DIESEL DADDY

by Naomi West

  My eyes darted around the room, moving from caged girl to caged girl, each of them staring at me, each with a gag stuffed in her mouth.

  “Here’s the deal, young lady,” said the woman, cocking her hips to the side and placing her hands on her waist as she looked me over. “I’ll say it blunt-like: you’re not a free person anymore.”

  “What?” I asked.

  The words sounded strange to me; they didn’t make any sense.

  “Am I … under arrest?”

  The woman let out a bark of a laugh, the two younger girls smiling at her side.

  “See?” she said, pointing to me. “Didn’t I tell you two that’s what she’d say? That’s always what they ask. They want to know if they’re in jail; they just can’t imagine that anything but the damn police could take away their freedom.”

  She turned her eyes back to me.

  “No, cutie pie, you’re not under arrest. But as of now, you’re property. Actually, let me rephrase that: as of tonight, you’ll be property.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, still pleading.

  The woman said nothing, instead backing away from me and looking me over.

  “Pick her up and tie her to the pole.”

  The two girls moved to my side, each grabbing me hard by an arm. They pulled me off the chair and moved me over to a nearby pole that connected from the floor to the ceiling. One of the girls opened a segment of the pole that allowed her to move my hands over it. She shut the segment, and I was now stuck in place.

  “Come over her and give her a look over,” said the woman.

  The two girls moved to her side.

  “Well?” she asked. “Tell me what you think.”

  The girl on the left looked me up and down, her eyes narrowed.

  “I think she’s pretty,” she said. “Very pretty.”

  “Well, all the girls here are pretty,” the middle woman said. “That’s why we got ’em. I need more than that.”

  The first girl cleared her throat and looked momentarily frazzled.

  “Um, well, she has great hair.”

  She then walked over to me, grabbed a handful of my hair, and looked carefully at my scalp

  “No roots; she’s a real blonde.”

  “Real blonde,” said the middle woman. “That’ll add a few thousand to her going price.”

  My what?

  The second girl stepped over and stared at my face like she was one of those people whose job it was to confirm that paintings weren’t forgeries.

  “Doesn’t look like she’s had any work done, either,” she said. “Very natural, pretty face. I love those lips; plenty of women would pay tons to have full lips like those.”

  “Anything else?” asked the middle woman. “She does have a body, you know.”

  The woman in front of me closed her eyes and nodded, as if remembering something she’d forgotten. Then, to my shock, she slipped her hand up my shirt, under my bra, and grabbed onto one of my breasts, giving it a firm squeeze like a cantaloupe at the grocery store.

  “Wow,” she said. “Real breasts.”

  “I would’ve sworn those were fake,” said the second girl, taking a squeeze of her own, her fingers grazing my nipple.

  The second girl pulled up my shirt and looked at my midsection.

  “Not a drop of fat on her,” she said.

  The two girls then returned to the middle woman’s side.

  “Well?” asked the middle woman. “What’s the verdict?”

  “She’s stunning,” said the second girl. “I think she’ll be one of our top offerings this evening.”

  I was still so confused as to what was happening. Why were they referring to me as “merchandise”? Why were they talking about getting a price for me? They’d mentioned an auction … is that what this was?

  “You know, I think I agree,” said the middle woman, scanning me hard one last time. “I think she’ll be one of our most coveted girls this evening. Send the boys into a bidding frenzy.”

  Having seen all she needed, the woman then turned around and began walking towards the door she’d come in from.

  “Okay,” she said. “Put her away. We got a long night ahead and Mama needs a drink.”

  With that, the two girls removed me from the pole and led me to one of the free cages. One of them opened the door and the other tossed me in. Once I was inside, the girls shut the door and both of them took one last sneering look at me, as if to flaunt the fact that they were free and I wasn’t.

  Soon they were gone, and it was just me and the other girls, all of us exchanging the same wide-eyed look of confusion and fear.

  Chapter Three

  Tank

  “Goddamn!” Cruiser said, looking at the cut on my arm, a long slice that cut red and straight into my tricep. “The fucker got me!”

  “Quit being such a pussy,” I said, rolling the whiskey around in my glass and preparing to knock it out in one swig. “That’s a fucking flesh wound if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “No way, man,” said Cruiser, dabbing at the cut with a wad of cocktail napkins. “That shithead came at me with a goddamn steak knife; if I wasn’t so damn good on my feet he might’ve snuffed my ass out right there in that diner.”

  “Well,” I said, “don’t pick fights with roughneck truckers if you don’t wanna risk bleeding out on a linoleum floor while waitresses look down at you.”

  “Man, I’m telling you,” said Cruiser, banging his fist on the bar, the thud so loud it drowned out for a second the rock music blaring over the speakers, “he’s the one who started it.”

