Where Souls Spoil

by Jc Emery

  “Look,” I say and lean toward her. Her entire left side presses against me. Her skin is so cold, and her nipples strain beneath the aged tee shirt. “We make the rules. If we decide that all we do is fuck, then that’s all we do. If we decide that you cook for me, then that’s what we do. There’re no fucking rules here, baby. The only rule is ‘you don’t fuck me over and I don’t fuck you over.’ That’s it.”

  She turns her head away from me. Raising her chin toward the ceiling, she says in a much harder voice, “But you did fuck me over. You fucked me over, you humiliated me, and you’re acting like it’s on me to do better.”

  “Clean slate, babe. I fucked up, I get that, but we gotta move past that shit.”

  “No,” she says getting loud as fuck right in my ear. “Fuck that, and fuck you. You wanna be my man, you need to do better. You wanna call the shots and take care of shit in my life, then show me that you can. Buckle up, dude, and quit puttin’ that shit on me. You fucked up, and I moved on.”

  “I am your man,” I say, taking her face in my hands and forcing her to keep her attention focused on me. Buckle up, she said and it’s like sitting in church and listening to her dad tell us to stop being pussies. Buckle up, he’d say, and we’d listen because Butch wasn’t one for casual chitchat. He spoke and we fucking listened. Which reminds me, I need to get word to Butch about me and Nic. I can’t visit him myself because of my record, and we don’t put club business down on paper, but as a brother, he’s got to know I’m making his daughter my Old Lady. It’s only right.

  “No,” she says. “No man of mine hurts me that badly. No man of mine fucks a filthy whore like that when he knows I can see him. That does not happen. So no, you’re not my man.” Her words twist in my gut, making me feel like a fucking loser. I have to do better for her and by her. Short of fucking up club business, fucking up by not taking care of your woman is a big fucking problem. Rage, Jim’s dad and our previous charter president, had a zero tolerance policy for failing at being a man.

  “I’m going to do better by you, going to take care of you,” I say, placing a kiss to her forehead.

  “And for how long? When does this expire?”

  The blow is small, but it feels like a shrapnel bomb that goes off, leaving tiny little splinters all over my flesh. Her once soft body turns rigid, and she pulls away. I don’t fight it, but let her stand and then cross the room. She’s like a cat—territorial and guarded. Resuming her place in front of the sink, she folds her arms over her chest. I stand from my seat and concede that we’re not going to get anywhere today. She doesn’t need bullshit apologies, she just needs me to be here and prove her wrong.

  To my left is the refrigerator, which is near the gas range, and adjacent to the sink, where Nic’s standing. I stand and walk to the fridge where I open the door, expecting to find it a little light on groceries, but totally unprepared for what I find. There’s a mostly empty jar of pickle juice in the door and half a stick of margarine in the butter compartment. There are no eggs or bacon, or even sausages. In a package that expired a week ago, there’s a few tortillas and some mostly empty condiment containers. There’s no milk or soda and not a single fucking beer—which is just blasphemy. A few other items are strewn about in the fridge, but nothing that could create anything edible. The freezer isn’t much better. There are a few bags of frozen vegetables and a gelato carton that’s growing freezer burn on the container.

  Shooting Nic a skeptical glance, I find that she’s not even looking my way. She hops lightly on one foot and then trades off, hopping on the other. Rifling through the cupboards doesn’t produce much more than the fridge or the freezer did. I’ve spent enough time watching her, and knowing her habits, to know that she doesn’t do blow, but she’s so fucking skinny she looks like she does lines for breakfast. Fuck. How bad is my girl hurting that she’s a goddamn twig and has no food in the house? Doesn’t matter that I ain’t been in this house in years—she deserves better, and I should have known she needed help. This shit isn’t just on my shoulders. The entire club’s failed my girl, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to get right with that. We take care of our own and we take the risks we do, doing the shit we do, to make sure we can do that. But this? None of us are good enough for Butch’s girl, and if he knew, he’d have every right to call an officer challenge if he had a vote right now.

