Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  “Two. Better to be embarrassed or wrong than to be a liar. You know what Grandma always said— ‘The Lord hates a liar.’”

  I agree. There’s worse things to be than a liar, I suppose, but there’s nothin’ worse that’s more common.

  “I didn’t lie.” Parker’s barely holding back tears. I wouldn’t want to disappoint this man, either. I’d hate to look small to him.

  “I know you didn’t.” Dizzy unbuckles his seat belt and unlocks the truck.

  “What’s the third thing?” Carson asks.

  Dizzy shakes his head as if he nearly forgot. “Don’t be friends with a snitch.”

  Amen.

  Everyone piles from the car.

  “Are we not gonna talk about how messed up it is to call people pussies?” I call after them, but the boys are already to the door, and Dizzy’s getting my shopping bags.

  Strangely, Parker’s crappy playdate has calmed me down. Or maybe it was Dizzy’s lecture. Mama never took up with a man who had much time for kids, so it’s weird to see it up close. Parenting or whatever.

  “You comin’?” Dizzy’s laden down with bags, and he’s holding the door open for me with his foot.

  “Yup.” I scurry in, and as I pass him, he wallops my butt, bags swinging.

  “That’s one,” he says. “Nine to go.”

  Little shivers skitter all over my skin. It didn’t hurt at all. But I see he hasn’t forgotten.

  Is he really gonna spank me again?

  He did before, but I was out of my mind. If there was much pain, it didn’t really register. Afterwards, I was sore for a few hours, but there was so much else to worry about.

  And I kind of liked the soreness. After I gave it up to Rylan Dorset in the field behind his house, three whole months after I let him get to first base, I ached for a day or two. He was in the wind; he’d gotten what he wanted, and I think he was pissed he’d had to work as hard he had for it.

  I didn’t much care that he was done with me. It’s wasn’t love; it was curiosity. But I did like that ache between my legs. It made me feel different. Like I’d done something. Something had happened to me, and that meant I was real.

  It was kind of the same with my sore bottom. I checked it out in the bathroom mirror when I was taking my shower. My butt cheeks were pink, but it was subtle. No one else would’ve been able to tell. But I could.

  I admired my ass for minutes, from all angles. It felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. Like the rush when you slip a nail polish into your pocket at the pharmacy or pop a grape in your mouth at the grocery store.

  I come from a line of women who make very dubious choices when it comes to men, but none of them would let a man spank ‘em willingly. My sisters would all think I’m sick to be looking forward to Dizzy maybe doing it again.

  I want him to. I want to see what it’s like when I’m not upset.

  “You rest a while if you want while I make dinner,” Dizzy hollers at me from the kitchen. I realize I’m standing in the foyer, one boot off, lost in thought. The kids already have that video game on downstairs.

  “I’ll see about the laundry,” I call back. I go down, wade through the disaster, and put in the dark load. I restart the white load in the dryer.

  At the laundromat in Dalton, if the load didn’t dry all the way during the first cycle, or if I got distracted and it somehow got cold and wrinkled in the machine, then that was that. But I’m seeing the upside of owning your own machine—and not being the one who pays the electric bill. You just turn the darn thing on again.

  Rich people and their second chances. I shake my head and start refolding a basket of towels so they’re in thirds the way I like.

  “Dinner!” Dizzy bellows down the stairs not much later.

  Carson races into the laundry room and repeats, “Dinner!” Then he sprints away.

  As I make my way up, Parker’s sulking on the sofa picking apart a Nerf ball. I ain’t cleaning that.

  “You comin’?” I ask.

  He gives a long-suffering sigh and drags his butt up the stairs behind me. Must be tough. Food on the table. Your own room. Hell, your own level of the house. Every toy you can imagine. Birthday parties. A dad.

  We all sit at the table, same seats as last night, and the TV tuned to the same station. MMA this time instead of wrestling. And Dizzy’s set the table. There’s a bowl and spoon in front of everyone, and a stainless-steel pot of macaroni and cheese sitting on a dish towel in the middle.

  We’re gettin’ fancy.

