by Jc Emery
There’s noise from the crowd. Grady, the club’s sergeant at arms, is breaking up the fight. After a few choice words, he zeroes in on Nic. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I regret trying to figure it out the moment she eyes me on Duke’s bike and gives me that parental chin nod she’s been practicing, telling me to get off. I stand from my position on the bike and take a step forward to appease her. Shit. She’s not going to let this go later. She never lets anything go.
People are walking away from Diesel and Duke. Both men are heaving in anger just feet away from one another. Everybody seems to be disinterested in what’s happening now that Grady’s broken up the fun. Everybody but the skinny blonde with a bad attitude who vaguely resembles my sister who’s staring at Duke like he’s dying or some shit. Crap. I knew Nic had a thing for him, but she’s looking at him in a way I’ve never seen her look at anyone.
Content that her focus is elsewhere, I lower myself back against the bike and indulge in this feeling. Just leaning up against it, I feel powerful. It’s not very large, but this close I can see the small Forsaken symbol shining back at me from the top of the gas tank. The Nordic warrior isn’t a logo. It’s more than that. The warrior is powerful and fierce. He’s indestructible, and nobody fucks with him. At least that’s how I’ve always seen him. Placing my hand over the warrior, I let out a heavy sigh. If my dad was here, he’d tell me the warrior’s history. He’d make sure I understand what it means to be Forsaken and to be allowed to have this symbol on your bike. It means brotherhood. It means family. It means never having to be alone.
When I lift my head and meet eyes with Duke, I square my shoulders and try my best to not look like a fucking baby. We’ve always been cool, and I’m just admiring the detail work. He’ll understand that.
“Are you on my fucking bike?” he yells. His voice is deep and scratchy and so much fucking scarier than it’s ever been before. I keep my jaw set and try to keep my breathing steady as he unhooks his arm from around my sister’s waist and walks toward me.
Forsaken doesn’t like weakness, they don’t like mistakes, and they fucking hate apologies. So I don’t apologize, and I don’t move. I go for the truth, pat the gas tank, and say, “I like the paint job.”
“Off,” he says, gesturing for me to get off. “Before I break your fucking kneecaps.”
“Chill.” I don’t finish that comment with what I really want to say, which is a string of nonsensical curses mixed in with some good old-fashioned begging. Because, I remind myself, Duke won’t respect begging. As I push off the bike, the chain of my wallet clanks against the perfect black paint job. It startles me, and I move quickly—too quickly—causing a horrible fucking scratch on the gas tank. It all happens so fast, even though he’s moving really slowly, but the next thing I know he’s shoving me away from the bike and holding my shirt by its collar.
“You scratched,” he says, careful to enunciate every syllable, “my bike.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The time for respect is over, and now I’m well into pansy-ass begging mode.
“Sorry?” I say and hope I don’t sound like a total pussy, so I follow it up with a small smirk.
“You’re going to pay for this, shithead,” Duke says, roughly letting me go. I stumble backward, and when I look up, I find myself guarded by Nic. She’s standing in between me and Duke. His chest heaves a little lighter, but he doesn’t look at her. He grits out, “Move,” as he stares me down.
Gently, she moves toward him and places a hand on his chest as she says softly, “Please. We need to check your head.”
He shakes his head like he’s trying to fight against, her but he can’t. Those two are so fucking stupid for each other it makes me sick. She moves to his side and places her hand on his back. It’s a long moment that he stands there glaring at me. He’s practically breathing fire, and when I look at my sister, she’s not looking any more pleased with me. As fucked as it sounds, I feel like I have Mom and Dad staring me down and about to ground me. Which is weird because although Nic totally goes “mom” on me, it’s not like she and Duke are anything official.
He screams, “Fuck!” Then, in the meanest fucking voice I’ve ever heard, he says, “He’s lucky he’s your brother, or he’d be in the emergency room right now.” His eyes are on me, but the message is meant for Nic. She’s the only reason he’s not beating the shit out of me. And well, if that’s the case, I hope she does something nice for him later, like sucking his dick or letting him fuck her. Because under no circumstances do I ever, and I mean ever, want to piss him off that bad again. In one stupid, selfish moment, I lost all those months of trust and respect I’d built up with him. There’s no fucking way he’s ever going to trust me enough to approach the club about letting me prospect now.