  “When’s the last time you went to the store?” I ask in a tone that comes across closer to judgment than I intend for it to.

  “I’m going to pick up a few things later,” she says and huffs.

  “Tell me you normally have more food in this house?”

  “Yeah, but Jeremy eats everything in sight,” she says and shifts on her feet again. It’s a nervous habit she’s had since high school.

  “So let’s go now,” I say and look over her bare legs and up to her face.

  “I said I will later,” she snaps. Placing her hands on the counter behind her, the shirt lifts up, showing off the curve of her inner thigh.

  “I don’t got Church until later. I got time,” I say. For some reason, I think this is going to rectify the problem. For some reason, I think she’s telling me we don’t have time. But she’s not. There’s something I’m missing here, and it’s upsetting her. Nic’s not a crier like Alex is. I swear, every time I turn around Princess is trying to stop herself from crying. Nic’s more like a proud, wounded bird. My eyes focus on the little robin on her wrist once again. She may be hurting, but she damn sure won’t let you see her sweat about it, much less cry.

  “Well, I don’t and I’m not doing any shopping, so…” She trails off. I take a deep breath as the frustration builds. Trying not to snap at her and her steadfast refusal to go grocery shopping, which I know has not one fucking thing to do with not needing food in this house and everything to do with something else, I close my eyes for a second. Once I open them, I stomp forward and lean over her, placing my hands on the countertop on the sides of hers.

  “You really don’t wanna go grocery shopping with me?” I ask. She steels herself then peers up at me, a fire blazing in her eyes.

  “I’m not going shopping right now,” she says, squaring her shoulders. Looking down at her, I bend and grip the back of her upper thighs and pull her ass up onto the counter.

  “Tell me no and I’ll stop,” I say hoarsely. She doesn’t say anything. She just bites her lip and leans into me and slides my zipper down, pulling out my dick. I smash my lips against hers and start dry fucking her pussy through her panties. My hands travel up her shirt and slip under her panties and kneed her ass.

  “Condom?” I grunt, pulling away from her mouth. She kisses my neck then nips at my ear.

  Whispering, she says, “Bathroom.” Pulling her off the counter and holding onto her tight, I walk up through the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. The door is open and when I walk us in, Nic reaches out and shuts it behind us. The second the door’s closed, we’re grabbing at each other and yanking clothes off like we’ve been deprived of this for a fucking century, and not just a week. She fiddles with a drawer to her left and yanks out a handful of condoms and drops them on the counter. Once we’re totally unclothed, I grab her face and fuck her mouth with my tongue. Her hands fight with the plastic wrapper of the condom. She barely gets the damn thing on my dick before I’m thrusting inside of her. We both come quick and hard. Our bodies are covered in sweat, and we’re panting like a pair of dying animals.

  When I pull out, I yank off the condom without even looking and keep my attention on Nic. She stretches and climbs off the counter then reaches into the shower and gives me a perfect view of her naked ass. Walking up behind her, I pull her to me and take my half-hard dick in my hand and grip her hip as I run my dick along her swollen pussy. Testing the waters, I kick her legs apart just enough to expose her completely to me, and press myself into her slick core. She moans and grips the wall in front of her and pushes back at me, plunging me deeper. After the last time I rode her
bare, I shouldn’t be so stupid, but I can’t help myself. I hate wearing a rubber, and she’s just so hot and tight and wet. So fuck it. I ride her bare and hard, and I regret nothing, not even when she says, “Fuck, you’re so big this way,” and I come sooner than I intend, do I think this is a bad fucking idea. Because now that I’ve felt my girl bare, I’m not going back.

  An hour later, we’re on our way to the grocery store in her car after we shower properly. Even me asking her if she’ll suck my dick doesn’t ruin the mood, even though she laughs at me and says, “Not just no, but hell no.”

  The car is definitely in need of some repairs, but I have to wait until she’s not paying attention to get it into the shop where most of my better tools are. She’s been offered and has refused enough help in the past that I know better than to outright tell her I’m going to fix it.

