Free

by Kristen Ashley

  But Keely had such a beautiful, peaceful smile the whole time she did it.

  And the way she handled those pictures with love and reverence. I was beside myself how that translated to film.

  But there was so much of that coming from Keely (and Hound), it was impossible for it not to.

  That scene was one of my favorites.

  Outside, of course, the one of High watching Millie watching TV with her cat, Chief, tucked close to her belly, purring. Unable to have babies, she had furry babies and gave all her mammoth love to them. And what was so cool about that was, big, bad High gave those fluffballs the same, probably mostly because it made his woman happy.

  I’d caught that footage when Rush and I were over for a movie. I didn’t even know (until right then, of course) if High knew I got it.

  And then there was the one of the backs of Joker and Carissa walking out of garage, one of Joke’s kickass builds mostly done off to the side, Travis up on Joker’s shoulders, Clementine Elvira on Carissa’s hip.

  Carissa was talking, looking straight ahead.

  Joker had his head turned to watch her as she did.

  And the look on his face as his wife chatted to him.

  Oh man.

  Also, there was the one of Snapper falling to his knees to kiss the growing baby bump protruding from Rosalie.

  God, that moment had been priceless. Totally unplanned. And super sweet. I was psyched I was there with my camera when he did that. It was cute and sweet and so, so biker and so un-biker, which was so Snapper, it was perfection.

  And the footage of Tack sitting out at a picnic table, throwing back some brews with Hawk, Mitch and Slim, that bond outside the brotherhood etched in all four men’s faces, even when they were all laughing.

  And the stuff with Hop’s face changing when Lanie walked in the Compound in her trendy, stylish business lady’s clothes, looking like a model who’d wandered into an MC clubhouse.

  But he’d slipped right off his stool so she could slip her ass right on it, and suddenly, she belonged. She was his, she was Chaos. She was a reflection of these men who loved who they loved, and fuck anyone who thought it didn’t fit.

  I adored how the both of them smiled at each other through the seat exchange like they hadn’t seen each other in months, rather than rolling out of the same bed together that morning.

  And of course, there was the film of Tab shoving Shy in the chest with both hands when he was laughing uncontrollably and she was in some snit. Then he’d caught her up in his arms and held her tight, laughing into her neck. That scene was about how her face changed, unable to hold on to the snit when she was in her husband’s arms.

  The Chaos princess and her prince, the brothers’ VP. Attitude and affection and love.

  It defined the whole movie.

  And I especially adored the last shot of the film.

  The one of Tack and Tyra taking off through the forecourt, Tack’s hands on the grip of his bike, gazing forward, Tyra on the back of it, her hair beginning to whip around. She was twisted toward the Compound, a huge smile on her face. Waving.

  No.

  The best was the footage at the last hog roast.

  It was the money shot. The one, a still from it, I’d put on the poster.

  They were all congregated around a steel drum filled with fire in the forecourt. Every last brother. Some of them had hands held to it. Some of them had their fingers wrapped around brews (though Hound had a bottle of tequila in his hand). Some were looking at others. Some were looking at their boots. Some were looking at the sky.

  Big Petey had just said something.

  So they were all laughing.

  Yeah, that was my favorite.

  The men and old ladies had dug up a bunch of pictures and I’d had pretty intense chats with all of them, so the movie wasn’t just fly-on-the wall footage, but also Ken Burn’s style stills with narration.

  They’d trusted me with a lot. I knew I didn’t have it all, but they trusted me with so much. It meant the world to me.

  And I hoped I’d done them proud.

  “Babe?”

  I came back into the room at Rush’s call to see all the men’s eyes on me.

  Fuck.

  I focused on Rush sitting at the head of the table.

  And the relief washed through me in a wave.

  “Babe,” he repeated.

  His voice was thick.

  My throat started to feel funny.

  It was Boz who started to pound his flat hands on the table.

  Arlo joined in.

  Speck. Roscoe. Jag. Chill.

  Snapper. Joker. Dutch.

  Then High, Hop, Hound.

  Big Petey was the first to get up while he did it, and all the men left their seats, bent over the table, pounding on the top.

  Tack.

  And finally Rush.

  They all beat their hands on the table, the sound thundering through the room.

  Rush’s head was tipped back at me and he was smiling.

  I hadn’t let him see even a minute of it.

  I was glad for that now.

  I let out one of those laughs that was also a sob when the first tear fell just as Boz let out a war whoop.

  All the men started whooping.

  Then they started chanting, “Punk, Punk, Punk.”

  I guessed I had their approval.

  I’d get more.

  That movie took medals at three indie film festivals, the top one at two.

  And it got picked up for limited distribution across the US.

  The Chaos MC got even more famous.

  And I’d done them, and my husband, proud.

  Rush

  Two years later . . .

  “Babe.”

  “What?”

  “Babe.”

  Rebel, just coming home, bent over scooping up Rhodes, plopped their son with his legs wrapped around her belly and looked to her husband at the stove.

  “What?”

  “Kiss, first. Then you feed him before I feed you,” he ordered.

  “Well hello to you too, boo. Have a nice day?” she replied.

