Charity

by Davida Lynn

  One of Gunner’s thick arms wrapped around Raven’s waist. Like she was nothing, Gunner lifted Raven. He got onto his knees still spearing the bitch that had come to him in the night. She wrapped her legs tight around his ass, her arms locking around his neck. He turned in bed, pinning her to the wall above the headboard.

  Standing and raising her body with his, Gunner held the woman wearing only a shirt and panties high on the wall of his bedroom. His thrusts never slowed, and her moans only grew as he revealed his true potential to her. She knew he’d be a great fuck when she first met him, and she was glad she finally got her prize: A great lay and a little political clout.

  When she opened her eyes, Raven saw how close she was to the ceiling and raised an arm. With one hand digging into his back, she placed her other home side up against the ceiling. Pinned to the wall and pushing down from the ceiling, Raven met each thrust, her breasts shaking each time Gunner split her.

  Gunner felt a second wind. “You want it hard? You’re gonna get it fuck’ hard!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Raven cried out as Gunner filled her like no man had done before.

  He grunted with determination, recognizing her impending orgasm. The ripped biker had one hand at the small of her back. He could feel her body pushing against his; he could feel her wetness coating him more and more. As Gunner jack hammered into the tight blonde, he brought his free hand up her body. Resting it between her firm breasts Gunner pushed her hard into the wall behind her.

  The sheer display of raw power was too much for Raven to take. Raven’s body gave in. A sea of oblivion and bliss washed over her. She dug her nails into his back hard, with no regard for consequences. In that moment time was meaningless, pain nonexistent, her pleasure the only thing registering. As Gunner took the literal wind from her body, Raven cried out with what little breath she had.

  As Raven’s body tightened, Gunner thrust upwards harder than ever before. His speed never slowed, drawing her orgasm out far longer than any she had had. Pain surged from his back has her nails drew blood, but before that pain reached him, the heat of the moment turned it to pleasure. It drove him harder and faster, a tightness growing in his stomach.

  The large hand on her chest kept Raven from taking a deep breath but she felt as if she’d never need another gasp of air. Her body had everything it needed in that moment. Her muscles clenched, her loins still exploding with pleasure. Her eyes were open wide seeing only his angry and twisted face. Raven nodded, aware that Gunner wasn’t far behind.

  “Cum for me, you fucking stallion,” she growled.

  There was something about Raven that he detested. At that moment he pinpointed it: her arrogance and nerve to command far above her ranks. The blaze raged harder, hotter, and faster than ever. Gunner found a new strength and punished Raven with his sex.

  “Just like that, oh God yes.” If she had any control over her body, Raven would have given a self-satisfying smile, but her orgasm was just subsiding. Her body was still his to command.

  Gunner couldn’t hold it in any longer, “You like that, you fucking bitch?” It was no longer about pleasure or even disdain, it was pure hate, and Gunner let it flow.

  All she could manage to do was moan. It was all the approval Gunner needed to unleash the true beast within him.

  He could no longer keep his body in check. There was no more restraint. With wild abandon, Gunner fucked Raven with all his being his loins tightening one last time before unleashing hell. He growled like a wild animal, burying his cock deep inside the blonde. As his body gave into the rush, he pushed harder at her chest and squeezed her ass.

  Panting, sweating, all but disoriented, every bit of tension in Gunner’s body faded into a void. He replaced the pressing hand on her chest with his brow. Raven was coming down, too. As they slowly came back to the reality of the world, Gunner slid her down the wall. Once her feet touched the mattress, Gunner let her go, despite feeling her unsteadiness.

  Raven wobbled on the soft mattress, her legs useless. Extending her hands for balance, she lowered herself onto the sheets with what control she had left. It had been rough, uninhibited, and just what she needed. Raven almost laughed out loud at how easy it had been to get Gunner into bed. She knew he detested her, but damn, he was quick to jump in the sack.

  Gunner brought his body down and sat on the edge of the bed. He faced away from her. She may have been smoking hot and a great fuck, but if he never saw her again it would be no skin off his back. Gunner knew trouble when he saw it, and Raven was trouble with a capital bitch.