  Even when times were the absolute toughest, if Mama was makin’ dinner, there were always serving dishes. Before we inherited Gram’s wedding china, we used a set Mama picked up at a yard sale. We all have our vanities, I guess.

  “Carson—” Dizzy barks, but the boy’s already in the fridge, getting two beers and two pops.

  Dizzy unscrews my top for me while the boys fight over the serving spoon. Soon enough, we’re all settled and chowing down.

  The mac and cheese is even better than the kind you can make with milk. This is the kind where there’s cheese in a foil pouch. You don’t add anything.

  It’s so creamy good.

  I get anxious when Parker and Carson finish before me and go for seconds, but turns out, there’s a whole other pot on the stove. We all get as much as we can eat.

  There’s no conversation. Parker’s still out of sorts, and Carson’s glued to the TV.

  Dizzy’s watching me. My mouth. When I finish my beer, he has Carson get me a pop. Guess I’m cut off at one.

  I’m watching him, too. He’ll get a dab of cheese in his beard, and then he’ll wipe his mouth with a worn handkerchief. I’ve noticed he keeps one in his pocket.

  It’s funny. Carson and Parker can both sit in their chairs with their heels on the seat and their knees tucked to their chests. Dizzy hardly fits in his. His muscular thighs spill past the sides, and his broad chest totally hides the back of the chair. Only my chair fits just right.

  I’m Goldilocks.

  Soon enough, both pots are empty. Parker’s eyeing the dirty dishes and casting me grudging glances. I was thinking about offering to clean up, but not now.

  “I’ll see to these,” Dizzy says, pushing back from the table. “Boys, you want to order a movie?”

  “Seriously?” Carson’s stoked.

  “You know the passcode. Don’t pick nothin’ your mom is gonna fuss at me about.”

  That is putting a great deal of trust in a seven-year-old.

  “Pick one of them superhero movies that you haven’t seen,” he suggests.

  “We’ve seen ‘em all,” Parker grumps.

  “Then watch one again.”

  Carson has no problem with this. He races off, and I guess Parker realizes he better beat his brother to the remote if he wants any kind of say in the decision-making, ‘cause he shakes off his moping and flies off, hot on his tail.

  Dizzy turns his attention to me. “We got three solid hours if they pick the last one that came out. The one where they time travel.” He listens for the movie music to blare, and then he smiles, wicked as sin. “You. Go to my bedroom. Take off your pants. Bend over the side of the bed and wait for me.”

  I swallow. Instantly, my pussy creams.

  Is he serious?

  He jerks his chin toward the master suite. “No panties.”

  I don’t even have any panties except the ones I bought today, still in the bag with the tags on.

  Am I going to do this?

  I slowly push back from the table and stand.

  It’s wrong, isn’t it? Kinky. I shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want to do this to me.

  I look at him. His gaze is even and sure. There’s a twinkle in his brown eyes. This is a game. I have a safe word. Banana. Or falafel. I’m not sure where we came down on that.

  But it’s also not a game. I’m broke, friendless, and I’m in some kind of trouble with his MC. He’s older than me; he’s got a ton more mo
ney than I do. Really, he could do whatever he wants. I’d probably take it for a few more nights of a warm bed and a full belly.

  I chew on my lip as I walk slowly down the hall.

  I did rack up nine hundred dollars in clothes on his credit card in twenty minutes. It surprised the shit out of me how easy it is to spend that much money.

  He could always return the clothes.

  I was being a brat.

  Excitement’s thrumming in my belly. My body wants this. Not the pain. But what comes with it. That blissed-out state. That feeling of being tethered down by a cord that can’t break. Secured.

  I don’t think he’d really hurt me. But what if he doesn’t know his own strength? What if it’s okay, and then it’s not? What if I say stop, and he doesn’t? What if I say banana, and he laughs?

  Even the fear is a mind fuck. On the one hand, it’s ratcheting up my anxiety higher and higher. On the other, it’s amping up the wild nerves swooping in my belly. Making my nipples ache for his touch.

  I linger at the door to Parker’s room. I bet if I just went to bed, Dizzy would drop it. And he might never try it again.