  “You’re half an hour late. Kiss. Feed. Then I give you food,” he returned.

  She looked down at their boy. “Bossy, boss, bossikins, that’s your daddy,” she shared as she bounced him on her belly.

  But she did this coming Rush’s way.

  Aiming Rhodes to the side, she gave him a kiss, a promise with her eyes he’d get laid later (not unusual), then she moved to the cupboard to get jars of baby food.

  She was over it.

  Then again, she was home with her boys, her favorite place to be, so that happened if she got in a minor snit, and it happened fast.

  A major snit?

  That took an orgasm.

  “Shooting go okay?” he asked.

  “Shaughnessy’s losing it. She’s freaked out about going legit.” She put the jar of baby food down, their son’s diapered tush to the edge of the counter, covered his ears and turned to Rush. “She can’t act without a blowjob imminent, or at least she doesn’t think so. But if I get her out of her head, she’s really good, Rush. She’s even surprising me.” She looked down at Rhodes who was giggling and pulling at her fingers, thinking this was a game. “Though she only gets out of her head when I give her a take fifteen so she can go off and blow Dryden.”

  Rush started chuckling.

  Rebel took their son and his food to his high chair.

  She put the food on the tray, their son on her hip, and dragged the high chair toward Rush so she could stand close and feed Rhodes while he cooked, all in the family.

  Every night the same.

  Unless he had the food ready when she got home. Then it was all in the family at the table.

  “Come ’round, check dailies with you tomorrow morning,” he murmured to the spaghetti sauce.

  “Cool,” she murmured to their son in his high chair then made faces at him and smiled when she mad
e him giggle.

  Jesus to the fuck.

  He loved his woman.

  “Things good with the Club?” she asked, spooning food into their kid.

  “Yup,” he answered.

  And that was all there was to that.

  They’d opened up in Pueblo, it had gone good. Roscoe overseeing that operation and starting the charter.

  They were opening up in Durango next year, Speck was going across.

  Rebel asked nothing more. She knew it was good. He told her if it wasn’t.

  But it rarely wasn’t.

  His dad left him a Club that was thriving.

  A crazy-cool legacy.

  And Rush got off on the growth, the good times, the hog roasts and brother strategy meetings, Sunday night dinners with his dad, Tyra, Ride, Cut, Tab, Shy, Playboy, Wren, his wife and his son, taking his time not with his family rebuilding cars with his dad, going over books, and otherwise generally living the good life with his award-winning wife who was a talented filmmaker, an exceptional mother, a loving wife and a fantastic fuck.

  No man could ask for more.

  And Rush wouldn’t.

  He had it all. Knew it. And he was grateful.

  The end.

  “Cole, baby, bake up an extra garlic bread. I’m starved. I didn’t have lunch,” she said, back to making faces at their boy while pushing food into his mouth.

  Rush didn’t hesitate.

  He went to the freezer, hacked apart another two pieces of garlic cheese Texas toast, and threw them on the cookie sheet with the four he already had laid out to shove in the oven.

  “Daddy’s totally getting himself some tonight,” she crooned at Rhodes, shoving carrots or peaches or some shit in his mouth. “Yes, he is,” she singsonged. “He knows I love his spaghetti. So it’s all about the goodness for Daddy later when you’re all snug in bed.”

  Rhodes bucked back into his chair, slammed his fists on his tray and giggled so hard, carrots (or peaches or some shit) dribbled out of his mouth.

  Expertly, Rebel scooped it up with his baby spoon and shoved it back in.

  “Babe,” he called.

  “What?’” she asked their son.

  “Babe?”

  “What?”

  “Rebel, baby.”

  He knew that would do it.

  It did.

  Her head turned to him.

  “What, Cole?” she whispered.

  “Love the fuck outta you,” he told her.

  Her beautiful face got soft.

  Then she pretended to be pissed. “You need to stop F-wording it right now in front of Rhodes.”

  He started laughing. “Sweetheart, you just told him we were gonna get busy later.”

  “He can’t reason. But he is starting to talk, and I don’t want him to add to muh-muh-muh, dah-dah-dah, tah-tah-tah,” that last was for both Tyra and Tabby, “and gah-gah-gah,” that was for Tack, his granddaddy, “with fuh-fuh-fuh,” she finished.

  Rush just smiled at her.

  He’d wanted it.

  He got it.

  Every day an adventure.

  Even when, sometimes, it was all the same shit.

  “This isn’t funny, stud,” she told him.

  He looked back at the stove. “Sure it is.”

  Rush put the bread in.

  Rebel told their son how annoying his father was.

  They ate with Rhodes motoring around the legs of the table.

  Rebel gave him his bottle.

  After Rhodes was down, they sat out on their deck, stared at the pine trees swaying gently in the night mountain wind, talked about nothing, but did it holding hands.

  When they were done with that, they checked on their son, went to their bed . . .

  And got busy.

  Valenzuela

  That same night . . .

  He wondered if this was what they all felt, as he hung there on his knees on the bed, his arms over his head, lashed high, wide and taut with leather straps at his wrists connected to the high posts.

