Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  I think I get this guy.

  And I don’t think this is a case of the big, bad biker taking advantage of the poor, young house mouse.

  Dizzy is as shook as I am.

  “Go get a shower. We’ll have lunch and head into town. I need some coyote urine. We’ll stop by the tractor supply after we get you some clothes.”

  He kisses me again on the forehead, turns, and leaves. Behind me, the washing machine falls silent.

  I’m left alone, mind whirling.

  It isn’t “Was it good for you, baby?” But as far as sweet talk goes, I’ve heard worse.

  6

  DIZZY

  “This sucks.” Parker’s got his hands jammed in his pockets, a mulish look on his face. Then again, when don’t he?

  “Ain’t you used to going shopping with your mom?” As I recall, Sharon went all the time.

  “She gets clothes in a box now,” Carson pipes up. “In the mail. If she don’t like it, she sends ‘em back.” Carson’s popping a squat on the department store floor and playing a game on his phone. I don’t know why Parker ain’t doin’ the same.

  “Sounds convenient.”

  “She forgets to mail the boxes back in time, and then she gets pissed.” Carson reclines precariously against a dress rack.

  We’re waiting outside the dressing room in the lady’s section. I’m gettin’ a lot of looks from the good women of Petty’s Mill. A couple smiles, too.

  We still gotta go to the tractor supply after this. If Parker keeps up the attitude, he gets to hold the coyote urine on the way home.

  Fay-Lee’s only been in there a few minutes. She’s been bashful since the laundry room. Blushing and stumblin’ over her words. I been touchin’ her—handin’ her up into the truck, tuckin’ stray hairs behind her ear—just to watch her get flustered.

  She’s pretty as a picture.

  I exhale. Corral my thoughts. This ain’t the time or place to pop wood.

  She was so fuckin’ sweet, though. So soft and carried away. There could’ve been an earthquake, and I bet she would’ve kept ridin’ my hand.

  On the ride here, I was catchin’ her eye in the rearview every chance I got, just to watch her squirm, until she ended up crackin’ the window to get some air, and Parker bitched at her to roll it back up.

  I thought he’d be all over campin’ in the basement for a few nights. Play video games until all hours. Have his own bathroom he don’t have to share with his little brother. I explained this ain’t for long.

  I rub my chest.

  It can’t be, right? Fay-Lee’s almost a kid herself. Eighteen years old. Fuck. When I was eighteen—well—Sharon and I were hitched, and I’d enlisted.

  Eighteen seems younger now, though. And to be honest, Sharon and I had no business settling down when we did. I knocked her up senior year. The pill failed. We lost the baby four months in, but at that point, I’d already proposed, and my folks had helped us make an offer on a house.

  Besides, what eighteen-year-old wants a ready-made family? And Fay-Lee’s a wild child, everything ahead of her. She’s only passing through. Or tryin’ to.

  I‘m sure as soon as she scrapes together enough cash, she’s gone. The thought kicks up my adrenaline. She’ll look guilty as hell, and as clever as she is, she ain’t gonna outsmart Heavy Ruth for long.

  I don’t think for a minute she had anything to with what Chaos was doin’. She ain’t the type. She don’t wanna run game, she wants to play one.

  Long and short of it is, I don’t have no business messin’ around with her. It’s obvious she’s runnin’ from something. A charge? An ex?

  Don’t matter. I’d happily kill any man who tries to take her away from me.

  Jesus. I’ve lost my mind.

  There’s a rustle from the dressing room, and she steps out, pink circles dotting her cheeks. I straighten.

  She’s wearing a swingy, pale-blue dress that hits above her knees. She shoots me a shy smile and twirls.

  I cough to clear my throat. “Ain’t your legs gonna be cold?”

  “I’ll wear leggings underneath. Do you like it?”

  “It’s fine.” The fabric clings to her tits. She still ain’t wearin’ a bra. Maybe she’s embarrassed to grab ‘em with the boys around. I should give her my card and take them out to the truck after this so she can get what she needs.

