Cutslut

by Kim Jones

  Showering off the scent of the man whose name I can never remember, I let the steaming, hot water cleanse me before switching it to cold. I’m always sleepy after sex—the reprieve I feel from my internal damaged, twisted need is mentally exhausting. But the frigid water never fails to revive my senses and wake me completely. By the time I step out of the shower, I have a renewed passion to get the night started.

  I guess I can be considered sexy. I’m tall, falsely tanned with jet black hair and brown eyes. I’ve been called Pocahontas more than once and I’ve always taken it as a compliment. To keep the interest of the men around here, I have to stay in shape. I do so by eating Doritos by the bag, getting extra pepperonis on my pizza and drinking plenty of carbonated beverages. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me one day, but right now, I plan to take full advantage of my high metabolism.

  “Delilah? You in here?” The infamous Red, property of Devil’s Renegades VP, Regg. I’ve always hated he was married…

  Red falls under the category of “ol’ ladies that don’t really like me.” Although she’s never been rude or forthcoming with her thoughts of me, she always makes it a point to remind me that Regg belongs to her—expressing an extreme amount of PDA when it’s really not necessary.

  “I’m in here.” My bathroom door is opened without warning and Red takes a minute to size me up. There must be a stamp on my forehead that reads “If you’re bi-curious, I’m your girl.” Or at least that’s the vibe I’m getting from the appreciative way Red is looking at me right now.

  “Are those real?” she asks, glaring at my breasts unashamedly.

  “Yes.” My deadpan answer is meant to draw her attention away from my chest and to my facial expression that clearly says, “Are you fucking kidding me? Of course they’re real.” But she can’t be distracted. Humored, I ask, “Wanna touch ’em?”

  “What?” That got her attention. “No. I mean. No.” She pulls her eyes to mine and I can’t help but smile at her embarrassment. It’s a first for her. “The Eagles have a Prospect that’s getting his patch tonight. Luke wants to know if you’re interested in giving him a…show.”

  My heart warms a little at her words. This is why I like Luke. He always asks, never demands. Why did he have to be married? All the fucking good ones were gone. “What’s his name?”

  “Drake.” Drake…sexy …

  Pulling a brush through my hair, I turn and watch Red’s eyes follow mine to the mirror, fighting like hell to stay focused on my face and not drop to my tits. I wonder what she’s like in bed… “Of course I will. I’ll be out in thirty.” My words are dismissive and Red leaves, reluctantly, while I continue getting ready for Mr. Drake.

  The Eagles are a riding club that supports the Renegades. This means that if the Renegades call, they come. A lot of the patch holders from the Renegades came from the Eagles. It’s like a starter club. To get to a three patch MC, you have to start somewhere. And the Eagles are a pretty damn good place to start.

  As promised, thirty minutes later I emerge from the confines of my room and walk the long hallway that leads to the main area of the clubhouse. The place is built on Luke’s property, sitting right behind his house. It’s a massive building consisting of ten bedrooms, a large open area with a bar, pool tables, tons of seating and a kitchen that sits off to the side. On special occasions, a makeshift stage equipped with a stripper pole is assembled where the other girls and I can dance for the men’s—and sometimes the women’s—entertainment.

  I don’t know shit about this Drake, so I didn’t dress according to his preference or fetish. Instead, I chose a generic outfit of leather. I have yet to find one man who didn’t approve of it. Black leather boots, corset and matching panties.

  Yes…leather panties.

  No…they’re not comfortable.

  An ensemble like that can’t be complete without a leather riding crop. So I have one of those too.

  Not to be conceited, but I’m a showstopper. And when I saunter into the main room, all eyes are on me. I hear the catcalls and whistles that come from the familiar voices of the Renegades. But tonight I have a mission, and I only have eyes for one man—Eagles’ Prospect, Drake.

  I can’t help the disappointment I feel when I see him. He’s tall, lanky and ugly as hell. Why can’t he be married? Like I said, the good ones are gone. His brothers grab him and he looks like he might shit his pants. Even when they force him to take a seat in the center of the room, he still has no idea what’s going on.

