by Wild, Nikki
He fucked me harder, deeper, his breath labored as he strained to hold back. Suddenly, I felt him pull out, and grab my legs, pushing my knees against my stomach, my thighs pressed together. He slammed into me, making me scream at the intensity, driving me to the very edge of that cliff of pleasure, and then pushing me off just to watch me fall.
My fingers twisted my nipples as I came, spine arching, pussy dripping down his balls, my slit wrapping itself tighter around him with each contraction. He groaned, slamming into me again, the first spurt of his cum splashing against me, hot and thick and perfect. He shuddered, each spasm filling me more and more with his seed, until it spilled out and down the curve of my ass, my juices running with it, our pleasure too much for my body to contain.
With my body wracked and wrecked with shudders, he finally let his body lower and cover mine, his forehead pressed against my forehead, his eyes demanding mine to open, a demand I could feel even in the darkness.
“I love you, Bex Carter,” he growled, his cock finally wilting inside me.
“I love you, Cross DuFrane,” I moaned in response, leaning up and meeting his lips; it hurt, my mouth still cut from the gravel, but it was worth it. He was worth it. Cross was worth any pain, any heartache. How could I have ever forgotten that?
One thing I knew: I would never forget it again.
Cross
Riding without my colors always felt wrong, but sometimes it was necessary. Like crossing over into Blackhawks territory, another thing which felt wrong. There wasn't any sort of noticeable difference from our territory to theirs, but I knew it the instant I crossed that invisible line, the hairs on the back of my neck standin' up.
There weren't a whole lot of reasons for a Crusader to enter Blackhawks territory. In fact, I'd never done it before. But I knew where I could find their clubhouse, and that's where I directed my Vincent, well aware of the looks I got along the way. Even riding without my colors, I was a stranger. Just like we would know if a stranger rolled through our side of town, the Blackhawks could sense my otherness, and it put them on guard. Understandably on guard.
But I wasn't there to stir up trouble. I was there to find Jase Bosswell, and beat him into his own grave. A week had gone by, and while Dutch made a big show of sending brothers out to comb the streets, no one had come up with the asshole's location. Of course, Dutch knew, but he wasn't telling. He was lyin' through his teeth, which was what I'd come to expect.
With our side of town fairly scraped clean, I was bound and determined to find him on the other side. I was sure the Blackhawks would give me passage. I wasn't going to get in their way, just see what I could see.
But as I rolled up to their clubhouse, which was actually built around a bar called Stucky's, I started to wonder if I was overestimating the clubs' graciousness. Those dirty looks only seemed to get dirtier as I let myself in through the front door, and the sound of my entrance had half the bar taking to their feet.
I'd never felt more alone, and wished I'd taken Blade and Grinder up on their offer to come with me. I thought I'd have better luck going solo; be less intimidating that way. As it was, all I could do was hold my hands up in the universal sign of peace, and ask the room at large who I could talk to about a beer.
Seemingly satisfied that I wasn't there to shoot up the place, the men slowly started to return to their seats, though they didn't take their eyes off me. I went straight to the bar, where the man tending wore the Blackhawks patch, claiming him as treasurer.
“Fortuna,” I said, eying the handle sewn into his lapel. “Nice. I'm Cross DuFrane, Dead Crusaders, Sargent-at-Arms.”
“DuFrane,” Fortuna said, growling as he leaned on the bar. “Grinder?”
“My old man,” I said, pleased with my progress so far.
“Huh,” Fortuna grunted. “And what the hell're you doin' here?”
“I'm hopin' I could speak with someone about a little issue I'm havin',” I said. “I'm not here for any trouble, just want permission to take a look 'round your side of the city.”
“What in the hell for?”
“Lookin' for a man who beat on my woman,” I said. Fortuna did not look impressed. “Don't know where he's hidin', haven't had any luck in our territory. He's not from here. Not one of us. Probably thinks an ape hanger belongs in a zoo.”
“Huh,” Fortuna said again, studying me. He was Grinder's age, or older. After what felt like forever, he walked around the bar, leaned down a long hallway, and hollered: “BEACON!”
