by Penny Dee
“And where is my father?”
Her face hardened. “Dead. Going on three months now. Stupid junkie fuck. Got himself caught up in some bad shit, and ended up with a bullet in his gut. Didn’t think about me and Noah before he went and got himself involved in all that gang shit. Now I’m left holding the bratty kid.”
Noah.
My brother’s name was Noah.
She looked up at Alex. “Where’s the gear?”
“You’re still using?” I asked.
“Is the Pope catholic? What the fuck does it look like to you.” She shoved her arms out. They were covered in scabs. Ugly track marks, both old and new. “Also got some real nice ones on my feet, you wanna see them too?”
When Noah started to cry again, she yelled at him. “Shut the fuck up, you little shit.”
“He needs cleaning up,” I said, barely containing my anger. The rage was coming back to me. The darkness of my past. “He needs his diaper changed.”
“Well, why don’t you go buy him some, then. Look around you, Miss Hoity-Toity, does it look like I got money for diapers laying around here?”
My eyes narrowed with disgust. “But you’ve got enough for your next fix, I’m sure.”
She glared at me. “Don’t you judge me.”
I shrank back, remembering the tone in her voice and the beating that usually followed. I turned to Alex.
“We can’t leave him here,” I said desperately. “Please, Alex. We have to take him with us.”
I didn’t know how, but I knew Alex could make anything happen.
Maggie looked up at him from the filthy couch. “Where’s the money? Where’s my drugs?”
Confused, I watched as Alex pulled a fat envelope from the breast pocket of his Armani suit and dropped it onto the coffee table in front of her.
“There’s ten-thousand dollars,” he said. Then he leaned down and placed a plastic bag full of white powder on top of it. “Consider this a thank you gift. I trust we won’t be hearing from you in the future.”
But Maggie was already too preoccupied by the bag of drugs to answer. I watched, disgusted as she stuck her finger in her festering mouth and then shoved it, wet and slimy, into the white powder. Running it across her rotted teeth, she moaned.
“Alex, please…we can’t leave my brother here with her.”
“I know. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I set this up.” He fixed his dark eyes to mine. “But if I do this for you, Taylor, you have to promise to do something for me.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to do. But if it meant saving my brother from this life, then I’d agree to anything.
“Yes. I promise. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”
And in that moment, my fate was sealed.
TAYLOR
On the Monday following my dinner date with Bull, I started working at the Kings of Mayhem clubhouse.
Driving into the compound, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. By all accounts, this job was less stable and more dangerous.
But then I thought about Noah and why I was doing this. The job was a lifeline, and I meant it when I told Bull I was grateful.
I looked at the picture of my brother hanging on the rearview mirror. Whatever he needed, I would do it.
Climbing out of my car, I crossed the large parking lot, heading toward the clubhouse and walked inside, entering the world of the Kings of Mayhem motorcycle club for the very first time.
The clubhouse was enormous, with a huge bar to the right, a row of red-vinyl booths hugging one wall, a small stage set up next to an old jukebox, three pool tables, and a mix of couches scattered throughout the rest of the room. It was a masculine place. All timber and galvanized iron, with a polished concrete floor and a high ceiling.
Across the room, a massive Kings of Mayhem MC logo was laser cut into a slab of iron, and backlit by hidden LED lights. And over the bar was a huge medieval chandelier of rusted chains and iron, lit up by industrial lightbulbs.
As I walked in, The Marshall Tucker Band’s, “Can’t You See,” filled the room from a surround-sound system.
Leaning up against the gleaming bar top were two bikers. One looked like Jason Momoa, and the other was a head taller, bald, and looked like he’d walked right out of a commando movie. They were talking to the girl behind the bar who was busy drying the inside of a beer glass. When I walked in, they all turned to look.
“You must be Taylor,” the girl said, setting down the glass and walking over. She was tiny, with a head of dark brown hair and big green eyes. She wore well-worn Daisy Dukes, and a faded Metallica shirt tied in a knot over her flat stomach. “Bull told me I could expect you. Randy was supposed to be here today to show you the ropes, but his mama has taken ill, so you’re stuck with me the rest of the week.” Her hand was cool and firm as she shook mine. “I’m Cherry. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
She let go of my hand and nodded to the bikers still leaning against the bar. “And these two big lugs are Maverick and Ari.”
They were both big. Not as big as Bull, but still big. They nodded their hellos, but said nothing, their cool gazes suddenly making me wonder if I’d made a big mistake accepting this job. I mean, sure, the establishment was a lot cleaner than Slingers and there was probably a lot less semen on the floor, but the clientele was a lot bigger, and by the looks of it, a hell of a lot more dangerous.
But I was low on options, so I’d have to suck it up if I wanted Noah and me to have a roof over our head.
“I have to admit, when Bull told me he’d already found someone to replace me, I was surprised. I only told him that I was moving out of town a few days ago.”
“You’re leaving?”
“My boys and I are moving down to Florida.”
“For business or pleasure?”
“A fresh start.” The twinkle left her wide eyes, and with the light suddenly gone, they looked haunted.
I gave her a self-conscious smile. “I’m sorry, I only met you two minutes ago and here I am already prying.”
