Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5)

by Jack Davenport

  “So, you ride with Biker’s for Kids?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t bolt on me. It wasn’t too often you’d run into a female patch, and I’d certainly never seen one as beautiful as Trouble.

  “Yeah,” she replied, barely making eye contact. “Cowboy and I hooked up a little over three years ago.”

  “Oh,” I replied, disappointed. “I didn’t know that you were Cowboy’s old lady.”

  “What?” she exclaimed, her voice finally rising above a whisper. “Ew, no. Cowboy’s like a hundred years old.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I said, breaking into laughter. “It was just, you said you guys hooked up—”

  “I meant Cowboy and I connected over three years ago,” she said, trying but failing to hide a smile.

  I raised an eyebrow. “So, you don’t have an old man then?”

  “I have a gun,” she replied.

  “Hold on. I think I got off on the wrong foot, here. To be honest with you, my brain is a little scrambled right now. It’s been a strange evening, but you seem like an interesting person and I’d like to have a real conversation with you.”

  She narrowed her eyes but didn’t respond. She also didn’t walk away, so I tried again.

  “Can I have a mulligan?” I asked.

  “It’s a free country. You can drink whatever you want,” Trouble replied, and in that moment, I knew without a doubt that I was fucked. Not regular fucked, mind you. I was royally fucked. I was royal family fucked. I was the crown jewels shoved up my Tower of London fucked.

  “No, a mulligan isn’t a drink it’s a golf term,” I said, unable to hide my smile. “It means a do-over.”

  “Don’t laugh at me because I don’t know old man shit, like that,” she said.

  “Is golf old man shit?” I asked.

  “Don’t get all offended. What, are you a caddy or something?”

  “The only golf I’ve ever played was in high school with my buddy, Munyon, and it was mini golf.”

  “What the hell is a Munyon?” Trouble asked.

  “Answer my question first,” I replied. “Can I have a mulligan?”

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “May I have a mulligan?”

  “Why do you need a mulligan?”

  “You came into the room in the middle of a bunch of macho bullshit, caught me completely off guard, and I think I came across like…kind of…a…”

  “A douche,” Trouble provided.

  “See, look at that,” I said with a smile. “We’re already completing each other’s sentences.”

  Trouble struggled with only minor success to hide a smile, but she wasn’t going to budge. “Okay, so now I know what a mulligan is. What the hell is a Munyon?”

  “Munyon isn’t a what. He’s a who.”

  “Then who is Munyon?”

  “Munyon was a stoner kid I knew back in high school who worked at the old Golf-O-Rama in Vancouver.”

  “And?” she asked.

  “And if we brought him weed, or a punk bootleg or import he didn’t already have, he would let us play mini-golf for free after hours.”

  “And why are we talking about him?” Trouble asked.

  “Because Munyon is the one who taught me the term ‘Mulligan.’”

  “Did Munyon have a first name?”

  “If I ever knew it, I forgot it a long time ago. Maybe that was his first name. I feel like we’re talking way more about Munyon than I’d originally planned.”

  Trouble paused. Her eyes narrowing before saying, “Mulligan granted.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a slight bow. “Hi, I’m Doozer. It’s so genuinely nice to meet you for the very first time.”

  “Why, yes,” she replied, playing along. “Nice to meet you, Doozer. I’m Trouble.”

  “Say. You’re that platonic friend of Cowboy’s, aren’t you?”

  The sound of Trouble’s laughter was as beautiful as her face.

  “Why, yes, yes I am. And you’re one of those little builder guys from Fraggle Rock.”

  “That’s me.” I laughed, surprised she got the reference as it flew over most bikers’ heads.

  “And how exactly did you come to be named after a Muppet?”

  “When I first started hanging around the club, Cutter, the Saints’ original president said I reminded him of the Doozers. I guess in the 80’s he used to get high and watch Fraggle Rock. Anyway, I was eager. Probably too eager and was always looking for something to do. Someway to help out around the Sanctuary or the auto shop. I just love to fix stuff, ya know? Cutter started calling me Doozer before I was even a prospect and it stuck. I’m shocked you know about that show. I sure as hell didn’t before Cutter.”

  “I grew up on an Army base and Dad’s unit had a TV with a VHS player in it. We could check out VHS tapes from the base library for free, which was great, but almost all the movies were action movies from the 80’s. They only had a few tapes for kids, including Fraggle Rock which I watched the shit out of.”

  “So now you know how I got my name. Why do they call you Trouble?”

  “Fuck around and find out,” she replied with a wicked smile that made my dick hard.

  “Alright. Next question then,” I said. “How long have you been with your club?”

  “You first,” she said, finally beginning to loosen up.

  “Okay, let’s see,” I said, doing a little math in my head. “I guess it’s been six years, but I’d already become a permanent fixture around the Sanctuary by the time I started officially prospecting with the Saints.”

  “The sanctuary?”

  “It’s our clubhouse, shop, and where some of us bunk.”

  “How long did you prospect before you earned your patch?”

  “About six months, I guess.”

  “Did you have to kill someone?” she asked.

  “What?” I replied, with a nervous laugh. Her question catching me completely off guard.

