Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

“No, please, Ramsey—”

  “You heard me. Take ‘em off.” Trembling, Rowan obeyed, sliding them down over her feet. Bronson bit his lip. “God, you’re perfect. Those thighs.” He ran his hand along her legs, guiding them open, sending a shudder through her. She convulsed her thighs back together, fighting against him.

  “Stop, please—”

  “Listen princess, you want me to help you? You’re gonna have to help me too. Comprende? I’ve got to know what we’re working with here.”

  Rowan whimpered, but stopped struggling. Bronson pushed her legs apart and sucked in his breath. What he saw was tight, fresh, beautiful, and so maddeningly close. What a day. He clenched his jaw and turned his face away.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Sit up.”

  Rowan scrambled up and away from him, cowering in the corner of the bed.

  “God, what? I’m not going to rape you. Jesus. Calm down and listen to me; you want a human liver on the black market, you’re gonna need a shit-ton of money. I might be able to help you get it, if we can agree on some terms here. Ok? Here’s the play.” Bronson stood and paced, the ideas flowing. “You were onto something here with this cock-tease racket, but your mistake was playing small and flying solo. So, we modify your original con. You cut down your hours as a dealer and enter the high-end escort business.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up and listen. From now on, I’m your pimp and we work the high-roller games. This town is crawling with Johns who would kill for virgin pussy—especially an innocent, all-American piece as hot as you. We take their cash up front and wrap you up with a nice big bow.”

  Rowan’s stomach sank. “Prostitution?”

  “It won’t get that far. See this tattoo?” Bronson pointed to his back. Almost covering the whole mass of him was a giant three-piece patch tattoo. The top rocker read “Ruiners” in giant gothic letters, the bottom rocker “Nomad.” Between them were the colors, a giant black widow spider wrapped around a naked woman. To its left were the initials “MC” and a small diamond with the 1% symbol.

  Rowan resisted the urge to trace it with her fingers. “What are the Ruiners?” she asked.

  “A little insurance policy, my motorcycle club. Means someone always has my back. In turn, I’ll have yours. You’ll go to the Johns' rooms and play nice for a few minutes. Before anything happens to you, the Ruiners come to the rescue. We rough up the Johns, shake out their pockets, and divide the proceeds. Believe me, no one will breathe a word about being ripped off after we're finished with them. We can run the scam as many times as we want.”

  Rowan ran her hands through her hair, thinking. It sounded dangerous, but then, that’s what she was here for. Results were expensive. She stared at Bronson’s tattooed back, the sinewy muscles inspiring her with awe and fear. Perhaps he hadn’t meant for her to notice the scars too, so many of them. She could that see some looked like bullet wounds.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You pimp me out and beat up the customers before I have to sleep with them. And you’ll find someone who can get me a liver?”

  Bronson was rather proud of the simplicity of his scheme. “That way you’re still fresh goods. Since you’re a crappy actress, it’s better that way. No one has to know when or if a deal has been made, and they certainly won’t talk to their friends about it after we spend some quality time with them. For virgin pussy I figure we can rake in $20 or $50 thousand G’s upfront, plus whatever the Johns have in their pockets when we pull you out. You provide the incentive. I’ll provide the muscle. I’ll split the proceeds with you seventy/thirty.”

  Rowan frowned. “No, I take sixty percent. It’s my ass on the line.”

  Bronson laughed. “Your ass, my ass, and my club’s ass. Everyone’s ass is on the line, sweetheart. We take seventy for me and my MC, you get thirty.”

  This deal could solve a lot of his problems.

  “Fifty/fifty or no go.”

  Bronson stifled another laugh. He liked this woman’s guts. Here she was, friendless and naked and almost hysterical, haggling over a cut. “Sixty/forty, and something else. You’re forgetting, you lost a bet to me tonight. I’m going to make an honest woman out of you and hold you to your word. At the end of the road I cream you with your cherry on top.”

  Rowan’s stomach lurched. “Fifty/fifty. And I will…do…what you want. For a liver. I’ll sleep with you when Lacy gets her liver.”

