HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1)

by Faith Winslow

  “So, pretty lady, I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into or fully understand who you’ll be dealing with, but if you still want to know where to find Tony Ink, I’ll tell you, like I promised. But before you go see him, do me, yourself, and your next of kin a big favor…rent movies like Scarface, Blow, and Traffic and ask yourself if you really wanna be a part of a world like that—for any reason.”

  “That thing my brother has been falsely accused of,” I said, locking eyes with the jovial fellow, who, in this moment, seemed less than jovial, “is murder. And he wasn’t just falsely accused of it. He was convicted for it and sent to prison, where he was ‘accidently’ beaten to a bloody pulp in a yard fight.”

  “Alright,” he replied, taking on a serious tone. He put his elbow on the bar, dropped his childlike act, and started spouting out surprisingly articulate directions.

  “If you head west, toward Culver City…”

  Chapter 19

  ~ Rachel ~

  Tony Ink’s “party house” was where he conducted his business. It was located in one of the more questionable areas in West L.A., in a somewhat densely populated area. However, the dreadlocked guy from The Castle said I’d know exactly which house it was as soon as I saw it—and he was right.

  Once upon a time, the ranch-style house that Tony Ink now occupied was probably a very nice little home for a very nice little family, but the crime rates skyrocketed. People started shooting each other. People started overdosing, turning tricks, and beating the fuck out of each other… And then, people like Tony Ink came in, picked up the broken pieces, and made everything even worse. It’s the same sad sequence of events that’s happened and continues to happen all over L.A., California, the U.S., and the rest of the world.

  But enough about that. I didn’t go to Tony Ink’s to save the world—just my brother’s name and postmortem reputation—and what a place to try and do it! The one-upon-a-time-nice ranch-styled house was set back behind and ungroomed yard that was littered with beer cans, fast food wrappers, and God only knew what else. The house, itself, looked poorly maintained and highly neglected. One of the front picture windows was busted and boarded up, and the board had a picture of a cock and balls spray-painted on it. (No joke.)

  There was a small porch on the front of the house, which was filled with broken furniture and electronics, empty beer cases, pizza boxes, and other random discarded things and garbage. And there was a rusted metal glider in the corner, upon which a very fat man was peacefully resting and loudly snoring.

  The door to the house was wide open, and there were a few people collected near the doorway. They nodded at me with dazed, glazed-over expressions in their eyes and on their faces, as I squeezed between them and made my way to the interior.

  The place looked even worse on the inside than it did on the inside, and that’s saying a lot. The walls were full of graffiti, stains of various types, and holes the sizes of fists, feet, heads, and asses; there were no doors on any of the interior doorframes; and there wasn’t any “real” furniture in the place, just a broken-down, torn couch and loveseat, a few stained mattresses on the floor, and a coffee table made out of two overturned milk crates and a piece of moldy plywood, which was scattered with myriad drugs, drug paraphernalia, and makeshift ashtrays.

  For a “party house,” it definitely wasn’t the type of “house” where I’d like to “party,” but there were about a dozen or so other people there who clearly didn’t share my opinion. Some of them were probably Tony Ink’s clients; some were probably his hookers; some were probably his friends, if he had any; all of them were obviously stoned, high, or fucked up on something; and none of them seemed to care that I’d just walked in. I was just another fish in their sea—or rather, in their cesspool.

  But I do have to admit, given what a select few of them who weren’t too fucked up to function were doing, it was obvious why they didn’t pay me any attention. In the far corner of the living room, a guy and two girls were sprawled out on a twin-sized mattress. The guy and one of the girls were taking turns smoking a bong, and the other girl was smoking the guy’s dick.

  And believe it or not, that wasn’t the worst of it. On the couch, at the center of the room, a man was sitting on the broken-down, torn couch, with a woman on top of him, straddling him. They were both completely naked, and they were very obviously, very publicly, and very fervently fucking. From where I was standing, I could clearly see the man’s cock sliding in and out of the woman’s body as they pumped hard at each other.