  Even after the man slipped Benito’s cock out of his mouth that he’d been instructed to keep hard so she could watch it slapping against his stomach as he took the fucking from behind, he wondered.

  He wondered if they’d endured so much, his whores, in the end, they felt as he did.

  Nothing.

  The man at his back, her husband or something, reached around and grasped Benito’s dick, pumping it while Benito gritted his teeth, knowing how this would end and it wouldn’t be in a good way.

  He was right.

  Starting to tug savagely on Benito’s cock, something that brought mild pain, but no culmination, then latching onto his balls and yanking them down, which brought more than mild pain, the man spent himself inside Benito loudly while she watched with the man who’d been sucking his cock now eating her out.

  Through eye contact or some stupid shit, they came simultaneously.

  He assumed that was supposed to be romantic.

  Outside relief it was done and knowing the abuse would linger in his dick, balls and ass, something he was used to, Benito felt nothing.

  The man didn’t give much thought as he pulled out at the back.

  They rarely did.

  Fuck, come, done.

  He was a hot hole and some dangling junk to play with.

  That was all.

  “Let him loose and you both can go,” the woman ordered, getting up from the chair that had been positioned for her to watch and gathering her silk robe around her as her husband went to her.

  They necked unashamedly and rather sickeningly the minute they got in each other’s space.

  Christ, even softening, that man’s dick was mammoth, and the load he spent that was in the condom was huge.

  Thank fuck he’d been liberal with the lube.

  The other one hired for the night let him go, and Benito didn’t fuck around with gathering his clothes.

  “Gratuity,” the husband’s deep voice came.

  Benito watched as he tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the bed for the other guy and walked two bills over to him.

  Benito took them and then grunted from the unexpected pain when the man took hold of his blue-balls, still-hard dick and gave it a vicious tug.

  “Again next week,” the man said to him. “You’re tight and she likes you.”

  Then he released his grip on Benito, reached for his own silk robe, shrugged it on and, linked together, they both strolled out.

  “Give me one of those hundreds, I’ll follow you somewhere, suck you off in your car,” the other man said, eyeing Benito’s distended shaft.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Benito replied with a look that had the other guy putting his eyes anywhere but him and going faster, pulling on his clothes.

  Once dressed, Benito went out the back way, as instructed, got in his Nissan—a fucking Nissan—and he drove home.

  When he got there, all he could say was the place wasn’t terrible.

  He’d gotten in with a decent agency. They didn’t exactly pull a Knight Sebring the two times he’d reported to them some motherfucker had jacked his ass unlubed, or the one who’d fucking fisted him without paying for that shit, but they hadn’t sent him back to them.

  So there was that.

  Suffice it to say, his risky investment hadn’t come through.

  Benito had been a small-time pimp. Ambitious, he’d started up in high school before he got into selling drugs and it had blossomed from there.

  He’d never had a proper job.

  And apparently, a man with a record, as minor as his early infractions were, that had to do with drugs and prostitution, so when they did background checks (and they all did background checks), he had not been able to find one.

  He hadn’t tried that route for long, thinking, with his links to cartels, he could get a supply to sell himself to get him back on his feet.

  Regrettably, they’d seen his tape, and the first one to actually take his call told him if
he tried to phone again, he’d find his head no longer on his body.

  He had not made another call.

  He’d flirted, briefly, with going to the cops and providing testimony in exchange for immunity and WITSEC.

  But those cartels had ways, and regardless, he might be a paid fucktoy, but he was no rat.

  So now he was here, selling his ass for three hundred dollars a fuck (and giving thirty percent of that to the agency, highway fucking robbery), five hundred if two were there to give it a go, four hundred if they wanted to tie him up, five hundred if there were whips, batons, crops, paddles, clamps and/or hoods involved.

  The scale of shit people would pay to do to him was endless.

  At least he was no longer on the streets.

  That had not been fun.

  He wrested the orgasm out of his cock in the shower while he washed his latest john away.

  It was not enjoyable.

  But at least his dick was no longer hard.

  And it would prove it was going to be not a very good night when he got out, put on fleecy joggers and a hoodie he got at fucking Macy’s, of all fucking places (but at least they were soft against his skin), and his phone rang.

  He didn’t know who the caller was, but he’d earned his rent and the payment on his car and enough to pay the utilities with a goodly amount left over to feed himself and put on a decent suit and go to a nice restaurant that month.

  This meant he wasn’t selling his ass for another week.

  Not to mention that huge cock he’d just taken?

  He’d be doing exercises while watching TV to tighten back up after he got jacked by that fucking snake.

  He took the call anyway. It could be a simple blowjob, or he’d be doing the fucking and that he would do in order to add a little extra to what he’d been socking away to rent a better place and get some nicer things.

  He was forced to admit, he appreciated tonight’s gratuity. It was generous. It wasn’t unheard of someone tossed him a twenty or a fifty, but two hundred was way outside the norm.

  He had his eye on a better couch and was close to having the cash to buy it, that two hundred would help a great deal. Next time, he’d offer to suck the husband’s cock as a freebie before taking that beast, just to confirm them as regulars if they tipped that big.

  “Yeah?” he grunted into the phone, opening his fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine.