Pierce's Claim

by Jenika Snow

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Jenika Snow

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-443-2

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  The darkness may be lonely and leave you breathless, but when the sun rises you’ll be able to breathe and see you’re not truly alone.

  —Anonymous

  PIERCE’S CLAIM

  The Brothers of Menace MC, 6

  Jenika Snow

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Lil.

  A stripper.

  Damaged.

  Broken.

  Sad.

  Lonely.

  No one.

  She closed her eyes, let herself be taken away, taken from the stage, from the lights and the catcalls, from the scent of stale cigarettes and sweat. She didn’t think about the men staring at her, didn’t picture their lewd, disgusting looks, as they stared at her body and touched themselves, thought about touching her.

  Lil just did what she did to escape, to feel alive. She did this to be someone else, to try to pretend that her life, her past hadn’t ruined her, hadn’t broken her. Being a perfect girl, acting like she was fine, was a façade, a lie. She lived a lie, but she was happy that way, happy to be someone else, to pretend to be okay.

  It was easier that way.

  Swaying to the music, touching herself, stroking her body for these nameless men, was what made her feel alive. It gave her a reason to be who she really was, to pretend things were okay, even all these years later. She didn’t think about her family, her friends.

  Tonight she wore a blonde wig, wore heavy makeup, almost a thick mask hiding her true identity. It was easier being someone else, being a girl that could change identities as if changing outfits.

  Lil didn’t think about what her family or friends would say if they knew what she did, where she was late at night. She was a disgrace, that’s for sure, but even knowing that, knowing her family would be disgusted by what she did, angry that she took her clothes off for strange men, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to.

  Oh, yeah, baby.

  Touch yourself.

  Look at those nice big tits.

  I want to fuck you.

  I want you.

  And she started crying as she danced, touched her breasts, played with herself over the top of her G-string for these men. She cried because she did hate herself, did hate what she had become, who she’d become. But the tears didn’t stop the comments, didn’t have her freezing and then running off the stage. The tears made them want her more, made them see the vulnerable little girl she was. The broken and ruined woman she really was.

  ****

  He stalked her, watched her … was obsessed with her. Pierce knew this, yet here he still was, sitting in this nasty fucking seat that a hundred other men had sat in, probably jerked off in. Here he was getting drunk on this watered down booze, watching the stripper with the gorgeous tits, the long legs, and the curvy as hell body moving to the slow, sexy music.

  She had her back to him, shook her ass, touched the big, round globes. He was hard, probably as hard as every man in this room right now. He didn’t sit up front though, didn’t want a front row seat to the action. He preferred to stay in the shadows, to be obscure as he watched her, took in every part of her body. And he did take in every part of her, every dip, hollow, and curve. She was perfect, gorgeous, even with the blonde wig she was clearly wearing and the mask of makeup covering her gorgeous face.

  She unhooked the bra, one covered in crystals, sparkling in the light, showing men that under those jewels was a treasure far more beautiful than what covered her. God, he felt like a fucking pervert, a nasty fucking bastard for thinking anything sweet about that woman. She was a stripper, yeah, but he was this piece of shit biker that did illegal things, not because anyone made him, but because he liked to.

  Pierce liked to hurt people, to make them pay for crossing him or his club. He liked seeing them bleed, liked hearing them cry out for mercy. He may act the part of the easygoing guy, the jokester even, but the truth was he fucking loved the shit he did, loved the pain he caused.

  He drank his piss ass scotch, curling his lip in disgust at the flavor. It was well liquor, the cheapest of the cheap. Then she turned around, her gorgeous face only partially obstructed by a black feather mask and thick as fuck makeup he could still see. He’d seen her wear this mask more times than not. She liked to be mysterious, he could see that, knew that even. But what she didn’t know was that mystery probably brought a hundred men to their knees. She was crying. He could see her tears tracking down her cheeks, see them glistening under the florescent lighting. He shouldn’t have gotten harder, but he did.

  He palmed his cock under the table, stroked himself through his jeans even, like a damn sicko, but God, fucking hell, he couldn’t help it. She didn’t wipe her tears away, didn’t open her eyes either. She just danced for them, moved her hips from side to side, and made all these men wish they had their cocks in her pussy right now, fucking the hell out of her.

  Pierce was one of those guys. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that. In fact, he’d be the first to tell any motherfucker exactly what he wanted, and that was that sexy as hell woman on stage as only his.

  ****

  The song ended, the lights dimmed, and the crowd hollered out for more. Lil would have given them more, not because she cared about any of them, not because she wanted more money thrown at her, but because it was an escape, a time she could be herself.

  Lil left the stage, took the few steps it required to go to the landing, and turned to move down the hallway. She removed her mask, rubbed under her eye, and breathed out, thinking about nothing, everything, hell, just letting her mind go in a million different directions.