  Bronson accepted her handshake, but used the grip to pull her onto his lap. “Fine. But I need a deposit.” He kissed her fiercely, running his hands quickly down her bare back, over her butt, back up over her stomach and breasts. When he came up for air, he cupped her chin and forced her to look in his eyes. “You’re mine, you understand? I’m coming back to finish this. Tell me you understand.”

  Rowan gulped. “I understand.”

  “Good. We start in the morning. Get some sleep.”

  With that, Bronson pushed her over onto the bed and walked quickly out of the room before he lost control. He wasn’t used to being a gentleman and it was costing him. He angrily slammed the bedroom door behind him and locked it to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere. He ripped off his underwear and quickly finished himself off with his hand, swearing.

  Heart pounding and mind racing, he stared at the lights of the strip out the window. This girl might be a game-changer for him. A secret cash flow was just what he and the MC needed. He hunkered down to try and sleep on the couch, but it was hopeless.

  No rest for the wicked.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bronson jerked open the massive sliding door of the clubhouse, rays of morning sun bursting from behind his back and casting his dark, vagabond shadow into the bar. He ripped off and pocketed his Oakleys, taking a minute to let his eyes adjust. When he could see into the dark dank interior, he chuckled to himself, surveying the wreckage before him.

  “Looks like we missed the party,” he rumbled jokingly. “Watch your step.”

  Rowan, stumbling in behind him, felt her jaw drop in genuine surprise. Growing up in a trailer park in Alabama, she’d seen some pretty trashy situations and their aftermaths…but never anything on the scale of the state of the Ruiners MC Clubhouse. Not even the one time she had been dragged by a well-meaning classmate to a fraternity party as an undergrad could have prepared her for the orgiastic causatum she now beheld. Abandoned liquor bottles drowned in sad pools of vomit and sawdust on the floors, and snoring bodies in various levels of undress were strewn awkwardly where they had collapsed on pool tables, the floor, the bar. Each other.

  “Oh my God.” Involuntarily Rowan pulled the neckline of her t-shirt up over her nose and shot Bronson a pained frown. Whatever these people had been celebrating the night before, it certainly couldn’t have merited the smell or the agony they would feel when they woke up.

  Bronson read her thoughts well enough and shook his head. “I’m sure it was worth it.” Motioning for Rowan to follow him into the mayhem, he gingerly picked a path around discarded clothing and questionable fluids. Bronson nudged a few sleeping revelers with his boots, passing over most until he reached the pool table. Lifting up a mass of brown curly hair, he inspected the face beneath.

  “There’s sleeping beauty.” The young man was lying naked with his arms and legs dangling over two scantily clad women. Bronson smacked his butt-cheek. “Wake up Achilles, Troy has fallen.”

  Receiving only a moan in response, Bronson marched over to the bar, found a bottle of vodka, and poured it over the sleeping man’s back. He lit a match and tossed it, the short burst of harmless flames inspiring a scream from Rowan and some fast results from the pool table. The man and his lady friends were up and at ‘em in record time, much to the amusement of Bronson and the embarrassment of Rowan. The commotion drew groans and curses from around the room.

  “Fuck me Ramsey,” cried the victim, flushing as he snatched a pair of jeans up from the ground and held them over his family jewels. He glanced in mortification at
Rowan and gulped, “What’d you do that for?”

  Bronson’s only explanation was his laughter. “Hey Prospect, looks like you overslept. You better make a pot of coffee for the lady and start mopping up this shit show.” Bronson chucked the boy’s chin condescendingly. “I’m late for church. Where’s Axle?” The Prospect groggily pulled on his pants, jerking his head toward a hallway behind the bar. Bronson nodded and turned to Rowan. “Find yourself a clean place to sit and stay there. I’ll be back.”

  Rowan didn’t have time to protest before Ramsey had disappeared, leaving her adrift and overwhelmed in this surreal sea of leather, strangers, and morning-after mayhem. Surely this was rock bottom. Whatever Rowan’s wildest suspicious about what the underbelly of society looked like, this was way worse.