  “You said you wanted to have a real conversation, didn’t you?”

  “I meant a conversation without bullshit, not one that could land me in prison.”

  “So, you have killed someone?” Trouble asked.

  “You wearing a wire?” I teased, as I thought about how much fun it would be to check her for one.

  Trouble couldn’t fight back a violent giggle. “The day someone gives me a badge, you know shit’s about to go down.”

  “Seriously though. Why the questions?” I asked.

  “Well, I guess I’m confused. The Saints are a one percent club, right?”

  “We were a one percent club. Past tense,” I corrected.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means all club business is legal and above board and we do our best to abide by the law.”

  “But you haven’t always been that way?”

  “Back when Cutter started the Saints, there weren’t many clean clubs to speak of. Nowadays, it’s getting harder and harder to find an outlaw club that isn’t dropping in numbers by the year. Before Cutter turned the reigns over to Minus, they figured out a way to move the club into the new millennium before we all ended up dead or in prison.”

  “So, you’re all a bunch of Boy Scouts now?”

  “You tell me? You ride with a clean club. Is every BFK member squeaky clean?”

  “We’re a charity organization. Every member must be sober and pass a background check.”

  “Wow, that’s hard core. I can’t say we’d all pass a background check with flying colors, but the Burning Saints are as safe as milk,” I replied.

  “Even milk turns bad,” Trouble deadpanned.

  “That’s true, but so far, the straight and narrow path has been working out okay for us.”

  “So, you’re more like a 2% club now?”

  “I guess, so,” I said with a laugh. “You’re funny.”

  Trouble’s cheeks pinkened as she cocked her head. “Why the change?”

  “Times have changed,” I replied. �
��Why not change with them? I like how Minus puts it. Just because the Burning Saints were born in the streets, it doesn’t mean we have to die there.”

  “So, even though you became a member back in the day, you never had to…”

  “Ice anyone? No,” I replied. “Not that it’s ever been a patch requirement anyway.”

  “Really? I thought all one percent clubs made you get your hands wet.”

  “I’ve always been a ‘left hand guy’ within the club,” I replied.

  “What’s that?”

  “It means I’m the person you come to when you need something fixed.”

  Trouble looked me up and down but said nothing.

  “Okay, enough about me,” I said. “How did you and Cowboy meet?”

  “I was on my way to a bike rally in Idaho—”

  “Thunder Valley?”

  “That’s right. I was on my way to Thunder Valley and I spotted a guy in a BFK kutte broken down on the side of the road. His fuel pump quit on him just outside the state line and I stopped to see if there was anything I could do to help. The rest is history, I guess.”

  “You’re a gearhead yourself, eh? Is that how Cowboy roped you into riding with BFK?”

  “It wasn’t that hard, really. After I fixed his bike, Cowboy offered to buy me lunch at a nearby diner he loved. He didn’t seem like a creep and I knew of Bikers for Kids’ reputation, so I said yes. Over lunch, he told me all about the club and about how they were always looking for new members. While he was talking, something clicked in my head. I was sick of being on the road alone. Tired of having no one to watch my back.” She lowered her chin. “Tired of being harassed by creeps.”

  “How long were you a Nomad?”

  “About four years,” she replied.

  I let out a long whistle. “Damn, that’s a long time to ride solo.”

  “Yeah, well. Life rarely hands you options, does it?”

  I could hear sadness in her voice. A vulnerability underneath her carefully guarded exterior.

  “I guess not,” I replied.

  “But now I’ve got these knuckleheads to ride with, their bikes to fix, and I get to work with the most amazing kids ever,” she said, the tone of her voice suddenly turning brighter.

  “It sounds like a lot of those kids have it pretty rough. It’s really great what you do for them,” I said.

  “We do what we can. The kids are the real heroes.”

  Trouble was beautiful and her face lit up when she talked about the children she worked with. As she continued to tell me more about her work, I got the clear impression that her bond with them came from shared experiences. She was obviously a special person, and the more she spoke, the worse I felt about coming onto her earlier.

  “Hey, I really am sorry if I was a creep earlier. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said, apologetically.

  “Didn’t mean anything by it? So, you weren’t hitting on me?” she challenged.

  “No, I—”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, this time making no attempt to hide her smile.

  I stepped closer. “Too bad?”

  “Yeah. Because I could use a little… ah… relief.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  She bit her lip, and I felt my jeans tighten behind the zipper.

  “I had a thing with a guy just before we got here, and I’m still kind of spun up about it,” Trouble said.

  “You were with a guy before you got here?” I asked, thrown by this new bit of information.

  “No, no. I wasn’t with a guy,” Trouble said, waving her hands in the air. “I had a fight with a guy. Not like a boyfriend,” she corrected. “Like I punched some guy in the jaw.”

  “Holy shit,” I chuckled. “Really?”

  “Yes, and now I think I have some sort of fight or fuck instinct thing going on.” She sighed. “I could use the physical distraction, if you know what I mean.”

  Her nervous rambling was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen, and I could not wait to devour every inch of this woman.

  “Follow me.” Taking her hand, I led her down the hall to an empty bunk room, locking the door behind us and crossing my arms as I watched her walk the space.