Beacon; their VP. Good. I was getting somewhere. Fortuna came back to the bar and nudged his head in the direction of the hallway. Every eye followed me as I approached the hallway, and didn't leave my back until Beacon himself appeared from a doorway.
“Who're you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. The room behind him seemed to be an office.
“Cross DuFrane, Dead Crusaders, Sergeant-at-Arms,” I said, offering my hand. Beacon's mouth split wide into a soggy grin, but he didn't take my hand.
“Well, shit and shillelaghs, come in, we been wonderin' when one of you would show your sorry faces 'round here.”
Beacon didn't wait for me to respond before turning back into the office, which was surprisingly tidy. Even Dutch's office looked like a sty compared to this. Not a single empty beer bottle lay on the floor, and the only ashtray was clean. That didn't stop Beacon from punching a cigarette from his pack, and I did the same with my own, to be congenial.
“So, you here to tell us why the fuck you've been sendin' those pansy-ass prospects of yours onto our streets?”
You could have slid the chair right out from under me, and it'd have the same effect on my heart and stomach. I remember that at that particular moment, the sun must have come out from behind the clouds, and the window behind Beacon filled with a brilliant summer light. My cigarette smoldered between my lips as I blinked, probably lookin' as stupid as I felt.
Beacon, impatient, opened his hands and jerked his body forward.
“Anyone home? Shit, did they send the village idiot?”
“I don't have a damn clue what you're talkin' about, I'm afraid,” I finally managed to say. “This is the first I've heard about it.”
“Huh,” Beacon said, brow furrowing. “Then why are you here?”
“I'll tell you, in a minute, but what was it you said about our prospects? They've been riding on your side of the city? In their colors?”
“Naw,” Beacon said. “Even y'all ain't that dumb. But if you think we don't know what a Crusader prospect looks like, you're doing us a mighty insult.”
“I don't mean no insult to you,” I said, leaning forward to ash my cigarette, my mind chuggin’ along at approximately seventeen hundred miles an hour. “I'm just tryin' to figure this out, 'cause I'm not exactly a peon, and I don't know shit about this.”
Beacon sighed.
“It's happened three times now over the past month, our patrols have spotted your prospects ridin' around like...like scouts,” Beacon said, his eyes narrowing again. “It's only out of respect for the truce that we haven't come over to y'all yet. One more time, and I was gonna send our Sargent over to knock some sense into y'all. You sayin' you didn't send them boys over here?”
“Not me,” I said. “And not our VP, and none of our patched members.”
“But...?” Beacon led.
“I can't speak for Dutch,” I said, quickly, flatly. Beacon would know Dutch's name, just as I knew Beacon's. I didn't want him getting any ideas before I had the chance to form some of my own. “But I doubt he'd do it either. It's possible these boys are dumber than we thought. I'll have a talk with them presently, and I'm right sorry for their ignorance.”
Beacon did not seem sated by my excuses or apology, and I didn't blame him. This was serious shit. The truce between our clubs was the only thing keepin’ us from an all-out territorial war. And if we did go to war, I knew as well as anyone, there'd be no winners. It'd be an eye for an eye until the whole city was blind. I wasn't tryin
' to lay down my life for greed, and I didn't expect any self-respecting Crusader to feel any differently.
But was Dutch still a self-respecting Crusader? I wasn't so sure.
“Well, this puts a shadow on the favor I came here to ask,” I said, rubbin' the back of my neck, trying to change the subject as quick as I could. “I don't expect I have a snowball's chance in hell.”
“What's the favor, Cross DuFrane, Sergeant of the Dead Crusaders?” Beacon didn't look very favorable at all.
“I'm after a man who half-killed my woman,” I said. “And since we've struck out on our side of town, I was hopin' I could swing around your side of town. Just for an hour or two. But in light of my prospects' foolishness, I can understand you denyin' me the honor.”
Beacon studied me, tapped his cigarette out and lit another.