  “Come home with me.”

  The voice that called out behind her was deep, slightly scratchy. It was a man’s voice, and one that had the hair on the back of her neck prickling. It was familiar, but the room was so loud, the music ear-splitting, and the catcalls and shouts from the men toward the girls on stage were disgusting and vile. It was hard even to think, let alone hear someone in this place, but yeah, she’d heard the prick’s offer.

  Lil turned around, but kept to the shadows. The hallway was barely lit as it was, making it hard for the customers to see past the bouncer that blocked the way, hard for them to get a free show of the girls’ asses swaying.

  And when she looked around the big brick house of a guard on duty tonight, saw the man standing there, his leather cut flashing like a warning, a threat, her heart stalled. She stared at his face, knew who he was instantly, and about had a heart attack. Thank God she was in the shadows, because even if she wore the wig and had on thick makeup, surely he’d recognize her. Hell, how often did he come here? Had he seen her dance on the other nights, times when she had nothing covering her face?

  Her heart beat fast, hard, painfully.

  Pierce. A Brothers of Menace MC member. A man that knew her father and could go back and tell Cain his little girl was stripping.

  She took a step back, further into the shadows, and forced herself to be strong, not to act nonplussed.

  “Come on, bab
y.”

  Pierce braced a hand on the wall, clearly trying to see over the bouncer, to get a better look at her. He obviously didn’t know who she was, because he wasn’t being weird, wasn’t acting like he was talking to Cain’s daughter in nothing but a little G-string. She licked her lips, cleared her throat. Turning, showing him her back, she closed her eyes and breathed out.

  “No thanks,” she said over her shoulder. She took another steadying breath, thankful she was turned around so he couldn’t see her. Her hands shook, her pulse raced, but she kept her voice steady.

  “You shake your shit up there like you want to get fucked, and now you’re saying no?”

  He was acting like a bastard, but what did she expect? He was a part of the MC, meaning he had to be tough, had to take no shit. He probably got laid at the drop of a hat, got pussy coming from all corners because of his good, deadly looks, and his reputation. The MC itself was a take no shit club, and that meant they were known.

  But even working at this strip club away from where she knew anyone, or thought she knew anyone, clearly hadn’t been safe enough.

  She’d taken a step away from him, but told herself she had to be strong. Turning back around, but keeping to the shadows, she stared at him. He was gorgeous, with short dark hair and these light colored eyes. The tattoos and piercings she could see just made him even more dangerously attractive. It was hard to see much of anything in this place what with the smoke and dim lighting, but she could see him well enough.

  Her anger rose, seeing this man standing here, one that thought because she got undressed in front of strangers she’d sleep with him. She wouldn’t do that, had never done that, and damn him for thinking otherwise. Damn him for thinking he could have a piece of her because of who he was and what she did.

  She slipped on a robe when she’d got on the landing, but even that made her still feel naked, made her feel on display. Hell, the robe didn’t even cover her ass fully.

  “Go to hell, you pompous asshole,” she said on a slightly shaky breath, trying to keep it together, but having a hard time. “I’m sure you have plenty of pussy at that club you’re at, or maybe you need to learn how to respect women, even if they do strip.”

  God, had she really just said that? Now she sounded like the asshole, but she couldn’t let him, or anyone for that matter, walk all over her.

  She steeled herself, grabbed onto her strength, onto the hardness she’d taught herself, the blackness she kept wrapped around her like a cloak. She flipped him off, showing him she wouldn’t be intimidated, wouldn’t be degraded. The only person that would degrade her was herself, and she was pretty good at doing that whenever she came here to strip.

  With her back still to him she didn’t wait for him to respond. She went down the hallway, slipped into one of the dressing rooms, and rested against the now closed door. Closing her eyes, she breathed in and out, trying to catch her breath, trying to get her focus. What if he had recognized her? What if he told her dad? God, that was not a conversation she wanted. Moving over to the mirror she stared at her reflection.

  Lil.

  Her stage name.

  Her second persona.

  The other half of who Fallina Trainer really was.

  It was all so real to her, even if this life wasn’t anything but a covering to the person that she really was, the person that she held inside, hid from everyone, even her loved ones. She smoothed her hands along her size sixteen hips, and over her thick thighs, ones that drove these assholes wild. But ever since her assault she’d only seen this ugly vision of herself, even if deep down she knew she was how she was supposed to be.

  She took off the wig and tossed it on the table at her station. Her dark hair was a wild mess around her head, but she didn’t care. Hell, she could go out there right now and the guys would see “just fucked” hair. Everything seemed to get them hard, had them tossing dollar bills at her because they wanted more. They needed more.

  She smoothed her finger under her eyes, smearing the eyeliner and causing a black smudge to form. She looked on the outside how she felt on the inside right now.