  Reaching for a pack of smokes on his nightstand, Gunner lit to and stretched his arm behind him offering Raven one. And they say chivalry is dead, he mused with a dark humor Gunner knew she wouldn’t appreciate.

  They smoked in silence. After a long drag, the sergeant-at-arms of the Rising Sons Motorcycle Club put the final nail in the coffin. "You know, Raven. Fucking me won't get you any closer to becoming president.”

  He half expected a fight; some bullshit about feminism or being an independent woman. He was met with silence from her, instead. He took a long inhale and listened as she pulled her jeans back up her long, firm legs.

  Knowing full well he should stop, Gunner went on. “Less than a year into the club, and everyone already knows you're gunning for the top seat. Ain't no bigger way to paint a target on your back, you dumb bitch. You think we can't see it?”

  He heard her bare feet on his hardwood floor. Raven came around to his side bed, her cold eyes staring him down. He met the stare, barely flinching when she brought a hand hard across his face. It was hard, true, but it could've been much worse.

  Raven only wanted to make a point. Instead of an open hand, she could have dragged her nails across his cheek, drawing blood like it was nothing. Even if everything he said was true, which it was, she wasn't about to start burning bridges. Not yet, anyways.

  Gunner couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of her firm breasts jiggle when she slapped him. He knew it would do nothing to improve her mood, but didn't give a fuck. He watched her turn and storm out, saving what face she had left.

  From the hallway he heard her call back to him, "Fuck you, asshole.”

  Gunner sat at his bedside finishing the cigarette and listening as she pulled on her engineer’s boots, slammed the door closed, and fired up her Harley to speed away into the night. As the sound of her V-Twin faded into the California darkness, Gunner did chuckle to himself. Shaking his head, he crushed the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray and prepared to pass out. The dark humor of it all was stamped out when he saw that she had left her cut dangling from the corner of his headboard.

  It had itched at him for a while. Since she became a prospect, Gunner had watched Raven with the different than the other bikers. He didn't like how her eye lingered on some of the top-level bikers. He could almost see the thoughts of grandeur in her head, and he didn't like it. After careful consideration, the Rising Sons only voted her on as a prospect because she was the sister of Tanner, one of the club's best enforcers.

  Reaching over, Gunner dropped her cut the floor with a flick of his finger out of spite, rolled over onto his stomach and fell asleep naked.

  Vegas felt something that had been missing for over a month.

  Since getting a knife in his back, he’d lost most of the use of his left foot; the fine motor skills, anyway. There were other problems, like the slight paralyzation of his face, but it was his foot that bothered him. It took something from him that left him feeling empty. He lost the ability to ride.

  Mike Maldonado had given that back to him. He could now shift with his right foot, and he could brake the front and back of the bike with one hand. It took some getting used to, but Vegas got the hang of it, and once he was on the open road, it was like nothing had happened. He was whole on his motorcycle. He was equal to those around him. Of course, when he pulled his limp leg from the bike, he was just another cripple.

  He had a plan t
o change, that, too. The doctors told him he wouldn’t regain his full mobility, but he could destroy those who had taken it from him. The Rising sons-of-bitches had betrayed him and almost taken away the greatest feeling in the world: the open road.

  The night that they betrayed him, Vegas had dragged himself nearly a quarter mile before a passing car stopped. The woman was a phlobotomist with a bit of EMT experience, and she was able to stabilize him before the ambulance came. For three weeks, Vegas sat in a dull hospital bed with no visitors. He didn’t tell his blood family what had happened, and since most of his old crew had been killed by the Rising Sons, he was alone with his thoughts for weeks.

  He thought of the man that had given him a chance. Ronald Bezarius started calling himself Beezer and had turned criminal, and Vegas understood why. Bounty hunting was exciting, but the pay was all over the place. The expenses were high, and for some reason, they were seen as the scum of society. Bounty hunters served an important function in the law enforcement world, but no one respected what they did.

