by V. Theia
What he’d give to prowl across the street, climb the two floors and kick open her motel room door and grab her by the giant brass lady-balls he knew she had.
Teach her the lesson of a lifetime.
Back in town, was she?
Grinder swallowed, a burn hot as hell in his gut, the burn climbing up his food pipe, he should have brought his Tums with him and returned his gaze to the lone window.
If she was in there, he’d know soon enough. He’d let Rider know he was MIA for the day, not sure how long this recon would last for, the fucking week if he had to, he’d even go so far as to venture into Apollo Kings MC territory to hunt her down. Their president, Jamie Steele, was a hardass, but even he couldn’t stop Grinder when he had a mind to do something. Just try and stop him.
He kept the satisfaction in. Soon enough. His sharp gaze returning up.
He held that same position, chest to the floor.
Oh, Luxe. He smiled to himself. A smile a snake would be proud of, as his heart sped up, his victory for another successful tracking roared to his surface, staying perfectly still, adrenaline poured through his veins like lava.
There she fucking was.
Stepping out of the motel room, dressed head to toe in skin tight black. Shades over her eyes, a bandana holding back the pour of black hair down her back.
The dirty rotten thief looked as sexy as she last had when she stuck her devil tongue down his throat, her hands all over his body.
And then fucking stole from him.
Right out from under Grinder’s nose.
Not to mention the one-eighty flip she’d turned on him with the sex. In layman's terms that dirty rotten thief had used the powerful persuasion of her amazing tits, he’d sucked on like a savage and brought her sweet nipples to hard points, to coerce Grinder into dropping his guard, taking what she wanted, namely not his dick, and had flown off into the wind.
Almost a year he’d had that smarting under his skin.
The tracker got played.
And he was a fucking expert tracker at that. He left the technology to Lawless, preferring the old ways of using means and skills he was brought up with to hunt his marks. Paper trails could also follow a tracker if he used … less than legal ways and Grinder liked being under the radar for himself and his club. And at every turn over the last year, Luxe had evaded him.
Sneaky little bitch.
There she was. All five seven of her, high heeled boots clipping on the steps down from her room, a backpack caught over one shoulder, she strode to a dark gray Ford Lincoln MKZ, engaging the mechanical lock before she slid herself inside. Who did you steal from to afford that, baby?
His razor-sharp gaze disappeared behind the aviators he pulled from inside his jacket and pushed up his nose right as his cell vibrated.
“Yeah?” Was his usual way of answering.
“Rider said you were MIA. You got trouble, bro?” Asked Preacher.
Grinder rolled to his knees, now she was driving off he could come out from behind the fucking bushes, he swept off the dirt from his legs and chest, and cranked his aching neck from side to side, loosening up the tight muscles.
“Nah, all’s good.” He lied to his best buddy. Preacher knew some of the shit, namely that Luxe had knocked him back during the sex-prelude and he’d taken a mighty fucking ribbing for it, too. Dented his ego real nice, his brothers were jerks.
But the theft? That he’d kept under his beanie. Because he felt like a fool. “What you up to?”
“Just got to the club. You sure you don’t need a hand with something?”
“Positive, Preach. Look, I’ll catch up with you later, yeah, gonna grab some food before my belly thinks my throat has been cut.” He hung up.
If, and when he might need a hand Preacher was the guy he’d call.
Scanning the parking lot, he counted six vehicles that had driven up in the last two hours and rented rooms. It was a pervert’s cheap mecca, rooms by the hour to fuck and snort.
Hands in his pocket he took the stroll across the street, into the motel grounds, bypassing the office, he slipped up the stairs, checking subtly over his shoulder for the gray Lincoln. As he reached into his pocket for the thin leather pouch he carried everywhere with him, he slid free the long silver tool that could get him through most any locks, unless it was those fancy-schmancy high-tech key cards then he got fancy right back. Still, there was no lock he couldn’t break eventually.
