by Jc Emery
Duke turns his head toward me and takes a pull of his beer, completely ignoring the bitch in front of him. Noticing his diverted attention, she faces me with a smile. Her lipstick has half worn off, and her eye makeup is smudged. She’s one of the nastier bitches I’ve had around my dick, but she was so persistent. I’m a gentleman—I hate to turn a lady down.
“Ryan,” she says with a purr, turning to face me. She places one hand on her hip, just above the top of her jeans, and cocks her head. Her tits still look like something I’d like to suck on, but she’s one stupid bitch. She already tried to convince me to ride her bare once. I ain’t going down that rabbit hole again. Still, looking at her, I think I’m going to need to find a way to release some tension.
“Who’s here?” I ask her. Her smile falls, likely realizing I’m not up for fucking her a second time.
“Chel’s in the palace,” she says in irritation. I grin at her, feeling like it’s my lucky day. As I pass, I gently give one of her tits a pat—a show of appreciation for the work she’s had done—and veer off to the right, down the main hallway to the palace, which is the second door on the left. Inside, the walls are painted black on three sides with a floor to ceiling mirror covering the entire fourth wall. Two long couches face three evenly spaced stripper poles which are bolted in place.
Curled up on the corner of one of the couches is Chel. As per club instruction, she’s wearing as little clothing as possible—cut-off jeans shorts, a midriff-bearing tank, and sandals. Her fake tan looks fresh, but the dye job she’s got on her bright red hair needs a touch-up. Without thinking twice about it, I pull two hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and toss them on the book in her lap. A screech flies out of her mouth as she looks up at me. Her face is free of make-up, with the exception of the cherry-red lipstick that’s painted perfectly on her lips. The lack of make-up makes her facial piercings—a nose stud and an eyebrow ring—less obvious against her pale skin.
“Ryan,” she says with a smile on both her face and in her voice. She gathers the bills in her hands and waves them at me. “What’s this for?”
“Get your hair done.” I hate when she does this shit. She knows I don’t give a fuck what she uses the money on. “Or your nails. Buy a dildo. I don’t fucking care.” She lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head at me.
“The club does enough. You know how I feel about the extras.” She reaches her hand out, offering the money back. I shake my head and bend down, tossing her textbook on the floor. She always does this, and I always persist, so I don’t know why she keeps fronting. We’ve told her time and time again that the club takes care of our own, and as far as we’re concerned, she belongs with us. After the shit she’s been through, and with a kid no less, Forsaken makes sure she gets what she needs.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you suck my dick as a thank you,” I say, smirking. She purses her lips and crawls forward. With her legs tucked underneath her ass, she grasps the front of my jeans and pulls me closer. Her expert fingers work the button of my fly and then slide down the zipper. She takes her time rubbing her hands along my hardening shaft as she kisses the V between my hips. I throw my head back and close my eyes. In my mind her bright red hair darkens and grows longer—down to her mid-back. Her green eyes become dark brown ones, and her flat, button-nose morphs into a sweeping curve. She frees my hard dick from my boxers and just as the rush of having her lips on my cock overtakes me, she’s no longer the willing Lost Girl. She turns into my Cub, all spitfire and sass. In my head, Cub tells me she’s sucking my dick because she wants me to feel good, but not because she has to.
Just as Chel takes me in to the back of her throat, my fantasy is cut-off by the disturbingly loud alarm ringtone coming from my cellphone. I try to ignore it as Chel works her magic, but I can’t. It’s Cub’s ringtone, and she might be in trouble. Worried, I pull my phone out of my pocket with my right hand, and use my left hand to keep Michelle where she is. It’s just a phone call; I can multi-task. I slide the bar on the screen and bring it to my ear.
“What’s up?” I ask, almost calling her Cub. She has no clue, nor does she need to know that we call her that. She’ll just get all girly and start thinking it means shit it don’t.
“Where did you go?” she asks, huffing. Suddenly, I can see a future I might have had, had Pop not laid it out for me. I leave the house, and she huffs. It doesn’t matter how hot and sassy she can be, she’s a chick just like the rest of them—wanting to chop off my balls and carry them in her purse. I should probably buy Pop a fucking beer for saving my ass from that shit. Had things gone on long enough, I might have chopped ‘em off and given ‘em to her myself.