  Grabbing the iPod from the docking station, I find the playlist I’ve made specifically for dancing. Finding it more than appropriate, I select Nicki Minaj’s “Only.” The song crackles through the room. Immediately, the electricity swims through me. Boasting from every speaker in the building, the hypnotic tempo reverberates off the walls.

  I walk around Drake’s seat, teasing him with the crop before smacking it lightly against his crotch. He flinches, but hardens. Then I do the second thing I do best—dance. My focus is solely on him. No one else exists in the room. I don’t imagine he’s someone else or I’m somewhere else. I just let that feeling of power course through me. If I don’t already, soon I’ll own this motherfucker.

  He’ll dream of me.

  He’ll fantasize about me.

  He’ll think of only me.

  In the real world, a guy like him could never get a girl like me. He knows it. I know it. But right now, he could be the sexiest man alive, because I’m making him feel like it. And to me, he is. He’s important to someone who’s important to me. So I’ll show him the same courtesy I would them. I’ll give him everything I’ve got because the club deems him worthy. Therefore, I do too.

  This is my job.

  This is what I do.

  For years I lived in a world where I didn’t matter. I was a nobody. I was weak. I’m still all of those things, just not in this moment. Right now, I’m the most powerful bitch in the room. And I don’t feel sorry for embracing the rare moments where I shine in my own glory. If that makes me a whore, then I’ll wear the title proudly.

  So keep your morals. Stay at your nine to five. Judge me through your rose-colored glasses. View my lifestyle choices however you want. But if being classified as a whore is the only penance I have to pay to feel this good, then stitch an A on my chest. Carve a W on my forehead. Put a label on me to make yourself feel better. Because the reality is, I just don’t give a damn what you think.

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  PATCHWHORE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Despite the warm interior of my car, I can’t suppress the shiver that runs through me as I gaze up at the neon sign hanging haphazardly from the front of the bar. Checking the address on my phone again, I frown when it matches the peeling numbers on the side of the building. According to the reviews, Pop’s is known for its rough customers and rowdy fights—catering to bikers and every other outcast in the greater Lake Charles area. If it weren’t a two hour drive from campus, I’m sure it would have been mentioned as a “place to avoid” in the awareness class my parents demand I attend once a month.”

  I dial Emily’s number—my other hand lingering on the gear shift. After all the courage it took to get me here, I somehow feel like I need her approval before I can leave.

  “Are you chickening out?” my best friend of ten years asks, disappointment evident in that voice that’s dying to sing, “I told you so.”

  “Um, I don’t think this is the right place.”

  “Yes it is. He checked in there three times last week on Facebook. If he’s hanging out with his new biker friends, then that’s exactly where he is.” I drop my gaze when a burly man makes eye contact with me from a few parking spots over.

  “I know Jud…he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.”

  “First, you obviously don’t know Jud. Second, he’s a biker now. Bikers hang out in rough places. And three, the most important of all, he screwed half of your sorority s
isters. Right under your nose.” It’s been four months, and although the reminder doesn’t rip my heart out of my chest like it used to, it still hurts.

  “Are you sure he’s really a biker?” I ask, already knowing the answer. He might have blocked me on Facebook, but was too stupid to block Emily. I guess he thought her being five hundred miles away somehow made him safe from her stalking. It didn’t.

  “You want me to re-send the screenshots?”

  As she says the words, I scroll through my images and find the evidence in black and white. Or blue and grey—the colors of the riding club he’s now a member of. Eagles—Lake Charles, Louisiana. I thought it took years to become a member of a club. Obviously, I was wrong.

  I guess Jud used his charm on his biker brothers like he had on me. And the entire Velta Di sorority on the LSU campus. Because in less than a year, he’d managed to make friends with the club and become a member—completely reinventing himself. He still had the motorcycle he’d had since high school. But gone was the Sperry, khaki, polo wearing boy I’d fallen in love with. Now he wears a leather vest and rides with outlaws.