Grinder crouched by her door, did a little wiggling and voila.
The room smelled like her. How he remembered.
Like fucking sin and danger.
Without permission, his cock ached and stirred.
Fucking down, fella. We’re not here for that.
Maybe he lied. Maybe.
But that wasn’t his whole reason. Maybe he’d let her beg him for a fuck before he killed her.
Maybe.
Closing the door over with a gentle snick of the lock, he halted in the middle of the room. She kept it tidy, not even a pair of errant lace panties to jack over. He poked his head around the bathroom, not expecting to find anything there, except to maybe draw her wicked scent into his lungs.
He didn’t even expect to find what he was looking for. It was all perspective.
Grinder was hungry suddenly like he was staring at an empty plate in front of him and only meat would do. The chase, couldn’t beat it.
He walked over to the TV table and ever so slightly he used two fingers and moved the thirty-inch screen towards the left on an angle and then he turned back the top cover on the bed and left a fist print in the middle of the nice once neat pillow.
She’d made the bed before she’d left, what kind of freak makes a motel bed?
Oh yeah, Luxe. Grinder was here, baby.
A small calling card to let the dirty rotten thief know someone had gotten into her place easy as breathing and it wouldn’t end there.
Nah. this wasn’t the end of him and Luxe.
It was just the start. Act III in her deviant play.
Soon, my devious Mexican bebé. He smiled that dark smile of his, leaving the motel as quick as he’d gotten in. Locking it behind him.
He didn’t want any other dirty rotten thieves getting in, now did he?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Our president is as slow as a dead snail in pig shit. All those who agree, say aye.” - Texas.
“Do you think it’s the bubonic plague, Prez? I’ve seen The Exorcist. That movie gave me intense nightmares when I was a kid, for like a month, I even slept in my parent's bed.” Asked Texas in all seriousness across the church table rubbing a hand on his unshaven chin, hair falling into his eyes he took that same hand upwards and shoved it back on his scalp.
“You’re such a pussy, Tex.” Laughed Snake. Ever the comedian, forever the member who said what everyone was thinking. Asshole. If you looked past the quick fired jokes, and his effortless smiles, you’d see someone who held his cards close to his chest and knew when to play them. That was the true Snake. Texas read people very well.
Texas flashed him a grin.
“Oh, shit. Me too. I can't watch that.” Offered up Pretty-Boy in solidarity.
“I amend my previous pussy statement. We now have two. Besides, if Z-girl had the plague we’d know about it, she’s just puking like she has it, is all.”
“Careful how you talk about my old lady, dickbags.” Warned Rider in a growl that wasn’t so much heated but Texas heard the seriousness in it nonetheless. He looked contrite down the table to the boss. And said. “I’m only saying. The way Z-girl dived for the trash can and hurled up the Tuesday tacos. She made the exorcist noises. I had horrible flashbacks.”
“I’m never eating tacos again.”
“Until next Tuesday.” Fired back someone.
On the inside Texas was smiling and casting looks around the table at the patched in brothers, the only members allowed in this sacred room to ever see the great oak table and the gavel sat by Rider's right han
d. Watching Rider come undone was Christmas morning and maple pancakes. Texas would eat maple pancakes all day long especially if they had crumbled Canadian smoked bacon on top.
That’s what this conversation was.
Fucking glorious. He hoped he won the pool. He only needed one more day, that was all before they had to reset it again, for the third time, Rider was slow-as-fuck to catch on, just one more day was going to be the day, he could feel it. Rider glowered at them all, each of the brothers earning his own personal marked president scowl that said he was signing his own death warrant if they joked one goddamn minute more about his sick old lady.
Of course, if sweet Zara really was sick. Well, that would suck, because they had a pool going and that was a little bit crass of them.
Even if he did want to win.
He had a good feeling about this pool, he’d lost the last five and here he was the money man. Bad for his reputation to drop hundreds time after time.
