Chains
Quarter Kings MC
Iris Sweetwater
Kasandra Sheckles
Published by:
Hydra Productions Online LLC
Cover art by:
Jessica Ozment of A Novel Connection
Chains © 2019 Iris Sweetwater
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Iris Sweetwater
Series: Brothers of Fang
The New Alpha
Blood Betrayal
The Heart of the Pack
The Power of the Hybrid
Series: The Clans with ELIZABETH KNOX
Promised
The Trade
Cherished
Deceit
Love is War
Defiant
Shattered
Covert
Series: Quarter Kings MC with Kasandra Sheckles
Chains
Doc
Series: Red Crows MC
One Way Out
Coming Soon From
Iris Sweetwater
Contemporary Romance Books
Heretic with Elizabeth Knox
Yetti with Kasandra Sheckles
The Daddy Series
Midnight Saints MC
Paranormal Romance Books
Rebel Reaper
Embracing Salvation
Lilly of the Woods (Princess Harems #1)
SciFi Romance Books
Scifi Fairytales
Thirst
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Table of Contents
Quarter Kings MC
Iris Sweetwater
Kasandra Sheckles
Chapter 1
Chains
Chapter 2
Nails
Chapter 3
Nails
Chapter 4
Chains
Chapter 5
Chains
Chapter 6
Nails
Chapter 7
Chains
Chapter 8
Nails
Chapter 9
Chains
Chapter 10
Chains
Chapter 11
Chains
Chapter 12
Nails
Chapter 13
Nails
Chapter 14
Nails
Chapter 15
Chains
Epilogue
6 months later
Nails
Chapter 1
Chains
I sit down in the chair in front of a group of around fifty or so men, crowded as if they are watching me get a lethal injection. There will be a needle involved, and maybe even some deaths, but for me, this is my life beginning.
I hear Beast, our tattoo artist, kick it on, and he taps me on the arm with something cold…a beer. “Firstly, if I was going to drink to this OR for the pain, it would be much fucking stronger than a damn beer,” I scoff at him. “But to be perfectly honest,” I add with a sneer, looking out at the other men, the men who are about to be my equals rather than my superiors, “I am rather looking forward to the pain.”
The crowd of men raise their own beers and glasses of whiskey to the air and jeer. They likely think I am just joking, but those who know me most know I mean that shit. The way I was raised, the way I grew up, the way I discovered my body…it all revolved around pain. And now there is no pleasure without it.
“I always knew you were fuckin’ crazy,” Beast says, his long stache covering the movements of his actual lips. He is one of the oldest members we’ve got and had tatted every man looking at me right now, even the prez. It’s such a fucking honor it has me speechless as he starts to press down on my skin. Not that I don’t have a couple other tats on me, but something about the ink we use makes it even more painful. I had been warned about this before I agreed to it. Even if I didn’t like pain, I wouldn’t care. I have been waiting for this day to come for years now.
I sit still as a statue as I am branded by our logo; a logo of kings. The Quarter Kings are exactly that; we rule the French Quarter, New Orleans, most of Louisiana if you ask me. And the fleur de lis and skull go right there together so that they know when they see us, if they mess with royalty, it means death.
Plain and simple.
I watch as the prez shows his face in the crowd, and I just about lose my shit. I am not an emotional man, but this is an emotional moment, and Karl Laurent, the fearless leader that brought this once dump of a gang into a future rolling in dough, guns, and women, is here to watch me become one of his men, one of his soldiers. That’s how I see it anyway. That’s what we are. We are the rogue military of the downtrodden that normal people spit on, but we know better. Some of the smartest and strongest men I have met are right here in this clubhouse; church to us. Because what else is there to believe in or worship but that which works; money, intimidation, power. It is a chant I keep in my head as I become impatient for Beast to finish on me. I am so ready to stand up and receive the cut that hangs off Karl’s arm.
“How you doin’ over there?” Karl asks, a teasing grin on his face. It hurts like hell, but of course that’s turning me on. The only thing keeping me from showing my bulge off to this whole crowd is that right now, I am staring at a bunch of men. Not my type at all.
“Best fuckin’ day of my life,” I tell him through gritted teeth; a simple involuntary reaction. I mean, pain is still pain. “I hope you’re ready for me, prez, because you’ve never seen someone as dedicated as me,” I warn him, and he simply scoffs at me before leading the men in a chant.
“Chains, Chains, Chains!” they scream and clap, and I know it means I am almost through. It is almost time to look at my scarred skin and know where I belong, and everyone else will know too.