  Two hours later, we’ve been up and down every aisle in the grocery store. I’m told that they don’t need peanut butter and then when I insist, I’m told that I grabbed the wrong kind. As it turns out, the wrong kind is the expensive kind. And that’s when I finally clue the fuck in. The cupboards are bare and the fridge is empty because she’s between paydays. I don’t need the specifics to have figured it out. I grew up dirt poor and remember the lean days between paychecks well. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to hook up with the club so badly. I didn’t want to feel that fucking low ever again. But looking around at Nic’s house, how everything is near falling apart—including her—I feel the first slight bit of shame I have in a while. Nic belongs to Forsaken. Her well-being is our responsibility, and if this is how she’s living then we’re fucking failing at our job. So halfway through the store, we start all over again, and when she bitches I tell her to shut the fuck up. It’s the only thing I can say that actually does get her to shut up. Still, we fight over who’s going to pay the bill even though we both know she can’t afford it. And I win because the cashier fears my patch, but not Nic’s bitching.

  And four hours later, after I took a much-needed nap on the couch and fixed myself a sandwich—because despite the fresh supplies the woman still won’t fucking feed me—it’s time I head out. I still haven’t seen her shithead brother, but I have to go because it’ll be time for Church soon. After spending the last few hours with Nic, the last thing I want to do is walk away now, but I have to. Soon though, she will be asking me to stay, not eagerly walking me to the door like she is now. When the door shuts, I walk to my bike and start her up then head for the piece of shit place that Ryan and I share, leaving behind a place that once was a very happy home.

  Chapter 12

  This shit with Princess is turning the club sideways. The guys haven’t said too much to Trigger because they’re still trying to figure him out. Plus, it’s not like he’s ever been Mary fucking Sunshine. We’ve just never had something like this happen before—a member hooking up with a chick the club doesn’t approve of. I mean, Grady’s wife’s got a bad meth problem that’s fucking up his life royal right now. The club hasn’t said shit about her. Nor have they said a goddamn word about any of the fucked up bitches Diesel brings into the fold—and he’s got those hoes on rotation. They’re not even permanent.

  But what Alex did? That shit is something else. Princess sold her dad out like he was nothing to her, and maybe he was, but still. She ratted on her fucking family. I get the situation she was in—having to choose her brother or her father—and I get why she chose her brother, but fuck. No amount of shared breakfasts and snarky conversation is going to let me forget that. She’s a rat, and as much as I wish she wasn’t, it’s the way the club defines her now. Silence is a big fucking deal around here, and she couldn’t manage it. And seeing how twisted up Trigger is over her makes us all nervous.

  We have to be able to trust a guy’s judgment because he’s the guy next to any one of us, fighting for us. His head being fucked like this, and he could start justifying that shit she pulled. Then we lose a brother, and that kind of fracture can pull a charter under. At this point, I couldn’t give a shit about Trigger being with Princess. Not really, anyway. I’m just tired of talking about it, and as much as I think it’s a bad fucking idea, it’s not my choice to make. Besides, with the way Princess tunes into his every move, I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep her away from him.

  Sitting down in my seat across from Ian, the club’s treasurer, I survey the room. Ever since we voted on the trip to Brooklyn, Jim’s made it mandatory to be armed at all times, even in church. Being at the table with my piece is odd as hell, and I can’t say I’m not on edge because of it. Every single one of our guys looks grouchy as fuck. This is going to be fun. Slowly, the guys filter in. When Ryan drops his moody ass into the seat beside Ian, I turn away. The tension in the room is high, and we all know what we’re here to talk about: Princess.

  It’s total bullshit that Grady’s making this a fucking thing, but he is. He worries what kind of heat Princess is going to bring the club. If he weren’t a senior officer, I’d tell him to suck his own dick. We’re already in deep where Princess is concerned, so what does it fucking matter if Trigger gets in deeper? It fucking doesn’t, that’s what. If he thinks Ryan is going to wait for his approval to talk club business with Princess, he’s dead wrong. It’s the way shit goes, and any motherfucker who says he doesn’t talk club business with his woman is a bitch ass liar. Shit was different before she got here, but now that she’s here and making friends, it’s time to let this crap go.

