by Ryan Michele
“Hey, Jade, you know those varsity players we saw at the diner last week?” Sloan turns in her seat to look at me.
“Yeah?”
“Well, one of them has been asking about you.”
I freeze. “What? How do you know?”
Sloan flashes her phone in front of my face. “Because I’m fucking his best friend, also known as the linebacker.”
I roll my eyes. “You didn’t take long.”
“Would you expect anything less?” Sloan asks, matter-of-factly.
“Actually, no.” My thoughts begin drifting. I’m envious of Sloan. She has the life that people think I have. The warm home and loving parents.
“Anyway,” she continues, handing me back the flask. “His name is Jensen Pracks. He’s the star footballer, playing as quarterback. You should stalk him on Instagram.”
I take a long sip of the—whatever this is—and shake my head, handing it back to her as Nellie takes a turn onto an industrial street. “No. That’s—no. Not me.” My eyes drift outside where multiple trade buildings are lined. Some mechanic garages, others I can’t make out at this time of night. Nellie pulls up to a high wired gate, where a young guy and an even bigger young man stand guard. I still can’t see that much, and I’m semi-distracted by what Sloan just told me about Jensen. Jensen. Even his name is hot. If I wasn’t such a mess, maybe I would seek him out a little. But broken girls like me don’t get perfection like Jensen. Boys like him are reserved for the girls like him. The car is moving inside the gate now, where music is spilling out and one large line of bikes are spread out the front of the big open garage doors. There are lots of men standing around outside drinking, with a few half-naked women hanging off them.
I don’t register right away, and when I notice they’re wearing vests, I freeze. “Nellie!” I tap her shoulder. “Where are we?”
“You’ll see.” She winks at me. They both climb out like it’s nothing and I hesitantly slip out behind Sloan. My heels clink over the concrete floor as the heavy metal music wreaks havoc on my ear drums. I take another step. Connections start uniting in my head as I begin to make out the patch on the man’s left pec. It’s not until we’re directly at the opening of the shed when I freeze, blood draining from my face. My hand shoots out to Sloan. “I can’t be here!”
Sloan turns, rolling her eyes. She hooks her arm in mine, tucking me into the garage. That’s when I finally see what’s going on inside. Drunk bikers, naked women sucking off random body parts, and a large fighting ring that’s set up to the side of the bar. There’s a large metal emblem hanging above the bar that reads. Wolf Pack MC. Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
My heart beats in my chest, my breathing matching it. I spin around to run out of the club and find a different way home when I crash into a hard chest. An inferno of flames lick around my skin as the smell of rich cologne, soap, cigarette, and leather infiltrated into me. I rub my cheek. “Sorry.” Then my eyes travel up, finding the patch, reading the same club words and Vice President underneath it, and then they go farther up, landing on— “Royce…”
“Monkey.” His eyes go over my shoulder, and I turn to see who he’s looking at. He winks at Nellie who raises her glass in the air. Then my eyes find Sloan who is studying me with fearful eyes. Before I can bring my attention back to Royce, his lips find my ear and his voice coaxes me for a second. “So glad Nellz got you here safely, baby. So here’s the deal…” I snap, as I bring my attention to him. He leans down, so we’re eye level. “You’re not going back to your dorm, and neither is your friend.”
“What!” I whisper, searching his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to come here.”
“Naw,” he chuckles. The slight enmity in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed. “I don’t think you understand. Nellie there, has been on my dick for the past year. You know, amongst others. I needed you here until further notice, so I got my little cock warmer to lure you in. Unfortunately…” His eyes find Sloan. “Sloan is here for the ride too.”
“I’m leaving.” I shove past him, but his arm flies out and he’s tossing me over his shoulder. I heave at his shoulder pressing against my belly.
“No, you’re not, baby girl.” Then he drops me down onto one of the sofas. “Mace!” he calls out, his eyes never straying from mine. “Make sure Sloan has a place to sleep.”