He adjusted his blue tie and ran a hand through his short clipped brown hair, resting both hands on the table top to listen in as the meeting got underway.
His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket and he felt the kick of dread in his gut, that low oily sense that made his breakfast want to hurl into his throat and Texas hated, absolutely hated puking, he wasn’t lying when he said he’d turned green when watching Zara triple backflip her way to vomit in the trash earlier, he’d gotten himself out of there, Texas couldn’t deal with puke of any kind, so it would suck for him to now throw up all over the sanctioned table. He wouldn’t, of course, he had better manners than that, but as the silent phone vibrated again, stopped and went at it again, his brain checked out of the meeting and he swallowed back the bile.
Ignoring the phone. He would ignore it.
But he’d never changed his number.
He should change it, he knew that. But just … couldn’t.
“If you ball-bags have quit your fuckin’ gossipin’ for a minute, can I have the damn floor back.” Rider didn’t pose it as a question, his gaze ranged up and down the table, and every voice shut up. All but one.
“It wasn’t me, boss.” Snake pointed a finger right at Texas who lifted his head and glowered back. Thank god, his phone became still again. They’d given up for now.
Until the next time.
“I don’t give a fuck.” Rider said. “Shut up so I can dole out jobs and get back to Icy. You can work the shop without me today, I’ll be at home.”
And so, the meeting went. Texas had a bit of paperwork to deal with in the office he usually shared with Zara, but since she was at home being ‘sick’ and hopefully winning him the pool, he would have the cabin office to himself. On a day like today he preferred it, as much as he liked their queen, he wanted to eat his protein bars in peace and have a scout around on the internet.
First, however. He slid a hand into his pocket, drew out his phone and looked through his missed calls log. Five, all from the same person. Same time, same day, different month, just like clockwork. A stormed sigh caught in Texas’ throat, taking the slow walk from the church out into the main area of the clubhouse, he didn’t stop for a coffee with Uncle Jed, or pass five minutes talking with Helen who had dropped by today, nor did he give an endless list of jobs to the prospects who were always eager and waiting. He strode out to his bike parked in its usual bay alongside Hawk's empty spot.
He had somewhere he had to go. Not wanted to go. As it stood, with his belly in a tight vice, he was sorely tempted to walk back into the club and tell Rider everything.
The text that came a minute later read the same as it always did and Texas was sure he’d ignore it this time. He read it once, then twice.
M: 4:55 - Same place. Ten minutes.
He was a man of few words.
Clamping his jaw until both sets of back teeth ached, Texas started his motorcycle, watched his friends pour out of the clubhouse, laughing, horsing around, he quirked a grin and held a hand up to them before pulling on his leather gloves with the wool lining inside, zipped up his leather jacket to his chin and knocked the kickstart up.
Texas had a lot of respect for those men, a real lot, they’d banded together time and again, shown what true brotherhood was all about.
Being a brother didn't always mean blood.
******
Ruby was in love.
Touching the head rest of the high-backed cream leather chair, she ran her fingers across the arm, feeling how buttery soft it was. Second-hand, of course, one of the RS boys had gotten a good deal in town for everything she’d requested for her little back room inside their clubhouse. She smiled looking around. She was in love with everything. Rider had asked what she needed, having only taken one quick pass through of her ink book and decided right then and there she had the job. Just like that. She’d looked at him crazily at first, sure he was doing it because of Preacher, but who was she to argue, it was a job and good money, great money, for very few hours work and it meshed well with her bar job. Now two weeks later here was her little room, all set up with its table, a sink, her supplies, and the gorgeous chair, she felt a sense of pride rush through her, it had been so long since she’d put ink on anyone, she hoped her skill was still there, jokingly saying to Preacher last night she needed to use him as a guinea pig first.
Too late for that since her first client was due any second now.
What if she did his design wrong? She'd worked on the sketch for an hour last night and then again, this morning. What if he didn’t like it? The Renegade Souls men were not easy men to take a mistake lightly and not with something so permanent as ink in their skin.