“We got Church tonight. What’s wrong?” My tone is icy and I know it, but I’m not fucking around. If Squat fucked up, he’ll be dead by midnight.
“Nothing,” she whispers, her voice cowering under my snap. I look down, realizing that Chel’s stopped her ministrations, which just aggravates me further. I tighten the grip I have on her head, but her hand comes up and taps out on my hip. I blow out a heavy breath and let her go.
“What do you mean, nothing?” I say. “Do you got a problem or not?” I mouth ‘what the fuck’ at Chel, who just shakes her head and sits back on the couch, wiping the spit off her lips. My dick is still hard as hell, and it’s got nowhere to go.
“Everybody left,” she says, using that small voice I can’t stand. “I mean, Ruby’s here. Squat’s outside. But Jim and Ian—they left.” Fuck. She sounds helpless and scared—both of which flip some kind of switch in me and simultaneously piss me off and freak me out.
“You’re not alone. We got Squat, Dunce, and Rink on the house. You’re fine.”
“What if they come while you guys are gone?” she says. This clingy thing she’s doing is new. I’m conflicted—one on hand, I feel needed; wanted even. On the other hand, I don’t know what to think.
“They’re not coming while we’re gone. Shit, you’re safe. You’re fine. Ma’s got more years’ experience with a gun that I have on this planet. If you’re scared, go talk to her. Spend time with her. It won’t kill you. Promise.”
A muffled sob breaks out on the other line. Rubbing my temple with my left hand and gripping the phone tightly with my right, I count back from one hundred. I have Church in a few minutes and can’t be running off, but something has her freaking out, which is making me worry. The last thing I need to do when my dick is trying for some relief is to be worrying about Cub.
Snapping my fingers, I motion for Chel to hand me her phone. When she does, I type in Ma’s number and wait for her to pick up.
“Hey Chel,” she says on the third ring. In my other ear, I can hear Alex sniffling and blowing her nose. At least she’s calming down.
“Ma, it’s me,” I say.
“Your dad just left for Church.”
“So I’ve heard. You hear your kid? She’s in her room fucking panicking that Mancuso might show up while we’re gone.”
“What?” she says, her voice alarmed. Her footsteps sound in the background, followed by the creaking of a door.
“Alex?” Ma says, her voice echoing in both ears. Alex’s surprised gasp is high-pitched in my right ear, but barely a whisper in my left. I feel like a damn fool standing here with two phones to my head.
“You got this, Ma?” I ask into the phone in my right ear, realizing a second too late that Alex is on that line.
She hmphs and says, “Traitor,” then the line goes dead.
In my left ear, Ma says, “Thanks, Punk,” and hangs up the phone. Tossing Chel’s cell at her and shoving mine back in my pocket, I look down at my half-hard dick.
“Girl trouble?” she asks, smirking and resuming her position. The thought of discussing Alex with her makes my dick want to deflate.
“No, now blow,” I say, pointing at my dick.
“Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like word hasn’t spread around the club anyway,” she says, reaching into my boxers and cuppi
ng my balls. I close my eyes once more and try to drown out the subtle judgment in her tone. The shit that’s been flying around here hasn’t come from me, but between the Lost Girls and my brothers, word has spread. I wasn’t exactly subtle that night I fucked Alex and sent her packing. Half our charter was in the room when she walked out, looking so fucking used. It’s not like I knew anybody was there, but even if I had, what did she expect me to do? Escort her to the door? Pop made it pretty fucking clear at Church last time that Alex was off-limits to the club. It’s one thing to fuck her—my brothers won’t rat on me for that—but it’s another to claim her.
It takes me longer to come than I’d like, but when I do, I come down quick. Before Chel can even finishing swallowing, I’m zipping up my pants and I’m out the door. When I make it to the end of the hall and into the chapel, all of our members in good-standing are in the room. The long, rectangular table stretches out over ten feet in length. At the very back of the room, Pop sits at the head of the table with our Sergeant at Arms, Grady, to his left, and Wyatt, our Vice President, to his right. Next to Grady is Ian, our treasurer, and across from him is Duke, our secretary.