  “‘Mo-om,” said Ripper, one of the other brothers in the Warhawks, the motorcycle club I’d founded and served as president of; his voice was mocking, his mouth in a wide smile, “he started it.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” said Cruiser, tossing the wad of cocktail napkins at cruiser, the blood-dabbed sheaves flying every which way.

  It was later in the day. Me and the rest of the boys were celebrating our fight at the diner. It wasn’t really clear just who’d won since we’d had to book it before the cops showed up, so we couldn’t really celebrate that. But a fight was a fight, and me and the rest of the boys didn’t really need much of an excuse to get the drinking started. I was at the bar keeping an eye on things. The rest of the guys were here and there, playing pool, downing shots, and carrying on.

  “We oughta go back there, Tank,” said Cruiser, standing up as if he was ready to track those truckers down right then and there. “I’m telling you; I’ll fuck them all up myself.”

  I shifted in my seat and faced him. Cruiser stood tall and bulky, his frame an even mixture of fat and muscle. He was an old-fashioned MC bruiser with a hulking physique and a pug-ugly face that had come out of the womb looking rough and only got worse after decades of fighting. His wide nostrils were flared; he reminded me of a snorting, pissed-off warthog. And he was just as bald and ugly as one.

  “Have some more whiskey and calm it down,” I said.

  I knew he was pretty much all talk, but Cruiser was always itching for a fight. I wouldn’t put it past him to throw his drunk ass right back on his bike and head down to that diner to see what other kind of trouble he could get into.

  Cruiser took my advice, plopping back into his seat, ordering another shot, and downing it as soon as it was put in front of him.

  “You excited for tonight?” asked Ripper, sipping his tall glass of beer.

  “Fuck yeah, I am,” I said. “Why the hell you think I’m not getting fucked up right now?”

  “I gotcha,” said Cruiser, nodding knowingly. “Pacing yourself—not a bad idea.”

  “Take a look at these clowns,” I said jokingly, gesturing to the rest of my crew. “We got a few hours still and they’re already getting shitty-wasted. Not the best situation for being a shrewd bidder, you know?”

  “That’s why you’re the boss,” said Cruiser, slapping me on the back and taking another long sip of his beer.


  Tonight was the big auction, and I was fucking excited. Every year one of the crews was tasked with scoping the region for the choicest fresh meat, snatching them up off the street and getting them dolled up real nice for us. Then the rest of the MCs get together and had ourselves a little bidding war. And I was ready. Last year I’d had my eye on a little brunette piece from West Palm Beach that the Stone Masons had brought in. Fuck, she’d been a goddamn looker. So hot, in fact, that I’d saved all my money just to bid on her.

  Little did I know, Fang from the Jackknifes had his eye on her too. After the bidding war to end all bidding wars, he came out on top, but just barely. See, I had my finances tied up in a gun-running operation that I and the rest of the boys had been planning. So, once my limit was hit, Fang walked away with the prize and I was empty-handed. Last I’d heard, Fang still had the chick—got her real good and turned-out. He wouldn’t give me much in the way of details, but from the little shit-eating smirk he’d get on his face whenever I’d ask him about her, I got the distinct impression that she was taking real good care of him.

  This year was gonna be different. The gun-running operation that year had put a shitload of money into the Warhawk’s nest egg, not to mention paying off pretty goddamn nice for my own accounts. And the rest of the year had been a real banner one. The money from the gun running had allowed us to finance more operations, even giving us the scratch to invest in some more legitimate ventures, like real estate. Things were paying off real nice for us, and I was well on the way to making the Warhawks one of the most powerful MCs in the whole fucking state. I’d even bought a swanky new pad outside of Orlando.

  And tonight, we were gonna celebrate our kick-ass year. I wasn’t planning on getting outbid—no fucking way.

  As I sipped my whiskey, letting the booze play in my mouth, I thought back on the diner fight. I’d known my boys could handle a few beer-bellied trucker, so I’d mostly kept back, making sure that no one got too crazy—not to mention making sure that we were long gone if cops showed up. And while I was watching the fight, I happened to spot a real sexy little number just sitting there by herself in one of the booths. Really sexy. She had straw-blonde hair, eyes as green as a grassy field, nice full tits, and big, pillowy lips that just begged you to think about them wrapped just what you wanted them to be wrapped around. We made eye contact, but she was out of there by the time the fight was wrapped up. I asked her waitress if she knew anything about her, and all she told me was that the fucking girl had run out on her check. Pretty damn funny, if you asked me. Well, I had a soft spot for working girls so I slipped the waitress a hundred and told her that I’d let the girl know that I was covering her meal.

  Well, the girl from the diner might’ve been long gone, but she’d left me with a hunger. I’d have to keep my eyes open for a blonde tonight so I could scratch this particular itch. A real blonde, too—not one of those fake types.