“What kinda man you lookin' for, exactly?”
I pulled out the picture Bex had given me and slid it across the desk.
“He ain't a rider,” I said. “Not even from here. Just a bastard who thinks it's alright to hit women that ain't his to hit.”
Beacon picked up the picture, studied it.
“Can I keep this?” he asked. I was surprised, but I nodded. “Well, you're right. I ain't in the mood to grant you this favor, seein' as how your boys already got a good look at our territory. Hey, they wouldn't have been takin' it on themselves to find this fellow for you?”
I almost said no right off the bat, but I thought better of it.
“Could be,” I said with a shrug. “Won't know 'til I get home and string them up by their bootlaces until they spill.”
Beacon grunted and leaned back in his chair.
“I'll circulate this 'round my men,” he said, gesturing to the picture. “And if anyone sees him, they'll push him in your direction. That's all I can do for you at the moment. You still lookin' for him in a month, and we don't have no more trouble with your boys, you can come 'round and ask again.”
“Thank you kindly,” I said, rising and offering my hand again. This time, Beacon took it.
“You know, a lot of my men, they say your pa's alright,” he said. “I 'spect it runs in the family. I hope you can get your prospects in line before we have to do something about it.”
“I'll be sure to,” I said, knowing damn well I could make no such promise. Leavin' the bar, with every eye following me once more, I felt the winds startin' to change as clouds covered the sun again. It would take a fast ride to reach my side of town before the rain started, which was just fine with me; I wanted out of there as fast as possible, anyway.
But first, I had a call to make.
“Blade,” I said. “We got a problem. But I think I might know someone who can help us solve it. Can you get Hunter to come 'round to your place? I got some questions, and this time, he's gonna answer 'em.”
Cross
Hunter looked like he'd been dragged into an interrogation room, and he was pretty much right to look that way. Even though we were gathered in Blade’s living room instead of a grey cement block lit by a single bulb, with a bottle of whiskey between us instead of a Styrofoam cup of coffee, it was essentially the same thing.
It wasn't my first time in Blade's place, but I never stopped marveling at how neat and nice it was. His walls were painted baby blue, and he had bookshelves with real books on 'em, and a big flat-screen TV with an “entertainment center” (as the yuppies call it). Even had art on the walls and a couch with pillows on it.
For Blade, a 6'2 biker with ink up to his eyeballs, it wasn't the most typical of surroundings. And since I’d never seen him read a book, or heard him say a word about art, I had no idea whether or not those books served any purpose besides impressing broads.
Hunter sat across from us in Blade's big easy chair, lookin' scared, like I said.
“Listen, guys...”
“I'm gonna have to stop ya there, bud,” Blade said. His voice broached no argument. There was a reason Dutch picked him as his second-in-command, and it was because Blade knew how to talk to people so they'd listen. When Blade told you to do something, it sounded like such a good idea you were eager as hell to do it. “Before we get into it, let's get some drink in us.”
He poured out three shots and we slammed them down, toasting (as always) to our brethren.
“There,” Blade said, givin' Hunter an easy smile. “Now, it's a real meeting.”
“Okay, but I don't know what you want from me,” Hunter said, looking a bit rosy in the cheeks but still squirming. That scar down the side of his face looked like it burned.
“Just to talk,” I said. “See, I was over in Blackhawks territory earlier today...”
Hunter blanched, his eyes flicking back and forth between Blade and I. We cut an imposing image, I know. Would he keep protecting Dutch's secrets with both of us pressin' him? I hoped not.
“...and what'd they say to you, Cross?” Blade asked, still smilin’ like a gentleman.
“Told me a strange story about some of our prospects ridin' through their territory,” I said. “So I thought, well, shit. Maybe these boys don't know just how dangerous it would be to step on the Blackhawks' toes. Maybe you young guns don't realize that this truce is the only thing standing between us and utter chaos.”
Hunter didn't say anything.
“You didn't, by any chance, take part in one of these runs, did you?” Blade asked. Hunter shook his head with such vigor, I thought he might shake the red hair straight off his head.