I cross the room and sit in my seat beside Ian and across from our patched members who don’t hold officer positions—Diesel and Bear. Chief and Fish sit next to me and at the end, respectively. Over all, we’re a fairly young charter. We have to be, for the shit we do. As members age, they tend to uproot for Nevada or Oregon, maybe Arizona. The oldest of the old usually put themselves out to pasture like Rage has, in the Nevada desert. But out here, in the middle of Mendocino County, where we grow the finest fucking bud on the planet, we need the younger guys—more for their brawn than their brains.
Tall comes to the doors and shuts them, closing himself off from the patched members of the club, and Pop thunks down the gavel as Church begins. He starts off by going over old business, getting up to date on our grow houses, and making sure we’re set up for runs into Wilks as scheduled. Then we finally get to the important part of Church: Cub.
“Ruby got a hold of Gloria last night, found out a few of Mancuso’s guys left a few days ago. Low ranking,” Pop says.
“Not a problem,” Grady grunts out from Pop’s side. But Pop waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“There is a problem,” he says. “Ruby’s boy is with them.”
“Fuck,” I grit out and slam my fist down into the solid wood table. I knew about the phone call with Ma and Gloria, but not about Michael.
“Where do we stand on the boy?” Grady asks.
“Same rules apply as with Cub. Can’t touch him,” Pop says. Wyatt shakes his head and leans his elbows on the table, looking around the table for our reactions. My body vibrates with anger at this turn of events.
“We don’t know what side of the fence the boy falls on. Don’t think we can risk finding out,” Wyatt says. While I’m inclined to agree, the boy belongs to Ma. If the club votes him dead, I can’t be the one to do it. Neither can Ian. Even though they’ve never met, they’re bonded by blood. Pop sure as fuck can’t carry that burden with him. Looking around the table, I don’t know who can. Each one of these bastards loves Ma like she’s his own, and for some of them—like me—she’s the only mother they’ve ever had.
Ian’s steel-toed boots tap into the concrete floor to my right. His frame is hunched over the table, his elbows resting on the edge, his arms steepled, and his forehead resting on his fists. He can’t be the one to say it, or our brothers will give him shit about loyalty. Fuck it, I’m already on their shit lists.
“We can’t touch him,” I say. The entire table turns to look at me. Ian turns his face just slightly, giving me an appreciative glance. “Not if we don’t have to.”
“And if he hurts Princess? You willing to risk that, Trigger?” Duke asks, speaking up for the first time.
“He won’t,” I say. “She’s protected.”
“We can have a man on her 24/7, and shit can still go sideways,” Pop says, straightening in his leather chair. “I’m calling a vote—yea, we kill the boy on sight; nay, we pull back if we can.” If Ma knew Pop was here, taking this vote, she’d castrate him in his sleep and take out every last one of us who dared hurt one of her kids. Every man at the table looks to Pop, then to Ian, and finally to me. As the vote moves around the table, Wyatt, Fish, Chief, and Grady vote yea. Pop, Duke, Diesel, Bear, Ian, and I vote nay. I breathe a sigh of relief that for the moment, Ma’s boy’s execution is off the table.
Moving onto the game plan to protect Alex, Pop assigns prospects to the roads that lead into town on a rotating basis, and Fish and Diesel and Bear to supervise. We’re probably going to have to pull from a nearby charter for full coverage, though. Wyatt, Ian, Grady, and Duke will be making a run to Nevada for firepower. The rest of us will be working out the in-town logistics.
“I got Cub,” I say, while Pop is working out who’s going to be where.
“Son, I thought we talked about this,” he warns, his voice edgy. I grit my teeth and try to avoid a fight, but the thought of someone else—anyone else—being at her side through this shit makes me want to vomit. “I don’t like that idea. You’re getting fucked up over this girl.”