  “Very biker-chic,” she murmured, removing her cut, and carefully folding it before setting it on one of the bunks by the wall.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “The Dogs do it right.”

  She smiled, toeing off her boots, then unzipping her jeans and sliding them down her hips. “You got protection?”

  “Sure do,” I retorted, continuing to watch her disrobe. Happily noticing the absence of a wire.

  “Just so you know, I’m not a road whore. I rarely do this, but you seem kinda sweet, so—”

  I smiled. “Take yes for an answer, Trouble.”

  Once she was in just her panties and bra, she set her boots neatly in the corner before once again folding every item with military precision and stacking them on the lower bunk.

  My eyes raked over her body, taking in her cotton bikini panties and matching, white bra. Nothing lacy or girly, but sexy as fuck at the same time.

  She settled her hands on her hips. “Your turn.”

  I grinned, removing my kutte and setting it on the chair next to one of the other bunks. The rest of my clothes, however, stayed where I dropped them.

  Once I was in just boxer briefs, she stepped toward me. “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing to my chest.

  “Do whatever you want.”

  She leaned in, running her tongue over the Burning Saints banner tattooed on my right pec. I was so blown away by the feeling, I let out a quiet hiss as I lifted her and dropped her gently on the lower bunk by the window, hiking her knees up and out as I pressed my face to her pussy.

  She mewed quietly, sliding her fingers into my hair as I sucked her clit over the cotton of her panties. I took a second to peel them down her legs, then went right back to my task. She was already soaked, and I could smell her desire as I lapped at her folds.

  Fuckin’ honey.

  I slid two fingers inside of her, thrusting as I kissed my way up her body. She’d removed her bra, freeing her more than a handful tits, and I sucked a nipple into my mouth as I continued to prime her with my fingers.

  “I want your dick,” she panted out and I grinned, kissing her mouth gently.

  “You can have it in a second.”

  I kissed her again and she bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. “I want your dick now.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ tiger in the sack, huh?”

  “You really don’t want to hear me roar, Doozer, so I’d get that rubber on,” she ordered, and my dick got harder.

  If that was even possible at this juncture.

  I knifed off the bed, removed my boxers, then grabbed a condom from my wallet, tearing the foil and rolling it on as she watched.

  “I knew you’d be beautiful,” she breathed out.

  I grinned, leaning over her, hovering my dick at her entrance. “You want gentle?”

  “Did that bite on your lip make you think I wanted gentle?”

  I slid into her and she hissed out, “Yes,” as I buried deep.

  As I raised up slightly, I hit my head on the top bunk and she gasped. “Are you okay?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “It’s all good. You’re not the only one who likes it hard.”

  Trouble let out a girly laugh. “Feel like shifting?”

  “Sure.” I slid out of her and gingerly stood up.

  She inched off the bed, and made her way to the chair, bending down and anchoring her hands on each side, her pussy wet and ready.

  I cleared my throat.

  Jesus, I think I just died and went to heaven.

  She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Don’t let me down.”

  I stalked over to her, grabbing her hips as I slid into her gently.

  “You good?” I asked, her pussy clenching around me.

  “You talk too much,” she hissed, pressing back again
st me.

  I grinned, rocking into her, before my teasing became too much even for me, and I had to fuck her.

  Hard.

  I slammed into her harder and harder, deeper and deeper, and then I felt her pussy contract around my dick, and I could no longer hold back my orgasm.

  I felt my balls tighten and I gripped her ass as I exploded. She did some voodoo shit with her cunt, continuing to contract her muscles, milking me dry.

  “Jesus, fuck,” I breathed out, sliding out of her and getting rid of the condom. I found a box of tissues and wadded a few, pressing them between her legs.

  She straightened, smiling up at me. “Now, that’s one way of dealing with road fatigue.”

  “Yeah.” I grinned, leaning down to kiss her, but she leaned back.

  “You’re not a cuddler, are you?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Not typically, no.”

  She settled her hand over my mouth before walking over to where her clothes were. “Please don’t start now.”

  I laughed and we redressed quickly before rejoining the party.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Trouble

  TWO DAYS AFTER the Dogs’ party, I woke to a knock on my bedroom door. I pulled my phone off my nightstand and checked the time. It was just after ten A.M., so whoever it was just might live to see another day. Any earlier, and I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.

  “You awake?” Another knock. “It’s Indy.”

  “Come in,” I groaned after making sure my ass cheeks weren’t hanging outside my covers.

  “Good morning,” Indiana said in a tone that was far too cheery for this time of day. “There are a couple of Saints here and one of them is askin’ about you.”

  Indiana was in his late forties and reminded me of Taylor Kitsch, if Tim Riggins had ridden rough and smoked a lot of weed.

  “What? Who?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “Said his name’s Doozer. You know him or should I tell him to get lost?”

  “No. That’s okay. I met him the other night at the Dogs’ party,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

  “Alright. I’ll tell Prince Charming to warm up the glass slipper.”

  Indiana closed the door just in time to avoid the boot I’d hurled at his head and I heard him cackle as he walked down the hall.