Finally, Beast puts down the needle and wipes me down, reminding me in my ear to take care of it so it doesn’t get infected.
I stand up to the now roaring group with my arms held high in triumph. They slap my back, my shoulders, even where the tat now sits, before Karl wraps me in my new cut. The cut of a Quarter Kings MC member. “I think I will take that drink now,” I announce, reaching for the nearest man with whiskey in his hand, and I snatch it just like that. No one can bring me the fuck down tonight.
“Let’s take it to the bar!” Karl calls out, directing everyone out of church. It’s time to party, and this is my fucking party. “Congrats,” he says, turning to me. “I have a feeling you’re going to be damn useful to me.” And I sure hope he means that because that’s all I want ou
t of this; to continue to grow our reach to the ends of the fucking Earth.
I follow everyone to the bar; King’s Bar to be exact. Pretty much the whole town knows it belongs to us, and they don’t come inside unless they are ok to fuck with us, to party with us, or to be used by us. And we draw in our fair share of women, which I am kind of hoping leads to me taking one home with me tonight because what better way to celebrate who I have become than with a warm pussy?
Though, I can’t say I would mind someone coming into my life that could stay there. But my particular tastes often scare off any permanency.
I look around, not seeing a lot here other than a few of the old ladies and regular clubwhores. So, I opt to start at the bar where I might find something that appeals to me.
I saunter up and find that one of our best bartenders; Queenie, is on the clock. She is a full-fledged member, one of the few single women we have that are. And while she is the biggest bitch I know, she is also a knock out with drinks. “How about a dirty margarita on the rocks,” I shout at her before she can make it to me.
“Who died and made you the fuckin’ prez?” she asks me in that flatline voice of hers. It’s like ice. I don’t think I have ever seen her with a man, and I wonder sometimes if she plays for the other team.
“C’mon, it’s my initiation day,” I tell her trying to lighten her up, though I know her resting bitch face is never going to go away.
She rolls her eyes, but I feel a victory when she gives me what I want anyway. She looks like she is going to say something snarky as she hands me my drink, but then her head snaps over to a commotion in the corner, on the other side of the bar. My head moves over involuntarily as well, and I am somehow unsurprised to see that Nails is involved. She is likely our oldest clubwhore. She is not old as far as that goes, but she has the longest standing reputation for pulling men into drama and allowing them to treat her like shit. Really, you’d think she would act a little better; be a role model for some of these younger women.
There’s nothing wrong with being a clubwhore. It can have its benefits, but a woman should take charge of her mind and body. She should be here to get what she wants out of it, not to serve a man that will push her around.
I may like some crazy shit in bed, but even I have a limit. Some of these scum bags don’t; the kind that never get a good amount of work or respect from the rest of us because they are lower than low.
It looks like Queenie is ready to step in, but I put my hand up. “You have too many customers. I’ll handle it, OK?” I tell her. She nods before moving onto the next man in line. It is probably the kindest I have ever seen her.
I down my drink first, knowing I need a buzz to deal with this lame ass that is cornering Nails, and I go over like the fucking hero I am about to be. Maybe she will even thank me this time.
Chapter 2
Nails
His body is on me, and his breath smells like he ate a damn frog out of the bayou; maybe a whole pond of them. Fuck, I hate nights like this.
I get that it’s good for morale to celebrate when we get a new member, but every time there’s a big fucking party like this, the shitheads get drunk and high and come out of the woodwork, like those that think I am a low-quality piece of meat they can buy on clearance.
I know what I am. I am a clubwhore, and that’s okay. Before this, I was a groupie, a young hottie obsessed with following subpar rockers around and fucking them on tour buses just to say I could. Some of those lays I am still proud of, and others make me cringe. But either way, it only made sense for me to run with the big boys eventually and get paid for what I do best. I am a freak in bed, and MC men are nothing but freaks; freaks generally willing to provide money, shelter, or food in exchange for some grade A blow jobs.
But then you got the occasional obsessed sleezeball who uses and abuses your body, burps shit stink in your face, and corners you in a bar after wasting himself, like you’re just going to comply because he now has this delusion you are nothing while he is hot shit.
I am getting way too fucking old for this bullshit.
Just when I am ready to locate his shriveled-up ball sack and pinch the shit out of it until he cries for Momma, I see a familiar face pop up behind him and roll my eyes.
Just what I need. A fucking knight in shining armor. As if I wasn’t coming off weak enough.
Chains shoves at the guy from the back to get his attention, but he only achieves swaying the man further my way, and he practically falls into my cleavage. Luckily, this skeeze doesn’t take it as an invite, and instead, gets his stance back and turns around to glare at the muscular and nosy ass man behind him, who is high on the fact that he just became a full member today.