  Or he’d drag me out and do it anyway, and that would ruin everything, too, ‘cause I’d be out the door the very next second he turned his back. There’s nothing that makes me think he’d force me, but that’s the whole thing with men, isn’t it?

  Carol didn’t think Dan would leave her.

  Dee didn’t think Reggie would ever hit her.

  Keira didn’t think Brian was using again.

  Kayden didn’t think Chad could possibly be the one taking cash from her purse.

  And every man Mama ever brought home surprised the crap out of her each time he cheated or snuck into one of our rooms or pawned the TV.

  Trusting men makes you stupid. Trusting anyone makes you stupid. ‘Cause wasn’t Kayden steppin’ out on Chad? Wasn’t Keira drinking herself into a stupor as soon as she got home from work?

  Now I’m standing in the middle of the hallway like an idiot, head full of garbage.

  I wish I could turn it off.

  “Go into my bedroom, Fay-Lee.” Dizzy’s voice is deep. Calm.

  So I do.

  As soon as I shut the door—after checking again that it doesn’t lock—butterflies tear through my belly. I flick on a bedside lamp. I don’t think I could do this with the overhead lights on.

  I tug off my sweatpants and drop them in a hamper. I see that Dizzy’s lined up the shopping bags on the bench at the foot of the bed. I count them. Twelve. Damn, I did some damage.

  I walk to the bed, super aware that I’m naked from the waist down. I’m only wearing a new button-up plaid shirt that I bought at the store. With each step, my pussy lips slide against each other. I’m sopping wet.

  He’s gonna be able to tell. My inner thighs are getting slick, too.

  I bend over and lay my upper body across his dark green comforter. It clashes terribly with all the teal, but it smells like him. Spicy but reassuring.

  I position myself so I’m facing the disassembled engine on the dresser. I arch my back, stretch. It feels good.

  I shift my hips. My slit opens. I don’t have one of those pretty shaved pussies with puffy lips. I’ve been on the road too long, and I’ve got folds and a clit that peeks out.

  My nipples are hard, chafing against my shirt, and my ass is getting cold.

  Every second I wait, my breath grows shallower, and my nerves go crazier and crazier. I’m nearly crawling out of my skin.

  It’s totally quiet in the room. My head is a different story. It’s like it cracked open and everything fell out in a jumble. I don’t know where to begin sorting it all out.

  I’m alone.

  Vulnerable.

  Aching.

  Scared.

  When the door snicks open, I startle. Dizzy slips in, and then he kicks the stacked laundry baskets in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop an intruder, but it’d give us enough time to get decent if the kids needed something.

  Shit.

  What if the kids need something?

  “Are they gonna—uh—interrupt?” I stand.

  “Nope. We ain’t gonna hear from them for hours. They hate bedtime. They ain’t gonna come up until I call ‘em.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.”

  He moves to stand behind me and grabs my waist, rotating me gently and urging me to bend back over with his heavy palm on my back. I let him move me. He makes a hum of pure appreciation as he pushes my shirt up as high as it’ll go, and his fingers trip down my spine. I warm head to toe.

  “Spread your legs.” He steps back for a better view.

  I flashback to the room at the clubhouse as I edge my feet apart, opening myself to his gaze.

  He didn’t touch me that day. He’s definitely gonna touch me now. Are we gonna fuck after? Are we gonna kiss? I really want to kiss some more. I glance over my shoulder, try to read his face.

  “Eyes straight ahead,” he orders.

  I obey. My hair falls in a dark curtain around my face like blinders blocking him out. He bends over me, gathers it gently, and then drapes it over one shoulder. I’m not hidden now. He can see my face. I can catch his movements in the periphery.

  Tingles dance across my skin.

  “Now put your hands on your ass. Spread your cheeks.”

  No way. I can’t. He’ll see my asshole. And how wet I am.

  “You just earned yourself another one. Spread, Fay-Lee.”

  I gulp, lean forward and rest my chest on the comforter, and grab my ass. He groans. “Wider.”

  I pull forward, squeezing my eyes shut. He can see everything. And the way I’m pulsing, he can probably see my channel contracting on air, hungry for cock.