Oh, god, now she was having a tiny meltdown.
She perspired a little and walked across her little windowless room to grab a water bottle, drinking half of it, she went through her steps in her mind of what she needed to do. She had this, she’d left college with her arts degree ... just barely ... life had been shitty back then, what was new, right? Bombing most of her classes to take care of Rita and her constant running melodrama she called her teenage life at the time, but she managed to scrape by with makeup tests, and rather than use it to get into some prestigious art school, or a museum, she’d showed her credentials to a local tattoo parlor for fast money, and was hired on a trial basis. Two years later, with enough money saved, she’d bought out his small shop when he wanted to retire to Florida. A year after that she had to sell it on to Big Si who still ran it.
Life was a kick in the balls like that, she was back where she started, on a lower rung than she had been, but rather than feel despondent about it, Ruby was excited to get her hands into something creative again.
A knock on the doorjamb reared her around, and she smiled at Snake who framed the entire entryway blocking out the light behind him.
“Come on in. I have everything ready. Do you want to take a second look at my sketch before I trace it out?”
“Sure, babe. But I trust you.”
Ruby was glad one of them had confidence in her. Strengthening her jittery shoulders, she thought of what Preacher had told her this morning; Ruby, you got this. Short, simple, true. She watched Snake strip the shirt over his head, popped-muscles and skin exposed, she was too busy whittling her lip to care he was half naked as she passed him the sketch he’d asked for and awaited his decision. "It's amazing, babe. I got no problems with it, and don't look so nervous, I trust Preacher's girl."
Preacher's girl. She gulped.
"That's good. But Armageddon was yesterday, today we have a serious problem." She smiled quoting one of her favorite movies. Snake laughed getting it. See, it was only Preacher man who was movie-lacking, one of these nights, when they weren't humping to death, she'd have to educate the man.
Four years out of the inking business. It was like riding a bike … right?
No time like the present to find out, she mused, taking a big bolstering breath and began mixing her inks into little pots.
******
Precis
ely ten minutes after he’d left the club compound, Texas stepped off his bike, it was an unseasonably sticky June day, every breath felt like he was sucking in honey, he sauntered towards the Shop N Go on South Logan Street. The very same store that was the location for Hades’ murder last year. He showed no outwards signs that it was anything other than a mom and pop store that sold beef jerky and titty-mags. A gruesome necessary act, Zara still wasn’t the same for it, for everything those Raging Rebels had put her through, and mind, Texas had only heard very few details, Rider not wanting to talk about his old lady’s ordeal, but he knew those men, knew what they were capable of, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to fathom what she’d endured. They were all glad Hades was dead.
Ironic though, that this meeting was taking place at the scene of the crime no one knew about except for those who wore the Renegade Souls patch.
The black SUV stood out like a sore thumb parked on the side of the road. Could he have looked more conspicuous, jackass?
The jackass in question was tall, Texas knew him to be exactly six-two, even as he leaned against the driver’s side of the car, dressed immaculately in a tailored slate gray suit and black loafers, the top two buttons on the white shirt was open, and Texas judged him for no tie. Who didn’t wear a tie with an eight-hundred-dollar suit? It was just bad dress sense.
“You look like a fucking cop waiting out here. Why not go the whole way and put on the flashing lights?” His tone clipped, eyes clocking just who was going in and out of the store, the last thing he wanted was for someone to recognize him.
“I am a fucking cop.” The man grinned some hundred-watt white toothpaste commercial smile.
“Really, Malachai, this was the best place to meet?”
“What? I was hungry. I grabbed a pizza pocket from inside, not bad, could do with more spice.”
“Right.” Texas inhaled and shifted on his feet, both gloved hands in his pockets. He wore gloves for every meeting, too goddamn many, he didn’t put anything past the ATF officer to want Texas’ fingerprints, it was bad enough he was wearing a noose tied around his neck.