  It feels like it takes for fucking ever for the guys to get their sorry fucking asses in their seats. When Jim finally slams the gavel into the wooden table, I’m tense as all get out. Jim clears his throat and leans forward in his chair. “We’ve never had a situation like this before—this shit we’re dealing with about Alex. I thank you again for doing what you do for this club and for each other. I’m just sorry that we feel we have to do this.”

  Jim ain’t even that old, but he sounds just like his old man when he gets going like this. Back in the day when Ryan and I were kids and Rage ran things, we would find a corner to hide in and listen in on Church. It was a big deal that we never got caught—which brings up concerns over lack of adequate security—but back then we thought we were the shit for pulling it off. Rage used to speak with the same slow manner during Church that Jim does now. That family has some seriously strong genes. When Jim was my age, he looked almost exactly like Ryan, and Rage looked how Jim does now. Come to think of it, maybe if we just showed Alex a picture of what awaits her years down the road, she’d pack up her little crush for good and we could call it a day.

  “Forsaken Old Ladies have always been what keeps us from killing each other. Our women know our secrets and our troubles. They know our dirt, and they love us anyway. Shit, Ruby’s gotten more dirt on her hands on behalf of this club than half of you bitches have. Our women trust us to get our shit done, and they expect us to call on them if need be. But that can only happen if we can trust them. Some members have come to me, concerned because they don’t really think Alex can be trusted and they worry how deep Trigger’s getting with her.”

  “She can be trusted,” Ryan mutters. He blows out a deep breath and shakes his head. “Do we all have a bunch of fucking pussies or something? We’re grown fucking men sitting around talking about relationships and shit?”

  Grady’s chair scrapes as he pushes it back a few inches then looks down the table to his left, meeting Ryan’s eyes. Everything seems all calm and controlled now, but one wrong move or one wrong word and any of these guys are likely to pull their gun.

  “Some of us question your judgment,” Grady says to Ryan. It was Jim’s time to talk, but it looks like that’s over now. The club’s taking the floor.

  “I’ve been questioning your judgment for a long fucking time,” Trigger says back.

  “You might want to explain that one, brother,” Grady says, drawing the words out.

  “It means that you can’t keep the mother of your kid
off the glass pipe, so I don’t know what fucking business you have worrying about me and mine,” Trigger bites back. And just like that, the shit has hit the fan.

  Grady shoves his chair back and stands up. Ian moves backward quickly to avoid being the meat in a knuckle sandwich. And Trigger—he just fucking sits there and very slowly turns toward Grady. Standing, Ryan looks relaxed. He always does just before he’s about to fuck somebody up. I don’t know that he even can fuck Grady up, but it looks like he’s damn determined to try.

  “Sit down,” Jim says firmly, but neither man moves.

  “This ain’t your business, Pres,” Grady says, using his nickname for Jim. Very slowly, he reaches behind his back and wraps his hand around his pistol. Fuck. And this shit is why we don’t bring guns into Church. The once quiet room erupts into a cacophony of sound as the entire table pushes their chairs back and draws their weapons at the same time. Trigger pulls his piece, and, when his eyes focus in on Grady, they widen just slightly. I’m so distracted by everybody else’s reactions that it takes me an extra second to stand and draw my piece, but when I do, I got Trigger in my sights. He’s wild as fuck, and even though I don’t think he’d shoot Grady, I’m not sure I know him as well as I thought I did. Best friend or not, shooting another patched member is a fucking death wish—especially doing it in Church. Fuck Jim and his fucking call that we need to be at the ready in case Mancuso shows up.

  At least if I lay Trigger down, I know it’ll be quick. One of these other fuckers shoots him and he might bleed out on the floor for a couple of minutes before he finally passes, and I don’t want that kind of suffering for him.

  “Put down the gun, Trigger,” I say in warning. His eyes slide toward me for half a second before returning back to Grady. He shakes his head.

  “Fuck you,” he spits. “Everybody else wants to give me shit, but they don’t like it when it’s thrown back at them.”