But she waved it off. “Don’t be silly. You’ll know my story soon enough. You can’t keep anything quiet around here, you’ll learn that real quick.” She smiled brightly. “Come on, let me show you around.”
The clubhouse was massive. The bar was just one small portion of the ginormous building. Just past the jukebox was a corridor leading to a huge kitchen, some kind of hall, and a couple of restrooms. Off the main corridor was a second smaller one.
“That’s where the bedrooms are,” Cherry explained. “Every King gets one.”
There must’ve been a lot of bedrooms, because the hallway descended out of view and into darkness. “And that over there is Bull’s office.” She pointed to a closed door with PRESIDENT burned into the timber. My eyes lingered, wondering if Bull was in there, and my tummy did a strange little dance.
As if she could read my mind, Cherry added, “He’s not here. He and Ruger are out somewhere, and I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”
An odd disappointment dampened the excitement in my stomach.
“And this over here,” she said, leading me around the corner, “is the Showcase. The Kings of Mayhem pride and joy.”
“Wow,” I said, taking in the huge glass case running the length of the wall. Behind the glass was an eclectic collection of old biker belongings, framed photographs, letters, helmets, dog tags, and other personal items. It was fascinating. And in the center of it all was an old chopper pilot helmet with the name HUTCH scratched into the brow. On the wall behind it was an enlarged black-and-white photo of a very handsome young man. He was sitting in the cockpit of a helicopter, wearing Army greens and the helmet. I leaned in closer to read the description written in the corner. “Hutch Calley. Vietnam, 1966.”
This was the man Pickles had spoken about. The man he’d brawled with at the roadhouse all those years ago.
“Hutch started th
e Kings of Mayhem when he came back from Vietnam. He was the original president,” Cherry said.
“Was?”
“He died some years back. Way before my time. He was my husband’s granddaddy.”
“Your husband is a biker?”
Her eyes softened. “He was.”
Across from the showcase was a wall of framed photographs. She pointed to one, it was of a gorgeous blond man with twinkling blue eyes and a cute, dimpled smile.
“That was taken about six months before he was killed.”
“Oh, Cherry, I’m so sorry.”
She smiled but it was closed-lipped and full of sadness. “He’s been gone a few years now. The world has moved on. It’s time for me and my boys to move on, too.”
“Is that why you’re leaving?” I asked softly.
“I need a fresh start. My sister moved to Jacksonville about six months ago and I really miss her. And as much as I love it here, I can’t seem to move forward as long as I’m walking these halls. I miss him too much, you know?”
I looked at the faces in the other photos. “Who are these people?”
“This is the Wall of Fallen Family. Any King or his Queen who have died are up there.”
“You mean, all these people have died?”
She nodded and I was taken aback. There were so many of them.
“Who is that?” I asked, pointing to a photograph of a beautiful young woman with shiny, caramel-colored hair and skin the color of toffee.
“That’s Mirabella. She was murdered by the same man who killed my husband.” She pointed to three other photos. “He killed all of them as well. It was a revenge thing. But the psychopath got his just desserts. He’s rotting in a jail cell up at Parchman Farm.”
Parchman Farm was a maximum-security prison over in Sunflower County, about seventy-five miles from here.
She pointed to a photograph of another biker. His face was hidden by a full beard and shaggy, shoulder-length hair, but I could see he had kind eyes.
“His name was Jacob. He was married to Mirabella. He couldn’t cope with her death, so he laid his bike down in front of a truck.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was again struck by the number of faces looking down at me from the wall.
And quite a few of them were women.
“The MC world can be exciting. And to me, it’s family. But it’s also dangerous and definitely not for the faint-hearted.” She gave me a warm smile. “You look real sweet, and the boys are going to lose their shit over you, but if I can give you one bit of advice?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
“Don’t give your heart to a biker.” She toyed with a crown pendant around her neck. “Because you’ll never get it back again.”
TAYLOR
Working at the clubhouse was a lot easier than working at Slingers. No handsy men with bourbon spilled down the front of their shirts, and a hard dick in their pants, as they made a grab for my ass.
And I really liked Cherry. She was friendly and sweet, and took the time to fill me in on the club members as they slowly spilled into the clubhouse.
“See them there? Those three honeys with the killer baby blues and all those muscles, they’re the Calley brothers. Cade, Chance, and Caleb.” I recognized Caleb from the day I ran into the back of the van. “They’re Bull’s nephews. And the lady talking to them, that’s Ronnie, their mom. She’s Bull’s older sister. She’s fierce, too. A word of advice, don’t get on the wrong side of her. She’s an amazing woman, but man, she’s terrifying when she’s pissed about something.”
Ronnie looked like Cher in the movie Mask.
Cherry nodded toward the corner of the room where four bikers were playing pool.
“That’s Cool Hand, Tully, Davey, and Hawke. Davey can be a bit of an old perv, but he’s harmless. Just let him know straight up that he can’t get away with anything around you, and you’ll be fine.”
Two girls in very tight jeans and tops that revealed a lot of skin, lingered at the table.
“Are they their girlfriends?” I asked Cherry.
