highly realistic 1920’s theme night.

  Rowdy shoots me a questioning look. I narrow my eyes before shrugging and giving him my biggest smile. If an ancient jazz guy wants to sing about dumb girls being easy lays, what the hell?

  No one else seems bothered by the music selection. They are far more bothered by me and Rowdy. A fair amount of women, men too, make no effort to hide their appreciation of us as we squeeze by.

  Fresh meat―that’s us.

  In spite of the positive attention, it’s a challenge to keep my head up and not let my insecurities rule, but I manage. The biggest bogeyman in my life is dead, gone, buried. The love of my life is alive, well, and by my side.

  With that in mind, I keep my smile blinding and shush my nerves.

  Letting Rowdy lead the way, I stop when he does, near stage left. His timing is impeccable. The curtain parts with dramatic flourish, revealing “actors” in an unfolding sexual drama.

  Three men and one woman dance to the misogynistic musical number, and it’s clearly a parody as the men make sure to appear like dumb, dumb, and dumber, though very, very, very sexy with shirts off, leather suspenders and black trousers on, oxfords for their feet.

  All three have short hair slicked back, reminiscent of the Twenties style, and two model bowler hats made popular by good ole Charlie Chaplin. The hats don’t last long and are flipped into the audience like Frisbees.

  The tallest, his skin the same shade as mine, is covered in Polynesian tattoos often worn by men native to the Pacific Islands. With the hat removed, closer inspection reveals his hair is long but pulled back into a tight bun at nape of his neck. Thank God he didn’t cut what I’m sure is a mane of dark waves, again like my natural color.

  Okay, I’ll admit. My gaze is drawn to him more than the other two, equally handsome participants.

  Blame it on the tattoos. What can I say?

  They’re nothing like Rowdy’s colorful artwork, but wrapped around his bicep and covering half his upper body, they look lick-able.

  The three shove, push, show their muscles and act like meatheads, trying to win the lady in question. So far their antics make me laugh, but I can see where this is headed...I think.

  With an exaggerated headshake, the scene’s obvious star, a petite brunette with the perfect bob hair cut and perfect boob-job, twirls between the testosterone-driven trio, snapping suspender straps and pouting, all the while, feigning frustration at her inability to get them to behave.

  “You don’t have to fight over me boys,” she drawls, pulling out the traditional, extra long cigarette holder the shortest man rushes to light. She inhales and blows smoke in his face as a thank you.

  “And what do you suggest, doll? I can handle a choice bit of calico all on my own.”

  “I’m well and sure you can. But you’re all bimbos, so why should I choose?

  “Bimbos?” I lean toward Rowdy, eager for the sure-to-be Twenties translation. I’ve heard the “choice bit of calico” phrase before and know it means “a desirable woman.” But I have no clue on men referred to as bimbos, though I like it.

  He chuckles. “They should probably hand out a cheat sheet at these events. You called me a Bimbo once.”

  “Did not. I would have remembered that.”

  “Macho man,” he whispers in my ear. “Or a brute, or Mr. Tough Guy, but not the sharpest tool to go with all that brawn.”

  Surprised, my jaw drops and I giggle, but my attention is drawn back to the stage where clothing is being discarded and things are heating up.

  It doesn’t take long before the flapper has her harem in control, performing at her command. By the time she’s moaning and crying out, her mouth around one big cock, and getting fucked by the other two, I’m ready for some serious sex myself.

  Rowdy takes one look at me and picks me up, tossing me over his shoulder like a caveman, or should I say a Bimbo?

  Either reference works.

  He charges through the crowd―a man on a mission―then down a side corridor.

  We’re stopped at a separate entryway where he presents what looks like an exclusive, Amex Black Card, yet different.

  The nurse in me wants to scold him about carrying me, but I feel way too wanton to bother.

  Our gatekeeper gives the card a quick scan. “Boone said you’d be using this. Enjoy.”

  My night is definitely the bee’s knees. I’m no bluenose either, and I can’t fucking wait to make whoopee with my man.

  Cheryl Cunningham

  I’m staring at the TV, but I’m not absorbing anything. It’s been like that a lot lately, ever since my extended stay at “Hotel Crazy” with Doctor Hyde’s clone as my horrific host.

  Just the thought of those weeks has me glancing over my shoulder, something I do on a regular basis now.

  I’m grateful to be home safe, and it’s good to have Trina back in my life, but she’s changed. Our friendship changed too.

