LOW JOB: A Filthy Dogs MC Romance Novel

by Ora Wilde

  “That’s Daniel for you,” I simply replied in agreement.

  “Yeah. As I’ve said. Now, I know. Geez. I guess this is it for our very rare girls’ night out, huh?”

  “I think so,” I sullenly said. That Daniel episode notwithstanding, it has really been a fun evening. I don’t get to go out a lot, so nights like this were quite a treat. I was saddened that it had to end prematurely.

  “Okay. Lemme give you a ride home back to grandma, alright?” Teresa offered.

  I checked my watch. It was already eleven. Agnes should be asleep by now. Maybe Teresa and I could still hang out at our place. Catch up with what’s been happening in our lives. She could tell me all about college and the boys she has dated. She could share all the opportunities that have opened up for her, which I assumed were a lot even if I always kidded her about being a mere Philosophy major. We didn’t need alcoholic beverages to enjoy ourselves. Cups of coffee would suffice. The night was still young, and we had the best thing in the world to savor: each other’s company. We could still have loads of fun.

  We just came from a bad ordeal with Daniel.

  Surely, things could only go up from here.

  Ding.

  My cellphone suddenly chimed, prompting us to look at each other.

  “Daniel?” Teresa asked nervously.

  “I’ll check,” I answered as I pulled out the phone from my purse.

  It was an SMS. I tapped on the message icon to open it.

  I read the text.

  My stomach turned and my body became weak. I fell on my knees, dirtying my skirt on the damp soil, but I didn’t even notice that. I didn’t notice anything. Everything went blank.

  And I started to weep.

  Soon enough, my weeps turned to violent screams of agony and rage.

  Eventually, I would remember Teresa holding me tightly, asking what was wrong. I would remember that I failed to answer her and that I just kept yelling into the darkness of the night. I would remember the guilt that I felt and how I would never forgive myself for what happened.

  And I would remember the one, single regret that I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

  I shouldn’t have left her alone that evening.

  Chapter Two

  SCREWDRIVER

  It was a smooth run.

  The ride from San Mateo to Solano and back took less than four hours, which included the stop we made at Henry’s Hangar. We - myself and Rotten - escorted a truck that ferried some of them new Nintendo consoles from the pier to our contact at North Bay. Basically, our job was simple. To make sure that the cargo won’t be compromised - not by customs, not by the cops, and specially not by crews from the turfs we passed through.

  I volunteered for this run. Yeah, it was a simple ride and glide mission, but it was a much needed one. The war with the Godless just ended. We’ve been stuck at the clubhouse under lockdown for three whole days. It was a dangerous feud that almost wiped us out. The fucking Godlesses outnumbered us, twenty to one. Fortunately, our prospect - of all people - managed to do something stupid and brave at the same time. He singlehandedly won that war for us, and as a reward, Prez patched him in, stripped his membership and made him a nomad... all in a matter of two minutes. Oh, and Prez allowed him to elope with his daughter too.

  But that’s their fucking business, not mine.

  So yeah, we were stuck in lockdown for three days, but it seemed like an eternity.

  Now, with our hands gripping the ape bars, with the wind blowing hard against our faces as we reached ninety on the speedo, with the thunderous rumbling of the engines savagely quaking our entire bodies and reminding us about the thrill of simply being alive, we once again remembered who we really are.

  Percs.

  Bikers.

  Outlaws.

  Dogs.

  “Awooooo!” Rotten howled as he rode his Harley, a modified 1978 Shovelhead that still looked as jurassic as he was. The brother was expressing the same thing I was feeling: joy.

  I smiled at him and nodded. There was no point in responding in words which the wind would just sweep away at our current MPH. I squeezed on the gas of my 2007 Defender. I wanted to go up to a hundred to see if the brother could catch up with his prehistoric chopper.

  We reached the clubhouse - a cozy donut shop along Main Avenue at downtown San Mateo - quicker than expected, what with our attempt to race against each other. Everyone who was there went out to greet us with hugs and loving curses.

  “Motherfucking bitch!” Bang Bang, my brother - as in my blood brother - screamed on my ear as he embraced me. “That run was supposed to be mine and you fucking stole it.”

  “Hey, blame Prez, he’s the one who makes the assignments,” I told him as I returned his affectionate gesture.

  “Blame me for what?” Prez interrupted us. He overheard our short exchange. He was smiling, though, underneath his graying beard framed by long locks of the same hue. He adjusted his bandana before he could reach us. Maybe old guys like him have developed the instinct of checking if their bald spots were properly concealed.

  Jonas “Hacksaw” Cross has been the president of our club even before me and and my brother received our patches six years ago. He was just the third president in the long, glorious history of the Filthy Dogs.

  “Nothing, Prez,” I said as I gave him a hug which he reciprocated. “My bro right here’s just jealous because I got to go out for a run and he didn’t.”

  “Is he now?” Prez eyed my brother with amusement. “Tell you what, Bang Bang. We got that memorial coming up next week. We’ll need some meat, some chips, and a whole lotta booze. You can make that run for us.”