No. No. I go to stand, but he shoves me back down, his powerful arms rippling as they drop to either side of my body. “You will not fucking move, Monkey, and you will do as you’re told. You will be here until further notice. I’ll take you to and from school, if you behave.”
“Or what?” I snap, tears building behind my eyes. I won’t show him the pain that lies beneath my antagonism. He’ll only use that as a weapon and bring me to my knees.
His eyes search mine, a smirk flashing across his mouth. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Sicko
Author note: some matters subject to change and be added into the full standalone novel which is set to release early 2020.
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Swagger & Sass by Autumn Jones Lake
A Lost Kings MC short story
1
Rooster
Bikers party with the fire of nonconformity all the time. Rebellion. Mayhem. That’s kind of our thing. While I enjoy living outside the box of civilized society as much as any biker, even I can’t see a damsel in distress and turn my back.
Both the upstate and downstate New York charters of the Lost Kings MC took the long ride down to San Antonio. We met up with two clubs we’re friendly with on the way, and are all staying at a ranch outside the city.
The older brothers—ones tied down with old ladies and kids—including my club president, are somewhere behind us. Sparky, Jigsaw, and I pulled ahead of the happy family pack to explore. We’re charging down the narrow concrete path of the Riverwalk along the San Antonio River when I stop and hold out my arms, blocking my biker brothers, Jigsaw and Sparky from taking another step. “What the fuck’s that guy doing?”
Sparky may be high-as-fuck, but he zeroes in on the scene in front of us fast. “Damn. Girl’s dress is see-through.”
Okay, maybe he didn’t grasp the problem.
Yeah, Texas sun is no joke. Every inch of the girl’s curvy figure is visible under the thin white dress. That’s not what stopped me. Grade A tits and ass are pretty much available to me whenever I want ’em.
“He has her move back another inch, she’s going in the water,” Jigsaw says, nailing the issue.
Straight ahead and to the right, one of the walkways over the river is empty, except for some douchewaffle with a digital camera and the girl.
“Arch your back!” he calls out.
The girl hesitates and glances over her shoulder, giving me a glimpse of sun-touched cheeks and rose-red lips. “I can’t swim.” Nervous laughter follows her words.
Her companion rolls his eyes. “You’re fine.” He waves his hand in the air. “Besides, it’s like twenty feet deep.”
“What an asshole,” I mutter.
“Actually,” Sparky says. “It’s probably only two to four feet deep here.”
As the last word leaves his mouth, the girl lets out a short yelp and tumbles backwards off the concrete bridge. Her brief scream is cut off by a loud splash.
“Shit.” I push past Jiggy and Sparky, moving closer to the water. My gaze snaps to the guy peering over the edge. Isn’t he going to go in after his girl?
“Brad!” she screams and flails her arms, gasping. “Help!”
“Come on, babe, it’s like two feet deep. Just walk to the edge.” He points to the side we’re standing on and laughs.
What an asshole.
Up ahead, a pair of bicycle cops seem to have taken notice of the situation.
Either it’s deeper than the creep realizes, or the girl’s too scared to listen. She keeps flailing and yelling in the water.
“That water’s filthy.
She’s gonna catch beaver fever,” Sparky says.
“I’m catching beaver fever right here. You can see her nipples through her wet dress,” Jigsaw says.
“You’re an asshole.” I shrug off my cut and slap it against his chest. “Hold that.” I smack Sparky’s arm. “Don’t let that douchebag get away. I want to have a word with him.”
“Rooster, you fuckin’ nuts?” Jigsaw says.
I’m already jumping into the river to go after the girl, so I ignore the question.
The water only comes up to my waist. Smells like shit and fuel oil. I reach the girl in a few quick strides. Poor thing’s still thrashing and sputtering. It’s cute, really.
“Calm down.” I slip my arms under her and lift her in the air. “I gotcha, darlin’.”
“What the? Oh!” She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face against my chest, making it easier to carry her to the side where my brothers are waiting and laughing their fool asses off.