  I no longer have her to myself. She’s married and has new friends, including a woman in competition for the coveted, number-one, BFF ranking.

  We still talk, comment on each other’s social media accounts, the usual. She made every effort to reach out, in spite of Rowdy’s initial hospital confinement and his following rehabbing.

  I understand, really, I do.

  She’s married now. She’s put down new roots and lives hours away. And she has every right to form new relationships. I’m happy for her...most of the time.

  Considering I get to see her soon, I should feel more excited.

  Rowdy reached out to me, asking me to be part of his honeymoon “part two” plan. Of course I agreed, but I’m more anxious than expectant.

  In all honesty, I’m angry.

  Trina knew all along about Dr. Martin’s habitual raping and murdering agenda, she experienced it firsthand, yet she didn’t bother sharing her traumatic ordeal or warning me.

  Had I known he was a serial rapist and killer, I wouldn’t have marched into his facility, demanding his help.

  No. I would have done everything in my power to help Trina bring the fucker down.

  The fact she didn’t trust me enough to tell me continues to create an ever-expanding chasm between us. I know she senses something is off, but she hasn’t acknowledged the change in our relationship.

  Granted, she explained her reasoning, her belief that her silence would protect me. And I get that. I do understand why she did things the way she did, but that understanding doesn’t stop the simmering resentment.

  At some point, we’ll need to have one of those never enjoyable “come to Jesus” confrontations, because if I don’t express my frustrations, our friendship is going up in flames.

  I think Rowdy suspects I’m harbouring harsh feelings, and he made sure to explain his intention for Trina to have a happy honeymoon, filled with memorable times―good times only. His proclamation was clearly a warning to avoid any discussion about the madness we all experienced.

  So I’ll be pretending all is fine, at least for now.

  My cell phone’s persistent buzzing forces me from my glum mood.

  “Hello?” I hardly ever get calls, so I’m hesitant with my greeting.

  “Cheryl? Hey. This is Demon. We met―”

  I know where we met and I don’t want him to say it, so I cut him off mid-introduction. “Demon, hi! I didn’t expect to hear from you.” It’s true, I didn’t. It’s been almost three months since I passed him that wrinkled scrap of paper.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you. Things got kinda crazy. How are you?”

  How am I? Do I tell him the truth or lie? “I’m okay. Not really. It’s been hard.” I start with the lie but quickly blurt out the truth instead.

  “I hear you. I was hoping your offer for a friend still stands. If not, I understand.”

  It’s not hard to tell how difficult it is for the big biker to humble himself enough to ask. I’m sure he doesn’t make a habit of pleading for friends.

  “What about your job?
The club?” I start.

  “I’d rather talk in person. Phone isn’t really my thing.”

  “Okay, would you like to come here, to Gig Harbor. Oh...you might want to wait a few days. Rowdy and Trina will be here tomorrow. I’m not sure how long they’re staying.”

  “Shit. Thanks for the warning. Yeah, how about you give me a call once they’re gone.”

  “I will, Demon.” I stop. Calling a man Demon is weird. “Do you have a less demonic name I can use?”

  He chuckles, the sound is deep and I feel the rumble all the way through the phone. It ignites something in my core, a fire that burns, warming me all over.

  “Roman Arkadyevich Petrov.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Uh, is it necessary to say all three?”

  “Roman is fine. Would you like to hear them in Russian?

  He repeats his full name again, in Russian this time, and I sigh. The idea of him speaking sweet nothings or naughty encouragements in his native language makes me even more eager to see him again.

  “Do you speak any other languages?” I haven’t forgotten his more Mediterranean appearance.

  “Spanish. My mother was from Madrid.”

  “I took Spanish in high school and a year in college. We might be able to discuss where the bathroom is or the weather.” I’m surprised how comfortable I feel talking to Demon...Roman.

  As cliché as it sounds, I feel like I’ve known him forever.

  “Bueno,” he replies softly, his accent unusual, considering the dissimilar Romance and Slavic languages. “I will look forward to talking with you in any language.”

  Oh. Okay. My abdomen flutters in that funny way. Something I haven’t experienced in a long time, but who’s counting the years?

  “Bien,” I reply, suddenly nervous. “So, I’ll call you soon.”

  “The minute our mutual friends depart,” he confirms.

  With the call ended, I collapse onto my couch.

  Leaning back, I slide my hand under the waistband of my sweat bottoms, imagining Roman whispering both Spanish and Russian in my ear when he takes me for the first time.