  What the heck was she doing at biker central? Had she gone nuts? She was definitely regretting her decision to hitch her wagon to the outlaws. It’s kind of too late to back out now, Rowan. The voice of reason in her head diluted her adrenaline and kept her stomach from heaving and her feet from running the heck out of there. She managed to be polite as the Prospect, her only point of familiarity now, gave her a sheepish grin that revealed a gold grill over his bottom teeth.

  “The kitchen is this way, miss,” he said.

  But Rowan wasn’t the only one with weighty issues on her mind. Bronson had a very risky pitch to sell today, and although his personal interest in its success made him feel a little edgy, he had decided to tackle it head-on. Confident he had left Rowan in safe enough hands, he barreled down the hallway past the bar, around a corner, and finally burst through the last door. The club meeting was already in session, and all heads turned to inspect the latecomer.

  “About time, Ramsey.” The greeting came from the head of the table where the honorable and infamous Axle Derian, Ruiners Motorcycle Club President, sat on his throne. With the unselfconsciousness of power, he scratched his heavy, clean-shaven jaw with a scarred caramel hand that was missing a few digits. “Where the hell have you been? You missed your own party. Fucking UFC champion. Congratulations kid. Your family’s proud. Too bad we can’t be ringside with you.”

  There was a smattering of applause and whoops from the guys around the table. It was nice to have the family together again.

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late boys,” said Bronson, slapping some backs and shaking some hands before taking his seat at the big steel table. “I was on Italian time. Where we at?”

  “Maybe you can tell us.” Axle’s cool grey eyes matched the industrial metal furnishings of the room, just as strong and just as inflexible. “Among other things, we’re still short a Sergeant of Arms and a buyer for our last shipment of AK-47s. From our end, we seem to be receiving the clear on the streets that was promised. How is the peace exchange going with Auditore, from your insider perspective?”

  Bronson grimaced. “Painful. I’m itching to make meatballs out of his face. Five contract fights down, five to go, and they’re pocketing everything as agreed; prize money, bets, interest. They’ve got three watchdogs on me. One is in the parking lot right now. I ditched the other two slowpokes.” Bronson was pleased when his fellow board members laughed in approval. “But, the deal isn’t panning out exactly according to terms. They’re pulling in way more from me than we agreed to earn for them, but you know I can’t lift a finger without ending the ceasefire. I’m their god damn doormat. It’s your call, Mr. P.”

  Axle nodded. “What do you think, Vice?”

  His lookalike son Rex, club Vice President, sighed audibly. “We can’t afford war right now with the turf still smoking. We’re limping. Since the Italians busted our operations ring in Strip territory, we’re behind on all fronts. Ramsey’s pacified the spics for now by prize fighting for them. Dolce’s taken over the guns, smoothed things down with our supplier. But, our merch is too hot and the Aces won’t touch it.”

  Dolce piped in. “They’re threatening to move their business. Smiley’s been fishing for new buyers to the east, but nothing yet.”

  “We’re on pause at best,” Rex resumed. “If we don’t find a way to make bank and move our heat soon two bad things could happen; we could go broke, and we could risk an alliance forming between the Aces and the Harbingers. It’s where they’re most likely to go for supplies, if not to us.”

  The president rubbed his eyes. “How long can we float on what we’ve got, Treasury?”

  Dolce, who along with Bronson was one of the youngest at the table, rolled his one good eye, calculating. “Two, three months. Maybe.” He smashed his smoldering cigarette butt into a blown glass ashtray. “Without Ramsey’s fight money it’s a little tight, but we’ll make it as long as no one defaults on dues.”

  “They won’t.” Axle licked his lips and glared at Ramsey. “You keep doing what you’re doing, Champ, and don’t get too adventurous. We’ll keep the club purse in lockdown and fly under the radar until the dust settles. The guns are safe for now, and we’ll just have to bide our time until we’re stronger. The club recognizes Bronson’s sacrifice for peace but we can’t reinstate him until it’s all over and buried. He stays with the Auditores until we figure out a new play.”

  Bronson nodded. It was what he expected to hear, but not what he was willing to accept. “I have a proposition that might speed up the process, a side investment if you will. Under the radar, like you say.”