  I didn’t know whether to look, or look away, and though most of me was terrified and disgusted, part of me was excited.

  “You want some of this, baby girl?” a thin, frail girl asked from a few feet away.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” I said, refusing the joint she offered. “I’m looking for Tony.”

  “Which Tony?” a man inquired from the living room.

  “Tony Ink,” I replied, turning my head back in the direction of the debauchery.

  “Present!” the man on the couch—the man who was obviously, publicly, fervently fucking—replied, raising his arm in the air like a student in a classroom. A few of the people around him chuckled—though the woman on top him wasn’t one of them.

  When he raised his arm, I saw why they called him “Tony Ink.” His whole arm—as well as his chest, other arm, and parts of his neck—was covered with tattoos. There was more ink on those parts of his body than bare skin.

  “What’s up?” Tony Ink asked, leaning his head against the back of the broken-down, torn couch. He lowered his arm from the air, placed both hands on his partner’s ass cheeks, and guided her body, in rolling motions, over his.

  “You lookin’ for work, baby?” he asked, grunting as he ground his girl harder against his cock. “Give me twenty minutes or so after I’m done with this one, and I’ll give you your audition.” Again, a few of the people around Tony Ink chuckled, and again, the woman on top of him was not one of them.

  “I’m not here for work,” I replied, a little short of breath for a lot of good reasons. “I’m here to—”

  “Meet me,” a voice blurted from somewhere behind me.

  I knew the voice well and didn’t have to turn to confirm who it was.

  “Hammer!” Tony Ink shouted from beneath his partner’s bouncing booty.

  “Hey, Tony,” Sam said, nodding toward Tony Ink and paying no mind to what, or who, he was doing.

  “And hey to you,” Sam said in a strangely sexy voice. He came closer to me, wrapped one arm around my waist, and reached the other around to the back of my neck, then he leaned in, brought his lips to mine, and moaned a tiny moan as greedily kissed me.

  I didn’t know why he was doing what he was doing, but I knew that he had to be doing it for a reason, and God DAMN did it feel good, so I went with it and submitted to Sam’s kiss fully. I let him slide his tongue into my mouth and let him flick, rub, and twirl it against mine, and I let him slide the hand he’d placed on the small of my back down to my ass and let him cup, caress, and squeeze it.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sam said, pulling his juicy lips away from mine. He hugged my body closer to his and buried his head between my neck and shoulder.

  “Don’t let Tony see your face,” he whispered in my ear. “And go along with everything I say and do…no matter what.” It was a soft, but urgent message.

  I hugged Sam back and wrapped my arms around his neck, nuzzling my head against his right shoulder, which was the one farthest from Tony Ink and the broad he was still fucking.

  “What do ya need, Hammer?” Tony Ink asked. I couldn’t see him from the angle I was at, but I could still hear skin on skin slapping.

  “A couple ounces and a few words,” Sam replied. “But I can wait ‘til you’re finished. You look like you’re pretty busy right now.”

  “Fuck yeah, I’m busy,” Tony Ink panted. “I’m real busy… real busy pounding this pussy.” He panted again, and grunted, and mum
bled a few more foul things before addressing Sam again.

  “Just cop a squat somewhere, and I’ll come find you when I’m done poundin’ the pink outta this thing,” he said.

  “OK,” Sam replied, guiding me toward the hallway.

  “And Hammer,” Tony Ink called out, “sorry I thought your girl was a hooker.”

  “It’s okay,” Sam called back. “Happens all the time.”

  I really wanted to say something snarky to Sam about his comment, but I remembered what he’d told me the day before—and since he’d stepped up to help me out of the mess I’d gotten myself into, I decided not to be, or give him, a hassle.