  Vegas followed Beezer into the criminal world. In just a few short months, they became wealthy and began carving out a chunk of territory that took some people years to control. When Beezer suggested joining the Rising Sons Motorcycle Club, Vegas understood right away. They were one of the most powerful clubs in California, and if the two organizations could come together, they’d be unstoppable.

  Vegas agreed, and three months later, he had passed the tests and was in. He knew that bringing the Rising Sons and Beezer together would be delicate, but before he got the chance, some stuck-up bitch threw a wrench in the gears. Her brother got himself in deep with Beezer, and the debt had stood for too long. When some of the collectors went to get paid, Trask put a bullet into one of them. He was the son of the Rising Sons’ prez. Might as well have been all-out war.

  In the end, Vegas had to take one last stand to try and convince them. It ended with him getting a knife in the back. Figuratively and literally, stabbed in the back by a brother. Eye for an eye leaves everyone blind, Vegas thought, but raining down hell on one group would teach everyone else to tread lightly.

  The doctors had fixed him up, and he was as healed as he was going to get. Step one was complete: he had his bike back. Step two was moving right along. Once he had a meetng with Carlos Maldonado, he’d not only get guns, but with a bit of negotiating, he’d get a crew of mercenaries on his side.

  Vegas knew the Sons had nearly half a million dollars in assets. He’d be able to pay off Maldonado’s men and wipe the Rising Sons off the map, leaving Vegas to take over Beezer’s old territory. There was no competition, and he was going to take full advantage. Vegas knew all of Beezer’s contacts, and he could be up and distributing in one month. One month after the Sons were completely destroyed.

  Vegas called number after number and didn’t get any answers. Seven of Beezer’s best men, gone in one raid from the Rising Sons. It was a shame and a fuckin’ waste. When Vegas tried the eighth number, he got an answer.

  “Vegas. Good to know I’m not alone.” Aldo sounded tired. Vegas could sympathize.

  He wanted to hide the impediment, so Vegas worked hard to enunciate, “Aldo, you old bastard.” He knew it would sound forced, but neither of them wasted time with pleasantries. “I’m glad you answered. You’re the first one.”

  “I can save you some time, Vegas. I’m the only one that’s gonna. They’re all gone. Only reason I survived was I was out of town meeting a client.”

  Aldo was in his fifties, but diamond hard and quicker than guys half his age. In that moment, though, Vegas could hear all the years in Aldo’s voice. Vegas smiled. It was good news. If Aldo knew who the enemy was, he’d play ball.

  “I got out, but not without a scratch or two.” Vegas wasn’t sure how much Aldo knew. He guessed nearly nothing. Aldo was a man who knew when to cut his losses and go into hiding until the shitstorm blew over.

  “You got out, Vegas, that’s the important thing. The Sons?”

  “Mhm.”

  “I know you, kid. I knew you’re already planning some grand gesture. We’ve got no one, man. They’re all gone. One old fart and one young gun ain’t gonna do it.”

  Vegas closed his eyes. A small weight was off his shoulder. The old man had implied he was in if the circumstances were right. “What if the numbers were higher?”

  “How much higher?” Aldo was taking the bait.

  Vegas thought of Carlos Maldonado. He knew him by reputation only, but it was a big rep. Protection, bookies, prostitution; Maldonado was the Las Vegas of Las Vegas. Gambling and prostitution may have been legal in Sin CIty, but there is an underworld that makes all the bright lights and dreams sound like a sleepy Bible Belt village. Carlos knew power, and he knew violence. Just the kind of man Vegas wanted.

  “I’ll find out for sure in a few days time. You keeping this phone?”

  Vegas could almost hear Aldo smiling, “I’m keeping it for a few days time, at least.”

  The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club

  Available February, 2015

  Davida Lynn grew up reading everything she could get her hands on, including books she had to hide. At nearly thirty, she has stories pouring from her fingertips. She enjoys nothing more than letting a story unfold before her. When Davida isn’t writing, she loves watching trashy TV, reading pulp fiction, and daydreaming about her next travel destination.