“No, they’re club girls.” An amused grin spread across her lips. “You’ll get used to them. They’re here for the guys. Some of them are hoping to become old ladies, but most of them just want to suck club cock.”
My eyes darted from the girls to Cherry, a little surprised.
I thought about Bull and wondered if he indulged in any of the club girls.
Before I could say anything, she added, “But a lot of the Kings ignore them, like the Calley brothers, and my Isaac. He wasn’t into club pussy. And Bull never goes there. He tolerates them, but he’s not into them.” She smiled to herself. “Listen to me, I’m probably saying more than I should.”
“No, I really appreciate the insight.”
She walked over to a case of beer sitting on the bar and started refilling the refrigerator. “A few of the guys aren’t here because they’ve gone to pick up Nitro. He’s been doing a stint inside for arson, but he gets out today. They’ll all be in later, I’m sure. Although, Nitro’s probably going to spend most of the night at The Den.”
“The Den?”
“Yeah, it’s the brothel the Kings own. Really classy joint.”
“They own a brothel?”
“Among other things.”
“Like?”
“They own Spank Daddy’s on the other side of town. It’s a strip joint. I’ve been there once, it’s a little dark and dirty, but it’s a lot better than the Slip N Slide, and a trillion times better than Slingers.” She straightened. “Sorry, Bull mentioned you worked there.”
“I did and you’re right. Anything would be a trillion times better than that dump.”
She gave me a nod and started refilling the shelves again.
“They also own Head Quarters, it’s a production company that specializes in movies for people with particular tastes, if you get my drift.” She shrugged as she said it. “Nothing too over the top. Just your typical, everyday porn.”
I smiled. “So they like porn and prostitution, huh?”
Cherry grinned. “Oh, honey. This is the MC world. It’s all about money and pussy.”
Cherry said she was going to hang around until she was sure I had the hang of it, but by the end of my first shift she came over to me and started to laugh.
“What?” I asked.
She leaned a hip against the bar and folded her arms. “Honey, I could leave today and you’d be fine. I’ve never seen anyone handle those boys like you do.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re nothing but big teddy bears.”
The Kings were loud and brash, and Bull was right, they used language that would make your mama cry. They also looked mean, some of them murderous, but there was something about them, something simmering beneath the surface of the brotherhood that made me feel like I was at the safest place on Earth. They were a family built on bond not blood, and somehow it seemed stronger because it was all about choice.
And I couldn’t complain about how they treated me.
At first, I was like a shiny new toy appearing underneath the Christmas tree. But by the end of the week, I was firmly rooted in the friend zone. They were bikers and they were full of testosterone and bravado, but they treated me with the respect they would show their little sisters.
On Thursday, I met Randy, the bar manager and we hit it off like we had known each other our whole lives. Randy looked like a surfer with sun-kissed skin, bright white teeth, and a mop of unruly blond curls. He'd lost his arm in a motorcycle accident years earlier, but was one of the fastest liquor slingers I’d ever met. He was also a lot of fun, and I had a feeling we were going to be close friends.
By Friday, I hadn’t seen much of Bull, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined the crazy attraction between us. Whenever he came into the clubhouse, he was flanked by bikers, or busy talking on his phone, and he would walk past me and give me an occasional wink that would heat my face and send a thr
ob to my traitorous clit. Other days, there was barely any acknowledgment from him, making me feel as if I was a part of the furniture. At first, I thought it was just because he was busy and preoccupied because everybody, it seemed, wanted a piece of him. But when it continued, I realized it wasn’t because he was busy, it was because he was an asshole.
It made me think back to our date and made me grateful that I hadn’t given into my urges that night and slept with him.
Because now I appeared to be invisible.
I didn’t like it.
And for some stupid reason, I didn’t like it…a lot.
I mean, he was my boss and I shouldn’t see him as anything more than the man who signed my paycheck.
Yet it didn’t stop me from thinking about him. Fantasizing about him. Like when he walked past the bar with Ruger and Maverick this afternoon, and I couldn’t stop staring at him just because he was wearing a white t-shirt under his cut, and I had never seen him in a white t-shirt before.
And because, dear God, Bull in a white t-shirt was pure porn for warm-blooded females.
My thoughts got the better of me and I couldn’t help but wonder about how his body looked beneath that white t-shirt, his Kings of Mayhem cut, and black slacks.
I couldn’t help but wonder how it moved.
How it flexed.
How it fucked.
On the other side of the bar, Cherry cleared her throat, and I almost dropped the beer bottle I was opening as I tore my eyes off my boss to look at her.
She raised an eyebrow at me and gave me a knowing smile.
“What?” I shrugged, trying to hide my embarrassment. “So, shoot me, I’m a sucker for a guy in a white t-shirt.”
She shook her head. “Dear God, it’s only taken you a week.”
“For what?”
“For you to fall under the spell of our enigmatic leader.” She grinned. “But, honey, you gotta get in line. And there’s a lot of women in front of you.”
I shook my head. “Hell, Cherry, he’s my boss, and I’ve got no intention of getting hung up on him or anyone. But just because I’m on a diet, doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.”