  “Got anything to do with that hot slice of sweetass you brought today?” Dolce’s lewd hand gestures started a round of chuckles.

  “As a matter of fact, yeah,” said Bronson, one hand shooting out reflexively to grab Dolce’s collar in an unequivocal warning. “But let’s get one thing straight; blondie’s no pass-around. She’s off limits to you, asshole. Got it? That goes for everyone.”

  Dolce threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine! What is she, HIV positive or just your long lost baby sister?”

  Bronson forced himself to calm down and relinquished his hold on Dolce’s shirt. What was with him today? That southern belle had his panties all in a bunch and he didn’t like it.

  “She’s a virgin,” he admitted, “And she stays that way. Here’s why we care. She needs to raise money for her kid sister to get a new liver on the black market for a transplant, save her life. The club needs to raise money for all kinds of reasons. So, we partner up. I figure we can work the casinos to line up high-roller johns who want to take her virginity. I play poker with them, gain some trust, take cash up front. The asking price has got to be between $20,000 or $50,000, easy for a blonde virgin white girl of legal age. There will be no lack of interest.”

  “Yeah,” Luther chimed in, his big baby face screwed up in concentration. “Like that one movie about the Japanese hooker who pours tea and dances with fans. Geisha memories? Something? They paid mad money to be the first one to bump uglies with her.”

  “Tea? Geishas?” Dolce looked like he was about to retch. “That’s so gay, man. What the hell do you do with your spare time?”

  Bronson hit the table with his palm, prompting silence. “I don’t want to have to repeat myself so listen up. Once we get the cash, I escort the high-rolling idiots to a hotel room with the young lady, then I step outside so he thinks he’s about to get lucky. Rowan, that’s her name, sends a signal and a few of us bust in to back her up. We shake the guy down for any loose change he might have in his pockets and rough him up a bit. Maybe threaten to kill him if he tells anyone what happened. That way we’re protected, and can run the con again and again. We’ll split the proceeds fifty-fifty.”

  “Like Robin Hood,” said Luther, smiling.

  Dolce smacked him in the back of his head. “What’s with you and all the fucking literary references?”

  Luther shrugged. “What? I happen to like movies okay!”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Rex ignored them and turned his incredulous chicory eyes to Bronson. “A fifty-fifty cut, Ramsey? Don’t you think that’s maybe not exactly in our best interests? We're taking a lot o
f risk here.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” said Bronson affirmed. “We do a good deed, help an innocent kid get a liver. Along the way, we earn some positive karma. God knows we need it. But believe me this is no charity act. The Club benefits all around; we get a new moneymaking enterprise to replace all my fight money that the Italians are taking. We build up our bank, our stores, and secretly get ourselves into a position of strength again. The whole time the Auditores think they’ve crippled our cash flow we’re actually getting everything in place to take back the strip territory. It’s a win-win.”

  “Rex is right; the cut is ridiculous,” chimed in Dolce. “What’s this fifty-fifty bullshit? Seventy for the club, thirty for the broad is pretty generous. No cathouse works fifty-fifty. We’d be the ones doing all the dirty work. Unless she’s got a vagina made of gold I see no reason she should get such special treatment. ”

  “Who would want to fuck a vagina made of gold?” said Rex, losing his patience. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “It’s not an expression.”

  “You got my point didn’t you?”

  “We’re not running a cat-house,” barked Bronson, wearily. Sometimes he felt like the only sane guy in Sin City, which was deeply disconcerting. “Besides, it won’t take more than two or three of us at a time. The rest of you dummies can still shuffle guns and suck each other’s dicks for all I care. If we’re in, it’s fifty-fifty. Good luck finding another virgin as pristine as her in Las Vegas. Besides, when was the last time any of you did a good deed?”

  “Sixty-forty,” amended Axle, ending debate. “After the price of the liver. Until then, all earnings go toward getting this transplant the broad needs...what’s her name, Rowan? We save the kid sister, cleanse the Club’s soul. After the transplant, we take sixty percent. And another thing, Ramsey.” Axle’s voice was quiet but intense. “This woman. Your brothers don’t know anything about her. So I need to hear from you, do you trust her?”