  Sam led me to a room that, had this been a normal house, probably would have been a home office or bedroom. It was just as wretched as the rest of the interior, and just as bare. There was nothing more than a double mattress on the floor, which Sam walked toward and sat down on. He patted a spot beside him, inviting me to sit down, but I looked at him and told him, with my eyes, that there was no way in hell that I was going to sit down. It wasn’t that I abhorred the idea of being close to him. I abhorred the state of the mattress.

  “What did I tell you out there?” Sam asked in a hushed voice, only slightly louder than a whisper. “Go along with whatever I say and do, no matter what.” He patted the spot next to him again, and…yes…I went over and sat down next to him.

  Sam put his hands behind him and leaned back at an angle. “Now kiss me,” he said in the same hushed voice.

  I hesitated and didn’t act immediately. So Sam repeated his instruction. “Kiss me,” he said again.

  Sam arched his neck forward and tilted his head towards mine, and I leaned in and brought my mouth closer to his. Before I reached his lips, I felt his tongue graze over my lips, licking them slowly but oh-so firmly. My heart raced, and I let my own tongue out of my mouth and licked back.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” Sam whispered between licks. I could feel and taste his words better than I could hear them. “This guy doesn’t mess around. He’s not some back alley junkie.”

  “I know he’s not,” I whispered back, breathing my words into Sam’s mouth. “And that’s why I’m here. He seems like the kinda guy who has answers.”

  Sam sat up again and reached his far arm across his body to mine, bringing his hand to rest on my thigh, just above where my legs were crossed. He opened his mouth and sucked my tongue into it, and I instinctively arched my back inward and pressed my chest forward against him.

  Before I knew it, Sam and I fell back onto the bed, and somehow, he found his way on top of me. He was taller, heavier, and bigger than me in every way, but the pressure of his body on top of mine had my head spinning—especially the pressure of his lower half on mine. He was hard—very hard—and I could feel him digging into me, despite the layers of clothes between us.

  “Look where you are,” Sam said, moving his mouth away from mine, back to my neck.

  “People come here to get high, fuck, and forget about the real world,” he whispered as he nibbled at my earlobe. “And Tony’s the worst of them. The others come and go. But he’s always here.”

  Sam reached his hand down to my thigh again, and I raised it to meet his touch.

  “He knows about everything that goes on in this city,” Sam whispered, moving his hand further up my thigh and deeper beneath my hiked skirt. “But he only listens and never talks… unless there’s something in it for him.”

  I lifted my leg and wrapped it around Sam’s back, pressing my calf-high suede boot into his ass and bring his hard cock even closer to my spread center. Sam yielded to my move and gently rocked himself back and forth against me, huffing shallow breaths as he did.

  “You have,” Sam said, struggling to get his words out. “You have nothing he wants,” he mumbled. His gentle rocking turned to more deliberate rubbing.

  Sam lifted his head up and gazed down at me. He had a dazed, glazed-over expression in his eyes and on his face, just like the people I’d squeezed between at the doorway. But his expression didn’t come from being high. It came from what he and I were doing—and I’m sure I had the exact same dazed, glazed-over look about me also.

  “You have nothing he wants enough to give you what you want,” Sam said, still huffing and humping, but finally able to complete his sentence. “And who knows if he even has what you want,” Sam said, lowering his face back down to mine to enthusiastically kiss me. His hair cascaded down around my face. It smelled of shampoo and sunshine, and as it brushed against my skin, I realized that my own hair was now much shorter than Sam’s. I’d completely forgotten about the “new me” once Sam showed up on the scene—and Sam had yet to say anything about my updated appearance.

  “I listened to what you said yesterday,” I whispered, as I trailed my hands up over Sam’s back, to his head, and ran my hands through his hair, moving his face from my mouth to my neck, which he started licking and sucking at immediately.

  “You said I needed to change my attitude, appearance, and behavior if I wanted to be safe and survive,” I reminded him, pressing my boot into his ass again and clutching at the back of his head. He’d gone from licking my neck to kissing my collarbone and was slowly making his way towards my waiting breasts.