  Parker huffs and rolls his eyes. “We gonna be here all day?”

  We are now. “Go try on the next one. The pink.”

  “This one’s seventy-five dollars. It’s not on sale.”

  Is that a lot of money for a dress? Or is that a deal? “Okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  How much is a dress supposed to cost? Don’t matter. I laid down a grand for leather saddlebags last week. She can have what she wants.

  She waits a second, I guess to see if I change my mind. I don’t. She shrugs and heads back in. I turn to Parker.

  “What crawled up your ass, boy?”

  He smashes his lips together and glares off into the distance as if I ain’t talking. He picked up that from his mother.

  “You got a problem, spit it out.”

  “Maybe I don’t like wasting the day, standing around.”

  Carson’s gawping up at us now, game forgotten.

  “You got somewhere you need to be, boy?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “People can wait around for your shit, but you can’t stand around for someone else?” I don’t get this. I bring women around. Not often, but it happens. Parker never acts like this.

  Neither boy remembers when their mom and I were together. For them, Steve’s always been there. I’ve always been a weekend dad. Until this past year or so.

  “No. I can’t.” He sticks his nose up the air.

  My blood starts flowin’. This child and I are gonna have a thrown down if he don’t check himself.

  “He’s just mad he’s missin’ that football video game party,” Carson pipes up.

  Parker huffs and casts his brother an evil glare. Well, guess that’s it, then.

  “What party?”

  “Carl Baker’s.” Carson’s bein’ real helpful. He gets to pick the radio station when we get in the truck.

  “Who’s Carl Baker?”

  “He’s a kid from school.”

  “Shut up,” Parker mutters, but you can tell, he wants the story told.

  “Carl Baker is having a birthday party with video games, and Parker was supposed to go, but Mom said he couldn’t go since she couldn’t take him.”

  “Why can’t I take him?”

  “She said—” Carson suddenly runs out of steam. He looks to Parker. Parker scowls and stares a hole in the carpet.

  I sigh. I’m sure this has something to do with how I’m a greasy gearhead and petty criminal with no redeeming qualities.

  “Carl Baker got money?” I ask.

  I do, too, now that Steel Bones Construction pays dividends to the patched-in members, but for Sharon, it was always about looks. Back in the day, she wanted me ‘cause my tattoos and my cut pissed off her daddy. Eventually, they pissed her off, too.

  Irony’s a son-of-a-bitch.

  “Yeah. They live in Gracy’s Corner.” Parker toes a loose string in the carpet.

  This is bullshit. There’s no shame in honest work and dirty hands. What kind of man is he gonna be if starts believin’ other people’s opinions of him are worth a damn? That people who live behind gates in big houses are better than other folks?

  This is the regret. I don’t regret marrying Sharon. I love my boys. Without her, I wouldn’t have ‘em. Period. And I sure as shit don’t regret the divorce. I hate not having my kids all the time, but as the years go on, Sharon has me “watch them” more and more, so the time’s fairly even now. I actually have ‘em more than fifty percent these days.

  But I deeply regret the fucked-up shit they’re learning. The Carl Bakers of the world—and their
fine, upstanding parents—ain’t worth a dime more or less than any other man. Despite what Sharon and Steve think.

  “You want to go to this party?”

  Parker raises his head. “Yeah.”

  “You give a shit that I take you lookin’ like this?” I watch his face real careful.

  He snorts. “You’re dressed.” That’s my boy.

  “When is it?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  I check my phone. We can pick up the coyote urine and get him there on time. We need to get a move on, though.

  I head into the changing room. No one else’s been in or out, so it’s easy enough to figure out which curtain Fay-Lee’s behind. It’s more than a little satisfying to yank the curtain aside and hear her yelp. She pulls a dress up to her bare tits. Like I ain’t seen ‘em before. Like they ain’t burned into my brain.

  “What are you doin’?” she hisses. Her cheeks and chest flame bright red. I love it.

  “We gotta get goin’.” I take out my wallet and hand her my credit card. “Grab some bras and panties and meet us in the truck in twenty minutes.”