Fuck.
From out of nowhere, Grady walks up and roughly grabs me by the back of my neck. I don’t breathe or move. I just stand here and pray he’s not as angry as his grip makes him seem.
“I’ll babysit while you two talk your shit out,” Grady says. The words slide from his tongue in a slither as the hand that’s wrapped around the back of my neck constricts, the tips of his fingers coiling around my throat. His dark brown hair is streaked with gray here and there, and he’s got lines around the edges of his eyes. Even though I’m sure he’s old as hell, his grip is still really fucking strong. Unfortunately, Grady is the least of my problems.
I scratched Duke’s bike—his fucking Harley—and with the way he’s looking now, I don’t know that he and I will ever be cool again. And I need us to be cool. His blue eyes are narrowed and one hundred percent focused on me. It’s almost more than I can bear. His shoulders heave dramatically as he struggles to suck in breath after breath. His pink, sun-kissed skin is now red from a lack of oxygen, and his jaw ticks with every sporadic breath he takes.
Standing beside Duke is my sister, Nic. We used to look alike once, but now her small frame and bleached blonde hair make it difficult to tell we’re related. Her lips are turned down in disapproval, but her green eyes show her worry. When I was a kid, I used to hate her eyes. I got my dark blue color from my dad and my shape from my mom. Nic has neither. Her eye color and shape were inherited from a man who never bothered to meet her. They’re just another fucking reminder of what my dad doesn’t acknowledge—that she’s not really his kid. Mom was a whore long before the club came along.
Like mother, like daughter, I guess.
The hand at my neck pulls me back from Duke and Nic. I stumble awkwardly, unable to keep my feet from following Grady ask he strides determinedly toward the clubhouse. My back twists with the effort to turn around so I can walk forward instead of being dragged backward, but Grady isn’t having any of it.
My steps falter as I make it into the room, trying to avoid looking like a fucking chump as much as I can. We’re halfway through the main room of the clubhouse, with Grady dragging me into one piece of furniture after another. My legs smack into wooden tables of all sizes and shapes, and I knock down chairs and am then forced to find a way over them despite the protruding legs that shoot into the air.
Sunlight streams into the room from the high windows that line the edge of the ceiling. They provide just enough natural light for me to avoid getting hit in the nuts by the leg of a haphazardly fallen chair. I’m too young for my junk to get damaged.
The door opens, welcoming the sounds of heavy boots on the concrete below. From the angle at which Grady is pulling me, I see their boots and worn jeans before I see their faces. First Wyatt enters, followed by Diesel. Neither man is smiling. Almost instantly their eyes find me. Diesel bares his teeth in a disturbing smile, but Wyatt’s expression remains flat. From the intensity of their gaze, I have no doubt that they’re coming for me. I’m smart enough to know how the club deals with crap like this but apparently stupid enough to have—accidentally or not—fucked with one of their bikes.
Grady rounds the corner into the game room at the back of the clubhouse. He
cuts the corner close to the wall, but I don’t realize how close until it’s too late and a sharp pain radiates from the side of my head and my shoulder blade. I grimace in discomfort. My left foot catches on the wall as I’m dragged into the game room. I lose my balance and fall backward onto the hard concrete floor. Grady finally lets go of my neck on my way down but doesn’t bother to move back. My head knocks into his knees, but it’s my tailbone that throbs. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to block out the world around me. The impact fucking hurt, and it’s not really getting any better.
A familiar laugh sounds from a distance. I can’t quite place who it is, and curiosity gets the best of me, so I open my eyes little by little. I’d rather not come face-to-face with any Forsaken. Pushing away the embarrassment at my reaction to the throbbing pain in my tailbone is a challenge. I want these guys to give me a chance to prospect one day, and that won’t happen if they think I’m a little bitch. I open my eyes a little more and hope to find that Wyatt and Diesel have something better to do than to fuck with me. I expect to be disappointed and find them feet away, with their arms folded over their chests, staring down at me in disapproval.