  “And as you can see,” I went on, finding it difficult to speak as Sam’s mouth explored me, “I listened to you and already changed one of those things.”

  “Looks like you changed all three,” Sam said. His face was near my breasts now, and he reposition his head so that it was perfectly between them, then he stuck his tongue out and ran it up from the apex of my cleavage to my chin.

  “And you’ve done a great job,” he went on. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, hanging on his every word.

  “This scarf,” he replied, reaching his hand up to the long, multicolored sheer thing that had somehow managed to remain draped over me, despite our romp. “It’s very pretty, but it’s not very practical.

  “You couldn’t wear it on the back of a bike. It’d get tangled or tied up in something… and that could be very dangerous.”

  Sam slowly slid my sheer scarf off of me and balled it up in his hand, then he drew it to his face and smelled it, wafting in its new scent and whatever smells of me were on it.

  “There’s only one thing—maybe two—a guy like me would wanna use something like this for,” he said, still holding my scarf in his hand and staring at me intently. “But since there aren’t any bedposts on this bed—or any chairs, tables, or poles in this room—I can’t show you.”

  Sam tossed my scarf to the side of the mattress and buried his mouth between my breasts again. And, as he did, my mind began to wander—and wonder.

  Bedposts. Chairs. Tables. Poles. Each one of those words sent shivers down my spine, straight to the part of me that felt most alert and alive. I was twenty-eight years old, and I’d only ever known one hair color, cut, and style—and I’d only ever known three, maybe four, sexual positions. I’d never done anything kinky or out of the ordinary. I’d never done anything involving scarves, bedposts, chairs, tables, or poles. And I’d never done anything like I was doing at the moment—I’d never been intimate with a man in an open room, with so many people so close by.

  And as soon as I thought about how I’d never done this before, I wondered if I was actually doing it now… Was I, in fact, being intimate? Was I being intimate with Sam Hammond?

  When he kissed me like he did out by the living room, it was out of necessity, and he wanted me to put up an act for my safety. But were we still acting out of necessity? Were we still putting up an act?

  We’d used our physical proximity to communicate important information, and preoccupied ourselves with physical activity to “fit in” and waylay suspicions—and I was well aware of both of these ruses and had willingly participated in them fully. But were they still just ruses? Or had something real—other than his real hardness and my real wetness—transpired betwe
en Sam and me?

  I questioned his position and motives as much as I questioned my own.

  Chapter 20

  ~ Sam ~

  “What’s up, Hammer? Little early for ya, ain’t it?” ZZ asked. He’d gotten his street name years ago, when his beard was super long, like the guys in ZZ Top. Now it was much shorter, but that didn’t matter—once you get your street name, it’s your street name, and the only way you can change it is by changing your streets, which means relocating to another state or, sometimes, another part of the country.

  “I gotta take care of some business in a little bit,” I replied. “Figured I’d get a few beers in and have some good times before I have to dig into that shit.”

  It was around two thirty in the afternoon, and I knew I couldn’t stay at Pinky’s for very long because I needed to get my business taken care of relatively soon. I may be an outlaw, but even I didn’t want to be out near Culver City after sunset.

  “Sounds like you ain’t too excited about it,” ZZ chuckled, holding two fingers in the air, which was his way of ordering two beers from the bartender.

  “You wouldn’t be either if you had to deal with a lowlife piece-of-shit drug dealer slash pimp and his filthy habits,” I said, grabbing the beer the bartender placed on the counter.

  “Ah, Tony Ink,” ZZ replied, shaking his head from side to side. “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to deal with that fucker today… or tomorrow… or the day after.”

  “I hear ya,” I said, raising my bottle to toast my brother.

  “To Tony Ink,” ZZ said, saluting his bottle. “May that filthy fucker choke on his own bong smoke!”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I smiled, clanking my bottle against ZZ’s. We each took a sip and chased it with more laughter.

  “What filthy fucker?” Tall Boy asked, walking up beside us. He’d just come from the john and had only heard the tail end of our toast.