  I look down at my own attire and roll my eyes. I’ve been planning this night for a month. Now that it’s here, I’m starting to feel ridiculous. In my head, it had been perfect. The moment. The scene. The mood. Even the song. I was going to give him a taste of his own medicine. He’d screwed my sisters, now I was going to screw his brothers—aka fellow club members. Or so Emily had said after doing a little research.

  “Stop thinking, Carmen,” Emily snaps. “Get out. Go in. Order a drink. Order another one. Then make that bastard pay.” I nod with each command—willing myself to follow through.

  “I’ll call you when it’s done.” Hanging up, I blow out a breath and grip the steering wheel. I’m way out of my comfort zone. But I’ve been good for too long. It’s time for me to live on the edge. Take chances. Chase a thrill. Understand the feeling of danger—not just the definition.

  Without giving myself time to change my mind, I step out of the car and into the dark parking lot littered with bikes and a few old trucks. I feel even more out of place when I hit the lock button on my keypad, and the two loud chirps of my alarm system echo in the night as the LED headlights of my E Class Mercedes illuminate the front of the building.

  My head jerks from side to side—searching the lot for anyone paying attention. I’m all alone and the realization has me shoving my hands into the front pockets of my coat and sprinting toward the entrance. Although, I’m not sure if I’m running from danger, or into the hands of it.

  A cloud of smoke billows over my head as I pull open the heavy glass door. Loud music blasts from speakers hanging on the dark-colored walls covered in posters of half-naked women and neon beer signs. The bar makes a huge U in the center of the room. Nearly every stool is occupied with men donned in black leather vests covered in patches—some the same, some different.

  Several tables are scattered to my left—most empty. To my right are a row of pool tables where another crowd of men are gathered. I quickly make my way to one of the empty tables at the furthest corner of the room and take a seat—feeling a little safer in the shadows.

  “What ya drinkin’ doll?” I jump, startled as I meet the inquisitive eyes of the waitress. She’s smacking on a piece of gum, her pen tapping impatiently on the tray in her hands.

  “Chardonnay, please.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up as she drags her eyes down my body. I swallow and shift in my seat. “We don’t serve Chardonnay.”

  “Right.” I let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I’ve never been here before.”

  “No reason to apologize,” she says, pulling out the chair next to mine. “I’ll fix you up somethin’ good. But first…” She leans in, her jaws working overtime as she chews her gum furiously. “Tell me why a girl like you is in a place like this.”

  Her gaze is so penetrating that I’m forced to look away. My eyes scan the room for something else to focus on. That’s when I see him. Jud. My ex-boyfriend. The man I’d been planning to marry since my sophomore year in high school. The guy with the dark brown hair that curls at the nape of his neck and around his face. The one with the golden eyes and small dimple that appears in his right cheek when he smiles.

  His arm—the strong arm that once held me is now draped over a girl’s shoulders as he shakes hands with several of the bikers at the bar. Not just any girl. Clarissa. One of my sorority sisters. Regret starts to sink in as I take in her tall, perfect frame—dressed to ride. Her hair is a sexy mess from her helmet. Her cheeks flushed from the wind. Her eyes bright with excitement. Could that be me if I weren’t always so scared to ride?

  “You know them folks or somethin’?” the waitress asks, looking from me to Jud and Clarissa and back.

  “He’s my ex. She was my friend,” I say, unable to look away from them.

  There’s a brief moment of silence before she gives my arm a squeeze and whispers, “I’ll get you that drink.” She disappears through a door, leaving me in the darkened corner with only my thoughts.

  Seeing them together, in the flesh, is a lot different than hearing the rumors or seeing pictures. It hurts more—deeper. My throat constricts. Stomach tightens. Tears prick the back of my eyes as the ache intensifies. That place in my heart reserved only for Jud is now hollow. And I realize it’s the emptiness that makes it so painful.