Blinking away the spots of light that partially blind my view, I struggle to see what’s in front of me clearly. Something is closer than I expect. I can feel its presence crowding my space, but it takes another moment to clearly see what’s in my way. Black hair atop pale skin with gray eyes and cracked lips. It’s Ryan, and he’s less than a foot away.
“Hey, asshole,” Ryan says with a large smile on his face. His breath smells like a combination of whiskey and something else I’d rather not try to place. It just fucking stinks. I let a scowl form on my face and bite back the comment that’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him to fuck off or to suck my dick. But I don’t. I’d rather deal with Grady—who I know to be a fair man—than Ryan, who I have on good authority is a fucking psychopath. Not that I think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Actually, I’ve been doing everything I can in the last year or so to show Ryan that I’m more than a punk kid with a big mouth. He seems to respect a strong personality, so that’s what I want to show him. Still, I don’t know that right now is the time to try to show him that.
Ryan stares at me with little to no emotion. It’s a long, insufferable moment before he raises an eyebrow and his lips spread into an awful smile. But it isn’t until he’s smiling so wide that he’s showing his teeth that I know I am really in for it.
I don’t see it coming, but the impact from the palm of his hand slamming into my cheek sends a stinging across my face. I try to block out the moment, but all I can think is that I just got bitch-slapped by Ryan. This is bad—really fucking bad. I try to scramble backward, looking for an out, but the back of my head and the top of my shoulders are stopped by Grady’s shins. His wavy hair hangs low, practically touching my forehead. The stench of alcohol and onions wafts over my face. Just once, I’d like for one of these guys to have fucking brushed their teeth before getting in my face. Like Ryan, Grady could really use a goddamn mint. Once again, he grabs ahold of my neck and stands slowly, pulling me up with him and bringing me to my feet.
Aware of how unsteady I am, I keep my back straight and bring my chin up just enough to show the men around me that I can handle the shit they’re dishing out. Even if I’m not entirely convinced they aren’t going to beat the shit out of me, I don’t want my fear to show. Ryan stands just as Grady pulls me backward, deeper into the room. With more distance between us, I’m able to see who else is in here with us. Sure enough, Diesel and Wyatt are standing with their arms crossed over their chests. I don’t know either well enough to judge the expressions on their faces. We’re in the center of the room right next to the pool table when Grady releases me. I take a deep breath and try to blow it out inconspicuously.
“You fucked up, kid,” Wyatt says. I say nothing as he looks me up and down. His left nostril lifts in disgust.
“Butch would be very displeased,” Diesel says with the shake of his head. I’m pretty fucking well aware that my dad wouldn’t approve of me scratching Duke’s bike. It doesn’t matter if it was an accident or if I did it on purpose. All that matters is that I fucked with something that belongs to Forsaken. Leaning against Duke’s bike was stupid. Right now I can’t even remember why I did it. Sometimes it feels like I can’t get anything right no matter how hard I try.
“What punishment do you think you should get?” Wyatt asks. Punishment? Fuck if I know. I’d like to say that this intimidation bullshit is enough, but I know better.
“We’re going to have fun, kid.” Ryan is smiling as the words come out of his mouth. I’ve never seen him smile this much before. It’s starting to freak me the fuck out.
Grady clears his throat, and I turn just slightly to wait for his admonishment but am surprised to find that he’s shaking his head. He says, “Down boy,” and his eyes slide over to Ryan.
Thanks to my sister and her big-mouth friend Chel, I know all about the trouble between Grady and Ryan. Apparently Ryan’s looking to get himself hooked up with some bitch they call Princess who ratted on her pops. If there is one thing I know about Grady, it’s that he is one by-the-book motherfucker. There’s a way you do things and there’s a way you don’t do things, and in Grady’s world, there’s little room open for interpretation of the “code of silence.” I wish I was smart enough to find a way to redirect Grady’s attention to Ryan and the beef they got going, but I can’t think of anything that won’t get my ass beat.
“You got any idea how bad you fucked up?” Ryan asks. Judging by the fact that I have four members of Forsaken staring me down like I’m dog shit, I think I have some clue. “Fucking answer me.”