I am no stranger to being “saved” by Chains. He has attempted two other times, and it always turns out like a bad 60s cartoon; cheesy and barely successful.
I place my hand on my hip. “I can take care of myself,” I tell him, but he ignored me as always. The thing is, I don’t know much about him, but I can tell he is no savior.
“What the fuck was that for?” the douche bag that was just in my tits asks. I don’t even know if I feel like sticking around to watch this shit show, but I can’t seem to make myself walk away. It’s like when you go slow to see a car accident and get some sick satisfaction out of it. So, I look down at my long, sharp, slut-red nails and lean against the wall as if I am bored to death while these two lugs work it out the only way they know how.
“Clubwhore or not, you don’t just jump on her without permission. That’s not how a man should treat a woman.”
“Woman?” the guy asks with the drunkest chuckle, sounding way too much like Goofy for my taste, coming from his douchey mouth. “Women don’t cheapen their body like that. You can’t buy a woman. Whores have no rights.”
My eyes go wide, and I am ready to slice him a new asshole when a fuming and red Chains decks him so hard the guy falls like a tree in the forest.
“Timber!” I call in warning as everyone jumps back to make room for him.
“Somebody get him the fuck out of here!” Chains calls out, and some of the prospects come to throw him out on the streets where he will likely remain. He himself was a prospect. Now, he is nobody.
While I am grateful for his permanent absence, I am not sure how I feel about the man of the hour defending my honor.
I stand up straight as he is looking smug like he is going to get some kind of reward or trophy for this. I make sure my eyes rake over him like a bug I could easily squash with my Barbie doll pink stilettos.
“Is there a reason you’re obsessed with coming to my rescue?” I ask him with a raised eyebrow, and I am startled when his response is to step close to me, his face only an inch or so away from mine. I can smell the whiskey and the fresh cut he is wearing over the rank smells of this bar, and it catches me off guard. Luckily, my face is cool as stone, though.
“A fucking thank you would suffice, Nails,” he tells me, one corner of his mouth turning up.
Yeah, he looks fucking hot tonight and is in his prime, but that doesn’t change how I feel about his display of his hero mentality. “I don’t need a hero. So, thanks for setting feminism back about a century,” I say sarcastically. He backs up a bit, and I think I have won, so I start to walk off only to feel his hand wrap firmly around my wrist.
He is not hurting me, but I also look back, unable to go anywhere, as he leans right into my ear, my crimson hair flapping with his hot breath as he speaks. “You really should pick your men better. You would be surprised what could happen if you give your body willingly.” He pulls back, leaving goosebumps all over my skin despite that the amount of bodies in here are making it stifling. He certainly knows how to make a woman cream her panties, I’ll give him that.
“Did you have someone in mind?” I tease back as he gives me the tiniest bit of space again.
He steps back once more before responding with a wink. “You know where to find me.” Then, he walks off.
> Chapter 3
Nails
“Nails, I am about ready to cut you off,” Queenie says. More like queen bitch. That’s what she is around here. Thinks she is the bee’s knees since she is one of the only full female members of the MC with no man on her arm. But I have been around almost as long as her, and I know she has some feelings she buries under that thick body of hers.
Seriously, thick. If I was a lesbian, I’d tap that, not that she lets anyone near her male or female.
“Don’t shit on the party, bitch,” I tell her with a smirk and a chuckle before I down another shot, men surrounding me and singing my praises. I doubt they are actually impressed with my alcohol consumption but rather think they can take me without paying if I get shitfaced. But despite what Queenie seems to think, I know when to cut myself off.
Not that it means I won’t test my limits.
I see a guy two barstools away pop his phone from his pocket, probably reassuring his girl he isn’t exactly where he is right now, ready to pick up some other chick for the night. I go over to him and grab his phone before he can tuck it back in. “Chill, son,” I tell him, also clearing up the fact that he is a little young for my taste, and even possibly for this bar. “I just wanted to see the time.” I pat him on the cheek before looking around. The party has died down, and soon all that will be left down here are prospects that will never be much more because they can’t stay off the coke or treat the women right, or men that wander in for a cheap drink and a thrill.
Usually, I would be picking one of those men out of the crowd and showing them a good time for a buck or two. But something feels different tonight. I am just not into it, not after the encounter earlier.
So, I wave to the men that have been with me for who knows how long. “Night, boys,” I say with a bat of my eyes.
Chains (Quarter Kings MC Book 1) Page 1