Tired of denying it and backed into a corner, I shake my head. “Can anyone in this room tell me they care more about Cub’s safety than I do? If any of you bastards can tell me to my fucking face that you give a bigger fuck than I do about her, then I’ll step back. This isn’t about family bullshit, or being a rat, or even protecting the club. This is about keeping Cub alive. Is that okay with you guys?” Nobody protests, and for a moment, I feel victorious. I hadn’t intended to volunteer for the position, but now that I have, I’ll fight any of my brothers who try to take it away from me. They know I’m right. I won’t let anything happen to Cub. I’ll bet my life on it, and I’m the only fucker in this room who will.
I’m not leaving her side until this shit gets squared away.
Chapter 23
My Father had a profound influence on me. He was a lunatic.
- Spike Milligan
ON MY WAY out, I try to avoid my brothers and my father. They eye me warily as I pass, unsure how to handle the shit I just pulled. Can’t blame ‘em. I don’t really know how to handle that shit, either. If I didn’t have to be coherent tonight, I’d do a couple lines, drink a few beers, and pass the fuck out while I try to jerk myself off. But that’s not an option tonight. It is something to look forward to, though.
“Trigger,” Pop shouts across the lot. I turn and face him, in the back corner of the lot with Grady and Wyatt flanking his sides. Behind them, painted into the black vinyl slats of the chain link fence in white paint is FORSAKEN.
“Yeah?” I say. He bridges the gap between us and places his hands on his hips.
"That's stunt you pulled in there. I don't like it."
I don't say anything, but don't shy away from him either. I knew he'd have something to say about it. Not that I really give a fuck. We've been through this already.
"I see the way you're looking at her, Son."
"I don't even know what you're going on about."
"You and Alex. Can't happen."
"Why the fuck do you care? Did Ma put you up to this?"
I take a second to look around the shop, making sure nobody's listening in. Pop hasn't talked to me about girls like this since I was a kid. Last thing I need is one of these fuckers overhearing and thinking I'm having feelings and shit. Ma talks about how much the bitches at the salon gossip, but I'd be willing to bet they ain't got nothing on the guys here.
"Ruby thinks it's cute. I—I don't think it's cute. I think it's dangerous."
"Why are you so interested in where I stick my dick?" I huff. Leaning over the pull, I flip the wrench I've been holding in my grease-stained left hand.
“Your dick’s not what I’m worried about. I know that look and I—” he says, but I cut him off.
“Don’t like it, I know,” I say, pushing off the p
ull and tossing the wrench in its open drawer, turning, and walking away.
I cross my arms over my chest, standing with my legs shoulder-width apart, and level his glare with my own. “We got a problem here?”
“Do we?” he parrots, leaning in. His jaw is locked, his eyes wild. My blood boils, my muscles tense, and my chest strains. I lean in, meeting his stance with my own and gritting my teeth. I force myself to take one deep breath after another so I’m calm enough that I can speak. I’m fucking sick of this shit. So fucking sick of him getting in my business. Doesn’t he think—doesn’t he know—if I could force myself to not care, that I would?
He lifts his right hand to my face, pointer finger nearly touching my nose. He’s way too close for comfort. I remember this shit from when I was a kid. Less than half the size I am now, he’d crouch down, let his weight rest on the balls of his feet, and he’d clasp his hands together. He’d make sure I was sitting and then he’d lecture me. Every explanation he could come up with as to how I fucked up this time—grades, attendance, attitude, drinking, drugs, bitches, fights. Anything he could think of, he’d rail me for it. Until I was a teenager, he’d ask me if I wanted him to hit me, like I had a fucking choice. If I didn’t like pussy so much, I’d consider putting a bullet between my ears just so that I could make one decision he didn’t have a chance to disapprove of first. I thought this motherfucker owned me back when I was a kid, but I had no fucking clue what wearing the same cut as him would do.
“Whatever you got going on in your head about this bitch, shut it down,” he hisses. I fight the angry jerk of my limbs, forcing myself to stay still. If Ma could hear this shit right now, I wouldn’t have a chance to lay him out. She’d do it for me.
“Any other sage advice you got for me, Mr. President?” I ask, smirking. Because if I don’t do something, I’m going to slam his face into the pavement.