“No,” he said. “Hell no. I mean, I wasn't about to...”
“But you knew about them,” Blade went on.
Hunter's jaw opened and shut. He kept looking at the door.
“Hunter, just come out with it,” I said. “Whose idea was it to cross into the other side of town?”
He croaked something out, but it wasn't anything close to an answer. Blade glanced at me. If it was a prospect, Hunter would have told us. That meant it was a brother – and who would be dumb enough to do that?
Maybe not dumb, though. Maybe crazy. Crazy like Dutch.
“Was it Dutch, Hunter?” Blade came right out with it, stealin' the words straight from my lips. Hunter blushed, blinked, did everything but nod his head. “Just tell us. We already suspect it's him. I know you're trying to be loyal, but right now, you need to be loyal to the club, not to Dutch. If he's trying to fuck with the Blackhawks, he's dooming us all. Get it?”
“Shit,” Hunter groaned. “Shit, guys! Shit! Yeah, alright? Yeah, it was fuckin' Dutch! He...he wanted us to go in and scope it out, see what their numbers were like, what their territory looked like....he wants it. He wants their territory. Says we could take them, says we're better and stronger and we deserve the whole city, not just half of it. Fuckin'...shit!”
Watching Hunter spill it all was like watching a balloon lose its air. When he was done, he looked limp, deflated. Blade's hand didn't shake as he poured out another round of shots, but I could see by the lock of his jaw he was fuming. Couldn't say we didn't see it comin', but having it confirmed was another thing.
“We're gonna take this shot, Hunter, and then you're gonna tell us, again, and slow this time, everything you know,” Blade said. “Alright?”
Hunter nodded, and his hands were shaking as he took the glass and shot back the liquor. And then he was ready to tell us everything he knew. Which turned out to be more than we could have hoped for.
Dutch knew he had no chance of swayin' the old guard to his side, so he went straight for the prospects, and the young bloods. He was power hungry, greedy. And he always had that woman at his side, Sylvia, the girl who came from nowhere and had nothin' good to offer. She was the Lady to his Macbeth, it seemed, probably feeding him drugs and ideas at the same damn time.
I wasted some time feelin' sorry for him. A man like Dutch, a good fuckin' man, gone screwy at the end of his reign. Could have gone out respected and strong and worth remembering, his name up there on the clubhouse wall under the rest of the clu
b's Presidents. Now, who knew how it would end?
So Dutch went for the kids. Told them how much more they could be makin’, how much better they could be livin’, if we didn't have to split the city down the middle. What was he gonna do with the rest of us? Hunter didn't know, but we could imagine. Dutch thought that if he had the younger members behind him, backin' him, he could wipe out the old guard, and me. He still thought Blade would play Dutch's game when called to it. Guess Blade didn't have my rebel spirit.
But there, I felt, was where he fucked up. 'Cause you could say a lot about the power of youth, but discounting men like my father was never a good idea. The more Hunter talked, the more I knew what we were gonna have to do. It wasn't gonna be easy, and it might not work at all, but it was just about the only option I could see.
Because the other option wasn't an option at all: I was not gonna hop on my bike and run outta Cutter like a coward, leave the mess for someone else to clean up. I'd devoted my life to the Dead Crusaders, had their name tattooed bold as could be across my chest. Nothin' but nothin' could get me to abandon my brothers.
We sent Hunter on his way shortly enough, and he looked relieved as shit to be goin'. I vowed to him – and to myself – that no matter what, it would never get out that he was the one to squeal on Dutch. He'd be as good as dead if such a thing started circulatin'. Of course, if this ever ended, he'd be the first prospect we patched in. Maybe he betrayed Dutch, a cardinal sin, but he did it for the kinds of reasons that made him good as gold in my eyes.
Blade and I sat over that bottle, him drinkin' hard and me soberin' up.
“Grinder,” I said. “I gotta tell Grinder. And he can talk to the boys. They'll listen to him, more'n you or me.”
Blade nodded, ran a hand over his eyes.