  “A run?” Bang Bang exclaimed in disbelief. “To where? The fucking grocery?”

  The rest of the Dogs laughed. Then they made their way towards me and Rotten to show their love. Mammoth, being the big bear that he was, almost squeezed the life out of me. Specs, the club’s resident genius, opted to shake my hand. He was probably scared that I’d crush his reed thin body if I returned a hug. Razor, our veep with his trademark shades and trench coat-styled kutte, gave me a kiss on the cheek. The damn Irish in him just wouldn’t fucking die.

  Penny remained by the door. He just sent a polite nod. He ain’t really sociable. That’s understandable. He hasn’t been jovial ever since the tragic shit that happened to his family.

  Macho, the sergeant-at-arms, just stood behind Prez. He didn’t even smile at us. With his arms crossed over his chest, all he did was give us a scowl. Unlike Penny, Macho didn’t have an excuse not to be cordial. No one liked this asswipe, and that’s not because of his stinking greasy hair or his porn star mustache. All of us patches, we were soldiers once. Each and every one of us completed at least one T.O.D. Everyone, except Macho. He’s just a fucking ex-con, yet, he always carried a chip on his shoulders since the day he was patched in. Why Prez made him his sergeant-at-arms has always been a mystery. Still, that didn’t make any of us hate him a little bit less. That guy’s a douchebag. But he’s also a brother.

  The entire roster’s present tonight, except for LG. LG’s more like an honorary member these days, though. He wasn’t expected to be active with the club, not with his old age and the two heart attacks that almost killed him. But in his time, he was the most feared Dog in the state. Tales about his exploits were legendary. I should know. Me and Bang Bang spent every supper of our childhood listening to those stories. Comes with the territory when your dad’s the biggest, baddest biker in town.

  We went inside the Big Hole - a really bad name for a donut shop, but it is what it is - where the brothers resumed their merrymaking. Bottles of beer littered the joint. The sweetbutts were all there, too, entertaining the patches with everything they could possibly offer. Iron Maiden’s Running Free was playing loudly in the background. Fuck! Not a single one of San Mateo’s citizens who frequent this busy street would ever think that this place was really a donut shop. But the Filthy Dogs MC is part of the town’s h
istory, and people have learned to look the other way whenever they encounter the club doing its business.

  Prez talked to me again after one of the senior sweetbutts delivered his beer.

  “How was the run?” he wanted to know.

  I showed him my arms, my chest and my back to display the absence of any bullet holes. “Uneventful,” I said with a smile.

  “Sorry to hear that,” prez jested. “And the cargo?”

  “Safe and secure.”

  “Good.”

  Prez wasn’t always this inquisitive about our primary source of income, which was smuggling electronics and vehicle parts from the San Mateo pier and transporting them throughout the state. Usually, he’d just send us out for runs, and if we came back in one piece, he’d ask no further questions because there was only one assumption to make: we’re breathing so we got the job done. But then, smuggling became our only source of income aside from a sprinkling of protection requests here and there. The war with the Godless didn’t help us any as some of our distributors got scared because they operated in routes controlled by our enemy. So, our orders dwindled, and our earnings followed suit.

  Yeah. Shitty times. But things should get better soon.

  An hour into the party and things got a lot wilder. Mammoth had his pants pulled down, exposing his hairy ass for the everyone to see. A sweetbutt, Peppy, was kneeling in front of him. Mammoth was squealing like a pig as Peppy bobbled her head savagely. When Mammoth screamed his final cry, Peppy stood up and wiped the cum on her lips with her fingers. Then everyone clapped their hands and cheered, much to Mammoth’s surprise. “You motherfuckers were watchin’?” he asked.

  “Great show. Ugly lead. Give me a damn refund,” Rotten remarked which prompted a round of laughter from the brothers.

  Two of the girls were dancing on the counter, making it their own private ledge. They started with skimpy clothes - spaghetti-strapped tops with no bras and pairs of very short shorts. A few minutes later and what little clothing they had was gone. They were down to their thongs. Both of them ended up in Rotten’s arms.

  Bang Bang got a couple of the newer chicks to share his table. One of them was giving him a hand job as the other continued to vamp my brother.

  As the night went on, everyone already had a woman for the night.

  Except me. It was something that Miranda - the girl who was assigned to man the donut shop during the day and the bar when the sun came down - actually noticed. I was seated by the counter while she was took a break from washing the glasses.

  “Not in the mood?” she inquired with a soft, fetching tone. She gave me a comely smile before resting her arms on the surface as she leaned towards me. The seam of her top opened up a bit. It was intentional. She wanted me to have a good look at her cleavage... or the lack thereof.

  “You can say that, darlin’,” I responded as I smiled back.

  “Penny for your thoughts, then?” she continued to ask while her fingers played with the edges of her curly blonde hair.

  “You’ll need at least a Benjamin.” I said after taking a chug of my beer.

  “That would be a problem. Payday’s a week away. Any other way I can pay for a piece of your mind?”