  The waitress appears and I grab one of the glasses from her tray, not bothering to even ask what it is before I toss it back. The welcome burn in my throat and belly helps to dull the agony. In hopes I can numb it, I reach for another shot…and then another.

  “Figured you’d need those.”

  “Thank you.” I manage to stifle the hiccup that bubbles in my throat. At least it’s not a sob.

  “Here.” She takes a seat, passing me a plastic cup. “It’s Diet Coke. Goes good with the whiskey.” I sip the drink while she takes a seat and lights a cigarette—both of us watching the two lovers too caught up in their throes of passion to notice anyone else.

  There must be something special about Clarissa. He’s never held my hands above my head, rocked his fully clothed body against mine or made out with me in a public place. Then again, I haven’t slept with half of the guys on LSU campus either. She’s an experienced slut. Her sluttiness got her your man…

  I grab another shot from the tray, quickly chasing it with a sip of Diet Coke. When I lean back in my seat, I finally start to feel the effects of the alcohol. It’s definitely doing its job. My buzz is numbing. And with every kiss, hair pull, giggle and hip thrust I witness, my sadness dissipates—replaced with anger.

  The past four months have been hell. Being betrayed by my friends and my lover has resulted in me having to move out of the sorority house. Change my classes. My routine. Schedule. Even my gym membership. I’ve had to rearrange my entire life to move past this. And because I refuse to burden my family with my personal problems, I’ve started to waitress just to make rent this summer. Why? Because I’m a good damn person. And it’s gotten me nowhere but here—front row seats to a dry humping show.

  It’s time for another shot.

  Unlike the burning liquor, this one is sweet with a butterscotch flavor. When I set the empty glass down, my attention is drawn to a group of men standing around a table next to Jud and Clarissa—one man in particular. He’s looking at me. His head turned slightly as he appraises me, and even though I can’t make out all his features through the cloud of smoke, I’m pretty sure he’s smiling.

  The waitress gives me a smirk when she catches me ogling him. “He’s hot, huh?”

  “Can’t really tell from here.” Even still, I can’t seem to drag my gaze back to the couple I need to watch in order to fuel my anger.

  “You know what they say…” She stands, tucking the tray under her arm before shoving a piece of gum between her lips. “Best way to get over one man is to get under another one.”

  Little does she know
, that’s exactly why I’m here. But I won’t do to someone else what’s been done to me. So I ask, “Is he married? Have a girlfriend?” She shakes her head. “Are you sure? Just because a guy doesn’t wear a ring doesn’t mean he’s single.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Girl, I know everybody in here. He ain’t married.”

  “You think he’s interested?” She studies my face. Taking in my hazel eyes and pouty lips framed in perfectly curled, long brown hair. She slides her eyes suggestively toward my cleavage which is nearly non-existent without the help of a bra, before taking in my legs which always receive compliments. Although I think they’re a little too thick.

  Muttering something under her breath, she raises a brow at me. “You really think he wouldn’t be into a girl who looks like you? Besides, who you think bought your drinks?”

  When her lingering eyes start to make me a little uncomfortable, I look back at the guy. I wish I could make out more of him, but even from a distance, I can tell he’s confident. And the waitress said he was hot. Although at this point, it really doesn’t matter.

  This is my night. My chance. An opportunity to make Jud feel what I’ve been feeling for months. Even if it’s just a taste. I may not know Jud like I thought I did, but there’s one thing I’m sure of. He’s the most prideful, possessive, jealous guy I’ve ever met. And seeing me with someone else may not crush him, but it’ll definitely piss him off.

  “Do you have a … juke box or something?” She pulls an iPod from her apron. “Dangerous Woman. Can you play it for me?” With a swipe of her finger, the track playing ends. Several people shout their complaints, but their voices are soon lost to the song that gives life to the daydream I’ve played over and over in my head.

  I’m acutely aware of heads turning as I cross the floor. Despite my wobbly knees, I’m able to place one stiletto in front of the other without wavering. My palms are sweaty. I can feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.