  She’s got a speculative gleam in her eyes when she snatches the card. I stalk forward and press her into a mirror. She’s yields to me instantly, lets me slip my leg between her thighs. I’m immediately hard.

  “You’re not in the car in twenty minutes, I’m canceling that card. Then I’m comin’ for you.”

  Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling. I want to spin her, fuck her from behind, and watch her face in the mirror. But you know—kids.

  So I kiss her. I love kissing her. She’s surprised every damn time. I look, and her eyes are wide and round and dazed as hell. I don’t think she’s been kissed much before.

  She’s not a virgin. I didn’t figure she was—kind of girl who parties with bikers—but I eased into her pussy earlier, just in case. She was tight, but she took me easy enough. She ain’t experienced, though. For all her sass, when I went for her asshole, she got real flustered.

  When she came, that look on her face? Like a revelation? Yeah, she don’t know what she’s doing. It’s crazy, but I love that, too.

  “Buy white panties and bras. With lace and shit.”

  “I’ll buy what I want,” she sasses.

  I spin her, clap my hand on her ass, and head out. It ain’t nearly as satisfying when she’s wearing leggings.

  “White. Lace. Don’t test me, woman.”

  Fay-Lee strolls toward the truck, smirking like the cat that ate the canary, in nineteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds. She struts, a dozen bags dangling off her arms, wrist to shoulder. She must’ve just piled shit on the counter.

  I hate to disappoint her, but I ain’t mad.

  When we get home and the boys are in bed, I’m gonna make her try on every single thing she bought for me. And then I’m gonna spank her ass again.

  I’m fairly sure she’ll go along with it. She ain’t brought up what happened at the club in the basement. And she don’t seem scared of me. Not going by that smile on her face.

  I grab the bags and stick ‘em in the bed, batten ‘em down with the cargo net. She’s climbed into the cab before I get the chance to hand her up. I’m gonna need to break her of that habit. Men open doors for women. Parker and Carson need to learn right.

  My step’s light as I hop in. The boys are in the back, earbuds already in, playing on those damn phones.

  If it were up to me, they wouldn’t have ‘em, but Sharon insists that she be able to reach them at any time. As far as I can tell, she don’t call or text, but I’m gonna respect her wishes. I considered givin’ them limits, but it’s like that damn mess downstairs.

  I put my foot down, and then I got a deadline on a mod, or one of them gets sick, or I get sick, and they’re glued back on the fucking things. The house is wrecked. And I’m too damn tired to fuss.

  And then there’re moments like this, when I’m almost grateful for the damn things.

  “Card?” I hold out my hand.

  “What card?” She blinks all innocent, but she can’t hide her wonky smile.

  “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

  “I know I am.”

  “I just want you to know, that’s ten.”

  “Ten what?”

  “You’ll find out tonight. It was five. Now it’s ten.”

  Her eyes grow wide. She squirms in her seat. She knows what I’m talking about.

  The muscles in my stomach draw tight with excitement. Her ass was so perfect, glowing rosy red, bouncing under my hand. I need to see it again. Feel that rush. I know it’s kinky. But not, really kinky, right?

  If she didn’t like it, she’d act different. Wouldn’t she? She’d be keepin’ her head down. Acting skittish. She wouldn’t bait me and sass me. Right? Still, it ain’t fun if she’s not into it.

  “You need, like, a word?” I clear my throat. Keep my eyes on the road. My mouth is dry.

  “A word?”

  “You know. If you don’t like it. If shit goes too far.”

  She shifts. Props her feet up on the dash.

  “Feet down.” That’s an easy way to break your legs in a fender bender.

  She huffs, but she drops them back to the floor. “Banana.”

  “Banana?”

  “You got a problem with my safe word?”

  “Nope.”

  “I changed my mind. I want rutabaga.”

  “You can’t change your mind.”

  “Rutabaga!”

  “Nope.”

  “What about falafel?”

  “You hungry?”

  “A little bit.”