  Dirty.

  Fake.

  Broken.

  After sitting down at staring at her sad and pathetic reflection, she closed her eyes and tried in vain not to think about what she was trying desperately to run away from. But it didn’t matter, because every time she closed her eyes it was like she was that sixteen-year-old girl again, the one that had been pinned down, touched, stroked, and had lewd things whispered to her. Even now the scent of his disgusting breath bathed her flesh, was urgent in her nose, and she knew that she’d never get rid of that memory.

  But on the heels of that thought was always the shame she felt she had no right to feel this self-pity, no right to live in the past. Her best friend, and the only person that knew what she’d gone through because she’d been there, had gone through so much worse.

  Violet.

  Her sweet, strong friend Violet Wings knew all about what it meant to be touched without giving permission, to have foreign, strange hands all over her body. But she was strong, far stronger than Fallina. Violet hadn’t let it define who she was.

  And then here was Fallina, letting it control her. At twenty-five she’d had therapy, had tried to talk about what she’d gone through. And when she explained that at the tender age of sixteen she’d been molested by a neighbor, that her father had come home and attacked the man, nearly killing him, and that she had to watch her father being carted off to prison, her world had seemed to crumble right then.

  But the years of therapy and speaking with her dad, even if he was behind bars and she’d missed him so damn much, should have helped her, should have made her see her life was still whole. She had no clue how much he knew about what had happened back then, but she had to assume he knew enough. Violet knew what had happened because she’d been there, had been attacked herself. But her friend was so much stronger than she was, so much more stable and had dealt with all of this in a way that was healing.

  Why couldn’t she?

  “You’re broken yet taking your clothes off for men because it’s what’s helping you,” she said to her reflection. “You’re fucking sad and twisted.” A couple of other girls came in, their voices animated, their hands filled with dollar bills.

  “Clint and I are taking the kids to the lake this weekend,” one of the strippers said as she counted her dollar bills.

  “I’m getting trashed at a bachelorette party,” another said.

  “Hell, I’m going to an all male revue this weekend.”

  The girls started laughing at that, and all Fallina did was focus on her reflection.

  “See how they like getting dollars shoved at them, and having some nasty fucking stuff shouted in their face.”

  They started laughing again.

  Fallina didn’t speak to them. She never spoke to them. She did what she did here not for the money, but because it made her feel something aside from the disgust she harbored deep inside. It was a fucked up, twisted reasoning, but it helped her, and that’s all she cared about. It was her therapy, and to her that was good enough. That was what got her through the days.

  She could play the okay girl, the healed woman. She could be the teacher her students needed, smile and have her cardigan buttoned all the way to the top. But when she needed this release, needed to just forget, this was where she went. This was probably how it always would be, and she accepted that.

  Chapter Two

  She was sore, but that was good. It wasn’t just her body that hurt from moving on the stage off and on for the last three hours, but also her mind. Hell, Fallina thought her brain was more tired than the rest of her. But for the last couple of weeks she’d been stripping more frequently, not able to sleep at night and just needing to be someone else.

  She finished getting dressed, had on her black slacks, her peep toe pumps, her off white blouse, and even her long, black spring pea coat on. She was supposed to ha
ve dinner with her dad and Violet, but she wasn’t going to go, not because she didn’t want to see them, but because she felt filthy after leaving this place. Her mind was working overtime, and all she wanted to do was lie in her dark bedroom and let herself fade away for the time being.

  Not only was her dad out of prison, had been for some time now, but he had dropped the bomb that he and Violet were now together. But Fallina loved her father, loved Violet, and if anyone deserved to be happy it was the two of them.

  She fixed her hair, made herself look less stripper-like and more like “herself” and turned away from her reflection. Gone was the thick makeup she usually wore, and in its place was her Plain Jane look. This was how she looked at school, when teaching the little ones, having parent-teacher conferences, and pretending not to be Lil. But she was Lil the stripper, was the woman that took her clothes off and touched herself on a stage for a roomful of men because she didn’t know what else to do.

  And as she thought about that, thought about how she’d wiped off the makeup, the glitter, put on clothes, modest, conservative clothes that didn’t show what was underneath, she felt like the biggest fraud. Then again she was in every sense of the word.

  After grabbing her bag she headed out the back hallway and through the rear doors. The girls were all heading out as well in front of her, but she walked slower, stayed behind them. She didn’t want to make friends, didn’t want to be social.

  When everyone was gone and she was left by herself in the hallway, she looked down at her shoes and then the carpet. The flooring was a dark red, but faded in the center from the traffic. She walked toward the steel door. Before she pushed open the door, she grabbed her phone and started dialing her father’s number.

  She didn’t want to speak with him while she was at the strip club, didn’t want to taint him somehow by what she did, but he’d sent her a text asking that she call him when she was leaving.