“Help me, dick,” I snap at Jigsaw.
He gives me a what-the-fuck look and holds out a hand to the scared girl. She ignores him and tightens her hold on me. “Sweetheart, I gotta get us out of the water.” I don’t like the way the cops are eyeing me. I swear to fuck if one of ‘em gives me a ticket, they’re gettin’ a throat-punch in return.
Hesitantly she touches her toes to the sidewalk and Jigsaw helps her stand. I haul myself out of the water, shaking hell only knows what kind of filth off me. My water-logged jeans and boots cling in an especially uncomfortable way in the humid summer air.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Shelby. Thank you,” she whispers in a sweet southern drawl that perks my dick right up. Don’t often hear twang like that in upstate New York.
Her scared eyes peek up at me and widen. Three six-foot-plus bikers crowding her would be too much for anyone. “Back off,” I mutter to Sparky and Jigsaw.
“Shelby! You okay?” the photographer yells.
The asshole already earned a beating from me for letting the girl fall in the water and doing nothing to help her. But when he pushes Jigsaw out of the way to get to the girl, he’s risking death.
“Excuse you,” Jigsaw says in the same tone of voice a serial killer might say, “Your liver will taste good with red wine and potatoes.”
He didn’t get the road name Jigsaw by accident.
As scary as Jigsaw can be, this is my show. That’s my girl. I fished her out of the water, I get to keep her. At least for a little while. Bumping Jigsaw out of the way, I step up to this Brad asshole.
“Now’s the time for you to disappear.” My voice is full of cold menace meant to scare the piss out of him.
He cowers and looks around me, reaching for the girl.
Hell fucking no. “You don’t listen very well, Brad.”
“Got a hearing problem?” Sparky asks.
I chuckle, but it’s more hollow and evil than humorous.
“Shelby, come on,” Brad whispers as if I’m not standing right in front of him.
2
Shelby
The three bikers in front of me exude danger.
Exude. That’s a good one. What rhymes with it? If my notebook and pencil weren’t at the bottom of the river, I’d write that down to figure out later.
Back to the bikers. I’m not in danger. Not at the moment, anyway. My lazy photographer-boyfriend who couldn’t be bothered to help me when I fell in the canal? He’s definitely in danger.
Do I feel bad about that?
Not really.
Not when I’m soaked to the skin in slimy, smelly water. Dress ruined. Hair destroyed.
This is what I get for being cheap. Brad insisted his photos would be just as good as a professional photographer. Like an idiot, I agreed. Even though I’m scared of heights, I followed his directions. I thought it would be a cool photo.
“The fuck’s wrong with you, man?” the tall, bearded man who rescued me shouts at Brad. He pushes into Brad’s space, shoving him back with just the threat of his big, muscled body.
“You okay?” the tall, scruffy biker next to me asks. The way his gaze roams over my wet dress reminds me that the thin fabric is clinging to me in the most obscene way. I’m probably giving everyone in the area a good show. Uncomfortable, I cross my arms over my chest.
“Here.” He shrugs off his black leather vest and yanks off his faded blue T-shirt. I’m so stunned stupid staring at the colorful ink penetrating every inch of his lean, muscled frame that I don’t immediately grasp the shirt.
“Huh?” Brilliant, Shelby.
The thunder of who knows how many motorcycles passing over the street above us shakes the ground.
The corner of the biker’s lip curls. “The rest of our club’s not far behind. One of the girls might have something you can wear, but put that on for now.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Heat blooms over my cheeks. This is mortifying. The last thing I needed today. I find my way into the soft, warm shirt, noting the pungent stench of marijuana. Under that, there’s a faint hint of leather and gasoline.
I finally pull the shirt into place and smile up at him. “Thank you.”
He’s slipped his black leather vest back on, and his gaze is trained on his biker friend who’s two seconds from shoving Brad into the river.
“He your boyfriend?”
“Not anymore,” I mumble.