  He approaches, slowly. I can sense him. Hear him. But I can’t see him. He clicks on the TV and turns up the volume. Some car show.

  I tense, brace myself for a smack.

  Instead he eases my hands back to the bed and cups my ass, rubbing, pressing his thumbs into the base of my spine, massaging away the fading ache from sleeping on the ground.

  I moan. It feels amazing.

  “I’m gonna make you feel good, baby,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “In the end, you’re gonna cum so hard.”

  My hearts falls, just a little. Does that mean he’s not gonna spank me?

  And then his hand falls on my ass. Hard. Really, really hard. I yelp. My hand flies back. He catches it mid-air, returns it to the comforter.

  “You get another one for that. Don’t move. Take it like a good girl.”

  My pussy spasms. My left ass cheek burns, and I’m bracing for an impact, and every second of anticipation cranks the dial on my excitement.

  Crack.

  I sway. “Hey!” He hit me on the same cheek! Unfair.

  “That’s two more. You don’t say ‘hey.’ You’re not the one in charge here.”

  He nails me two more times on the exact same cheek. It’s beyond a burn now. It hurts. My eyes are tingling. Am I gonna cry? I never cry.

  He lays down another wallop on my right side. Somehow this one’s worse. I gasp.

  “You were naughty, weren’t you?”

  He grabs my ass, digs his fingers into the hot flesh. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I cry out. “Yes!”

  “You pulled a stunt, didn’t you?”

  He wallops me, and I buck my hips, try to escape his hand, but it’s too big, and it hurts. It steals my breath it hurts so bad. Crack. Crack. He rains blows on the tender flesh at the top of my thighs, and then he slaps my pussy.

  “You were bad, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I sob. Tears are dribbling down my cheeks, salty on my lips, soaking the comforter.

  “You racked up nine hundred bucks in twenty minutes, didn’t you, naughty girl?”

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  I can’t say yes. I can only blubber into the bed sheets. My brain is on the fritz.

  I could say banana.
r />   I could say stop.

  I could stand up and walk away.

  I could kick him in the balls.

  But I don’t want to do any of that. I want more.

  I’m better than fine. My ass is on fire, but I’m floating. Everything’s okay. I don’t have to worry about anything at all.

  It’s been way more than ten. Or twelve. He keeps going, and every so often he stops, massages my ass, and that hurts worse, but then he slips his fingers into my pussy, smearing my cream over my folds.

  He holds his fingers to my mouth. “Open up. Suck.”

  I do, tasting myself, his calloused finger rasping against my tongue. It’s earthy. Tangy. All of a sudden, everything becomes hyper-real. Like someone switched the room to high def.

  “You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?” he growls. “My perfect, dirty girl.”

  He lands three final, sinus-clearing claps to my lower cheeks, and then my legs give out, and I sag against the bed.

  Instantly, he’s on his knees behind me, drawing me into his lap, cradling me in his strong arms. His beard tickles my neck. I’m sniffling. He wipes my eyes with the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear as he rocks me, pressing kisses to my temple. “You took that so good, didn’t you, baby?”

  His praise wraps around me, warms me. I love this.

  “You’re okay.” His fingers skim across my skin as if he’s reassuring himself. “You’re okay.”

  His cock is hard and poking me in the back. Are we going to fuck now? I feel like a rag doll, but my pussy’s still swollen and needy. My ass is truly beginning to burn.

  I wriggle to prop myself on a hip, searching relief. He chuckles, his massive chest vibrating against my back.

  “We’re not done yet.”

  “No?” My voice sounds drowsy, even though I’m wide-awake.

  “No.” He reaches behind him. “Here. Drink this.” He holds a bottle of cold water to my lips. I gulp it down. I didn’t know I was so thirsty.

  I perk up a little, blink. The room comes a bit more into focus. I sigh and stretch my arms overhead. I feel so calm. Almost weightless. But it’s not scary at all.

  “Now you’re gonna show me what I bought.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yup. You’re gonna try on every outfit you bought with that nine hundred dollars. We’ll see if you can keep ‘em.”