  “There’s a protein bar in the glove box.”

  “Gross. I’m not that hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I will.” She stares straight ahead, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

  We’re quiet for a while. She turns on the radio, flips from station to station.

  As we pass through the gate at Gracy’s Corner, the bougiest address in town—which ain’t sayin’ much for this part of the world—she holds up my credit card.

  “You want this?”

  “You keep it. Don’t charge more than three thousand at one time. It’ll trigger the fraud detection.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “If I don’t know exactly where you are, I cancel it. After whatever you bought will tell me exactly where you are.”

  “And then you come for me.”

  “And then I come for you. You better hope I find you first and not the club.”

  She swallows, and then she licks those pouty lips with that little scar.

  I got to think about the mod I’m working on to cool things down before we get to the Baker’s house. Right as I’m pulling up, I get a call from Mikey the prospect. Heavy’s called church in an hour.

  This don’t bode well.

  Mikey don’t say what it’s about. I tell him to let Heavy know if it lasts longer than an hour, I’m gonna have to bail early to pick up Parker.

  I have enough time to meet the Bakers—I make a point of it—and get to the clubhouse before an hour is up. Carson races off to the playground Wall built in the yard out of old tires. Fay-Lee’s more uncertain. She clings my side.

  I like it. But she obviously can’t come to church.

  Thankfully, she sees some of the sweetbutts she’s been hanging out with at the bar. Without a “See you later,” she skips over to Story. Story’s young and hot, but she ain’t really a sweetbutt. Nickel sees to that, even though he won’t touch her. She’s chewin’ the fat with Danielle and Jo-Beth from The White Van. Danielle can cause trouble, but Jo-Beth has uncommonly good sense.

  Crista Holt is behind the bar, pouring drinks. She gives me a dip of the chin. Fay-Lee will be fine.

  The way gossip flies around this place, everyone should know she’s off limits, but we get a fair amount of hang arounds. And there are some brothers who’ll take their chance if a w
oman ain’t wearin’ a cut that reads Property Of. Jed, for one. That asshole was fixin’ to pop Fay-Lee in the face back when we caught her, and he’s the kind who don’t know the difference between hating a woman and wanting to fuck her.

  I’m the last to enter church, but there’re plenty of empty seats. Spank the Devil is next weekend up in Stonecut County, and a lot of brothers left early to camp and go huntin’ before the rally. We barely have a quorum.

  Heavy brought this quorum shit back with him from college. His pop ran things different. If there were a goodly number of brothers, we proceeded. If not, we drank until a few more men showed up.

  Club charter requires ten patched-in members to bring a motion, and Heavy goes by the letter of the law. He’s sitting at the head of the table, Grinder to his right, Pig Iron to his left. Gus and Boots are sitting at the foot with Eighty. Lots of old-timers here. Camping in the mountains in November is a younger brother’s game.

  Jed is here, though. He ain’t into roughing it. Creech, our resident tattoo artist, is next to him, talking to Cue. Big George rounds out the number.

  “Good,” Heavy says when he sees me. “This pertains to you. Where’s your house mouse?”

  “In the commons. At the bar.”

  “Good. We need to keep a close eye on her.”

  Unease settles in my stomach. “Why?”

  “Creech here had a few drinks at Twiggy’s last night.” Twiggy’s is a honkytonk near the county line. Watered down drafts and hillbillies, mostly.

  “Yeah?”

  “The bartender’s a friend. I did his ink.” Creech leans back in his chair, indolent, earlobes dangling. Dude has the biggest gauges I’ve ever seen. You could hit a golf ball through ‘em. Bullet has tried. “He says Chaos was there. The day before that big party in September. He was meetin’ someone.”

  Creech pauses. Waits for someone to ask him “Who?” He’s got a flair for the dramatic.

  I don’t say shit. Neither does anyone else until Boots hollers, “Well, did you forget who the fuck he met?”

  “Rab Daugherty.”

  The president of the Rebel Raiders. Shit.

  “Was Fay-Lee there?” Adrenaline surges through my veins.