The two remaining bikers share a look, and the one who helped us out of the water smiles down at me. There’s a loud splash and Brad goes into the river. My hero tosses the digital camera at me. “You need those shots?” he asks.
Holy crap. I can’t believe he thought of that when I didn’t. I quickly flip open the camera and yank out the SD card. I paid for it, so I don’t suffer a lick of guilt. The camera, however, isn’t mine, so I set it on the sidewalk next to where Brad’s pulling himself out of the river.
“Not so funny now, is it?” I ask.
“Bitch,” Brad grumbles.
I’m fixin’ to pitch one hell of a hissy fit when Brad lunges at my hero. The two bikers next to me laugh. “Not too bright, is he?” one of them says.
“Not really.”
“You need a ride, sugar?” the taller biker asks. He smiles down at me again, and this time I notice the faint, jagged scar running down his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He catches my stare, and his friendly expression turns hard.
“I think if anyone’s giving her a ride, it’s Rooster,” the biker who donated his shirt to me says.
“Rooster?” That’s my hero’s name?
Wait a second, what’s this guy trying to say? They’re calling dibs on me?
I don’t have a chance to ask. Brad charges Rooster again and gets knocked to the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
Two cops pull up on their bicycles and rush over. One grabs Rooster and throws him to the ground. “We won’t tolerate your biker attitude,” he growls at Rooster.
Rooster laughs.
The scarred biker is fixin’ to launch himself at the cops when Rooster turns his head. “Don’t, Jiggy.”
“Jiggy?” I mutter.
“Jigsaw.” The biker who gave me his shirt points to his friend then touches his own chest. “Sparky.”
“Interesting names.”
He grins at me then turns toward the cops. “Why you hassling us? This dickweed practically threw the young lady in the river. We were helping her out.”
“Yeah, right.” One of the cops turns and stares at me. “Shelby? Shelby Morgan?”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“You famous, sweetheart?” Jigsaw asks.
The cop holds out his hand like he’s calling over a reluctant cat. “Miss. Step over here, please.”
I glance up at Sparky and Jigsaw. “I’m fine where I am.”
The cop frowns at me.
His partner handcuffs Rooster, so now I have to do something. I can’t let him get arrested for helping me. “Please don’t
. He really did rescue me.” I turn on what I’ve been told is my sweet, southern charm. “I can’t swim, and I was terrified.” I fire a glare at Brad. “My boyfriend watched and laughed. My ex-boyfriend,” I correct. “He saved me.” I nod to Rooster.
“Miss Shelby, the water is only four feet deep here,” the cop says, smirking at me like he thinks I’m an utter nitwit.
“I realize that now, officer,” I answer as respectfully as I can. “But in the moment, it was scary.”
He glances down at Rooster and then at his partner. “All right. Get him up.”
“What’s going on?” A low, commanding voice asks from behind us. I turn and yet another biker wearing the same patches these guys have is staring at us. The beautiful brunette at his side takes a step back as he drills Sparky and Jigsaw with a stare. “What did I tell you?”
My gaze skips to the patch over his heart. President.
“Uh-oh. Are you in trouble?” I whisper to Sparky.
Sparky snorts. Jigsaw laughs. “No.”
“Keep your boys in line while you’re in town, Prez,” the first officer says with a nasty sneer.
The president ignores the attitude and nods. “I’ll handle it.”
The cops write out a few tickets. Two for Brad, one for Rooster, and one for me.
“I didn’t go in the water on purpose!” I shout. I don’t have fifty bucks let alone five hundred to pay the fine.
The cop who recognized me shrugs apologetically. “Explain to the judge. He’ll probably let it go.”
Like I have time for that shit.
“You still gonna be at the Tipsy Saddle Friday night?” he asks me.
“That’s why we were taking the photos.” If he shows up after writing me a ticket, I’m dumping a pitcher of beer in his dang lap.
This has been the worst day.
Except for Rooster.
“Dumb bitch,” Brad sneers.