  She was clearly flirting with me. But it wasn’t because she liked me. Everyone in the club - from the patches to the sweetbutts to the hang-arounds - knew that Miranda’s got the hots for Bang Bang. Besides, she wasn’t a sweetbutt. She doesn’t have what it takes to be one. Prez only took her in because she was the only one who looked and acted decent enough to watch over the donut shop during the day. She’d break once a brother would ask her for comfort.

  But it was very obvious for everyone that she’d give her body for Bang Bang without hesitation... if only he’d ask.

  But Bang Bang? Not once did he ever choose Miranda to be her girl for the eve. Instead, he chose to wallow in the company of other girls more suited for his tastes - girls with bigger tits, bigger asses, and mouths seemingly made for a lot of sucking.

  Miranda ain’t any of those. Her innocent face makes her look like she just got out of convent school. Her dainty body’s too thin. Her breasts are almost non-existent. And her butt’s flat that it looks like an extension of her back. But most of all, she doesn’t have the oomph factor, that intangible which screams how much of a thrill she was to fuck. So yeah, she ain’t Bang Bang’s type. Bang Bang liked ‘em feisty and nasty. Miranda? She’s just too nice.

  This thing Miranda wanted to start with me? It’s just her being mad at Bang Bang. It has happened many times before, but it never led to anything. She may not be raging with sex appeal, but she is pretty in her own way and her body’s okay for me... and I’m willing to bet that her pussy smells like the sweetest rose.

  But she’s also heartbroken. She always was every damn night.

  It wouldn’t be right to take advantage of that.

  Our small chat continued. I made sure that it didn’t get heavy whenever she attempted to lure me in with an awkward flaunting of her charms. When she once again asked about what was on my mind, I took that opportunity to tell her that her attempted seduction was as pointless as filling up a bike with diesel when it’s built for gas.

  “I guess I’m at that point in my life when I wanna settle down,” I told her. “Y’know, finding myself a permanent mate, having kids - lots and lots of kids. I’m gonna make my Ol’ Lady a baby factory. I’m gonna make her stay at home and take care of our children until they’re old enough to spread their wings and leave our home. Personally, I ain’t the type who can stand all that crying and diaper changes and hourly feedings and having to hold them until they burped... all that shit. Nope. Ain’t for me. My Ol’ Lady should be able to do all that by herself.”

  That was enough to burst her bubble. She politely listened to what I had to say before excusing herself to return to her chores. Yeah, she’d hate me in silence for a while... but hopefully, she’d eventually realize that I did her a favor by not messing with her aching heart.

  It was a grand party that lasted throughout the night and well into the morning. None of the brothers got any sleep while a lot of the sweetbutts took their naps on the tables and on the floor. It was just the third night of merrymaking we had since lockdown ended. We were starved for some fun.

  The sun was up and the street outside was busy once again. All of the patches settled around a single table as Miranda served us coffee and some donuts. God! I’m sick of donuts! Mammoth gobbled up his share in a matter of seconds, though.

  “Since we’re all here, hopefully sober enough for some seriousness, let’s talk,” Prez started the impromptu meeting.

  “What about, chief?” Razor asked. Our veep was still wearing his dark glasses. He never takes them off.

  “I know you’re sick of hearing about the Godless,” Prez continued, “and we do we have a truce with them. But I must remind you, boys... this ceasefire is as fragile as a woman’s mood. It can break at any time. In fact, those bastards may just be waiting for us to make one wrong move, no matter how simple it may be, before they decide to strike again.”

  “And we’ll be ready for those cocksuckers,” Macho responded with conviction.

  Everyone groaned. As I’ve said, no one really likes him.

  “Violence is inevitable for men of conviction such as us,” Prez replied. “But prudence is still the better part of valor. Calculated risks will only entail calculated dangers. A little pre-planning wouldn’t hurt... not our egos, not our pride, and most specially, not any of you fine gentlemen.”

  Everyone gave their ayes as we raised our mugs.

  “We all trust your instinct about these matters, boss,” Razor said. “But anything specific as to why you think that the Godlesses still present an immediate threat?”

  “Specs?” Prez called the bespectacled brother’s attention.

  “Yeah, well, I intercepted a couple of police reports,” Specs was quick to inform us. “Apparently, the Godlesses are still maintaining aroun
d three splinter cells at the outskirts of San Mateo.”

  “Which means that they have no intention of a full retreat,” Prez explained. “They’re still waiting for a chance to strike.”

  “They already took out our Essex charter,” Bang Bang declared. “Those motherfuckers killed nine of our brothers.”

  “And our prospect took out forty of theirs,” Prez reminded him. “It’s understandable if they don’t consider that as a fair exchange.”

  “I must admit, I underestimated that prospect,” Mammoth uttered. “And all along, I thought that his mind’s fried with all that PTSD shit.”

  “We all underestimated him,” Prez said. “And he’s a brother now. A nomad. We may need his... expertise... soon. He’s just on call whenever he’s needed.”

  We raised our cups again to deliver our ayes.