  I checked the time and saw that the evening was getting on. We had an hour’s drive ahead of us, so we needed to get a move if we wanted some primo seats at the auction. I slammed my whiskey, settled up the tab for me and my boys, and called out over the music and commotion for them to finish up and get ready to move out.

  Ten minutes later, the Warhawks were on the move. I drove at the front of the pack, the boys behind me following close. Riding like this was what it was all about—just me, the wind, and my boys at my back.

  But as I rode, the girl from the diner kept popping into my head.

  Goddamn, I thought, my eyes straight ahead on the road. Why can’t I shake this fucking girl?

  I mean, I’d been busy, so it’d been a solid week since I last fucked, but that couldn’t explain why this girl kept popping into my head. It was the same image, too: the girl sitting there in the both, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her sexy eyes scanning the place before making contact with mine. Something about her made me want to just grab her, throw her over my shoulder, and claim her right then and there. And there was more to it, like I could sense that the girl was lost in the world and needed someone to watch out for her.

  I shook these thoughts from my mind. Women were for one thing, I reminded myself, and once they started trying to get more from you then it was time to move on. Letting some girl with big Disney eyes distract you from your mission was chump move number one.

  A little while later, the boys and I arrived at the big warehouse outside of Orlando where the auction was being held this year. Dozens, if not a hundred or more bikes were parked outside of the place, the endless stretch of chrome catching the moonlight above. Rock music thumped through the ground, signaling that the party was on. I pointed the boys to an open patch of land and we all parked. Soon after we were heading through the main doors of the warehouse, ready for a hell of a night.

  We strolled into the warehouse like kings. A party was already well underway, and it was the rager to end all ragers. Beer flowed, girls danced on poles, and a band was banging out thrashing rock music.

  It was my kind of scene.

  After grabbed a beer—that most important first step in any party—I made my way around the place, my boys following me in a tight knot. The lesser Florida MCs recognized us right away and spread out of our way as we made a long loop around the place. I couldn’t help but laugh as I noticed the fights already breaking out; some boys just couldn’t handle their liquor.

  Although I fucking hated to admit it, networking was essential at get-togethers like this. The auctions weren’t just about buying pussy—they were about seeing faces that you’d lost track of, making deals, and forging alliances. And through the crowd, I spotted the man that I knew I needed to see, the man whose arms merchandise had resulted in the booming year that the Warhawks had enjoyed.

  “Dakin!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the crowd.

  Dakin looked up from the girl he was laying game down on. He scanned the nearby crowd with hawk-like eyes, as though unsure if he was being called by a friendly face or someone announcing just who they were about to kill. A little paranoid, but when you were in the weapons game, you couldn’t be too careful.

  He spotted me among the crowd and knew right away it was me calling him. His hostile expression softened and changed into a friendlier one, though I had to admit with that mane of hair and wild beard, it was sometimes hard to tell.

  “There’s the fuckin’ man of the hour!” he shouted, striding through the crowd and locking me in a quick, back-slapping hug. “You ready for the primo pussy?”

  “After you blew me out last year?” I asked, a smile on my face. “You better fuckin’ believe. No way I’m gonna let you steal the best ass from under me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder one more time.

  Dakin had been a stand-up guy so far, but something about him just put me on edge. In my dealings with him he’d shown himself to be a shrewd businessman with a calculating mind. Ruthless as hell, too—once I’d seen him put a round right through the forehead of some chump who tried to shaft him out of a few thousand during a gun-running deal. One minute, Dakin was counting the cash, the next second a bang sounded out and Dakin was standing over the buyer’s corpse, his pistol smoking in his hand. No two thoughts about it. I knew right then and there that he wasn’t the type to fuck with. I mean, you didn’t get far in this business without being cold, but Dakin struck me as the kind of guy who’d slit his momma’s throat for a nickel.

  But business with him had been good so far. For the time being, I was on his good side. And I aimed to keep it that way until our dealings were done.

  “How you been?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Just bought some new property outside of Gainesville; perfect little spot out in the middle of nowhere; thinking of using it for business. Maybe some partying here and there.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Got it for real cheap,” said one of Dakin’s goons, some ugly sonofabitch with a bald head and a crisscross of sc
ars on his cheek.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  Like I said, I’d been getting into some legitimate ventures here and there, and real estate was one place where it was hard to go wrong. Like they say: God ain’t making any more land.

  “Yup,” said Dakin. “Some chick’s grandma died and let her mortgage go to shit. Picked it right up for dirt cheap.”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded. Maybe not my preferred way of doing things, but I had to respect the hustle. Just like I said, Dakin was a cold, analytical businessman through and through. If he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth he’d probably have been taking over New York—same attitude, just a different outfit, if you know what I mean.