I try to respond, but it’s more than a little difficult to get my vocal cords to cooperate. All I can think about is my dad and how he’d flip out whenever I fucked up. He would ask me all these questions he never intended for me to answer. It’s what you call a rectal question, or whatever you call it. Even when he’d demand an answer, he didn’t really want one and never gave me time to give him one. He just likes to yell—something he still does when he manages to stay out of the Hole long enough to get a phone call in, and unfortunately, my sister pretty much always rats me out.
“Yeah, I got it,” I mumble after some serious thought on the subject.
“Don’t think he gets it,” Diesel says. His voice booms in the ever-shrinking room.
“Nah, he don’t get it,” Wyatt grumbles.
“Give the boy a chance to prove it,” Grady says. His attention is still focused on Ryan. I thought these two weren’t getting along, but maybe I was wrong. “He’s been comin’ around for some time now, saying he’s man enough to wear the cut.”
“He’s just a kid,” Wyatt says in a huff.
“You were all just kids once.” The words come from a deep voice that’s familiar but I don’t quite place until I see Chief’s long black hair and broad shoulders. He moves into the room, and everybody grows silent. Grady, who is one scary motherfucker, seems to take a step back as he acknowledges Chief’s presence. If I didn’t already know Chief’s longstanding history in the club, I would be well aware of it now. According to my dad, Wyatt is vice president because he wanted the job. Chief could have had it, but it wasn’t his end game. Great power, great responsibility and all that shit.
“Fucked up, didn’t you?” he asks. His brow and jaw are relaxed. I remain silent, expecting this to be another one of those questions I’m not supposed to answer.
“Answer me,” he barks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Chief,” Ryan whines. I’m not talking about a manly whine—if there is such a thing—I’m talking about this full-on, high-pitched fucking whine. His brows furrow and he stomps his foot. Diesel snorts, but Wyatt and Grady both look annoyed at his antics. Only Chief doesn’t react.
“Fine,” he says. A small smirks appears in the corner of his mouth. My attention shifts to Ryan, who is smiling ful
l of teeth that look as though they’re growing sharper by the moment. He lunges forward with his right foot but stops suddenly. I make the mistake of jumping back quickly. Like a wild animal, the action spurs him on. Before I know it, he’s stepped forward with his left foot. It’s happening so fast that I’m not really thinking—just reacting—and I take several steps back.
“Let’s play a game—I catch you, you get to suck my dick,” Ryan says as he reaches out to grab ahold of me. Before I know it, I’m running away and he’s rushing after me. Chief, Grady, Diesel, and Wyatt move off to the side, watching me about to get the “privilege” of being mouth-raped. It’s likely a few minutes, but it feels like hours as we run in circles around the room. I make a pass by Diesel, who is smiling like a madman. I’m so focused on his face that I don’t see his foot sticking out in front of me. My palms slam against the concrete only a second before my knees do. I don’t have time to focus on the horrific pain traveling up from my knees to my hips, because Ryan hunches over me, wraps one hand around my throat and the other on my hip. I thought he was kidding about making me suck his dick, but now I’ve got my asshole clenched as tight as I can, fucking terrified that he’s more interested in my ass.
Ryan leans in close with his mouth to my ear when he whispers, “Call me Trigger,” and he shoves me to the pavement. As he walks away, the sound of his footsteps are drowned out by the echoes of the other men laughing heartily. I give myself a solid minute to regroup before I push up from the concrete. The chuckles subside, and in their place, hushed murmurs fall over the room.
“Hey, Chey,” Grady says. “What are you doing here?”
Brushing myself off and straightening my back, I turn toward Grady. Now is not the time for Cheyenne Grady to see me. Especially in the clubhouse. Her short, thin legs are covered in worn jeans and she’s wearing a pink-and-black flannel button-up on top. She’s cute, like really fucking cute. She’s the kind of cute that’s been giving me blue balls ever since I discovered that shit was good for more than just tugging on the damn things because I was bored. She runs a hand through her dark brown hair and lifts her chin in my direction.
