by Ella Goode
“I am. Now shoo.” He backs out with a pissed off look on his face but hopefully he remembers that the reason he’s here is to whip the club into shape.
I pull out the clean sheets from Grant’s duffle. He didn’t bring much and his bag is bigger so I stuck a bunch of extra shit in his bag. I pull off the comforter, gingerly holding an edge, and then lay the two flat sheets down. The comforter goes back on top. Down the hall I find a grotty bathroom with dark growth around the tub’s edges. The sink looks marginally better. I do my business quick and then hustle back to the room. I brought a special outfit for tonight. Ordinarily if I go to a mash, I wear jeans and a tight t-shirt. Tonight, though, I’m going all out. Gray wool over-the-knee socks with white ribbon at the top are paired with a black leather skirt that ends mid-thigh. Not too short, but not a skirt that allows me to bend over either. Unless, of course, Grant’s behind me. My shoes are black leather Mary Janes with a three inch stacked heel.
On the top I pull on a white Harley t-shirt that is shot with silver threads. I tease my hair up into a big cloud, line my eyes with black eye liner and color my lips with the reddest lipstick I own. The whole look is a sluttier version of Britney Spears’ iconic school girl look. I know Grant loves that frickin’ video but he loves me more which means he’ll be seriously turned on by this getup.
The door pops open when I’m spritzing the setting spray and I nearly shoot myself in the eye with the stuff.
“That meeting went fast,” I note. A quick glance at my watch reveals that it’s nearing dinnertime. My stomach growls. “We eating here?”
He nods. “Ordered pizza. A bunch of people are coming over. What are you wearing?”
“Like it?” I rise and twirl around. The skirt bells out a tiny bit.
Behind me I hear a growl and then I feel a hand in my hair as Grant drags me back against his body. He buries his face in my neck. “If there weren’t a couple dozen strangers coming to this house in the next ten minutes, my cock would be in your pussy so fast and hard that they’d hear you all the way to Fortune when you screamed my name.”
His hand sweeps beneath the short skirt and cups me in a rough fondle. I gasp when his fingers slip under the elastic of my undies.
“Just a couple dozen,” I scoff playfully. “That’s the excuse you’re going to use?”
His answer is to plant a hand in the middle of my back and tip me forward. I catch myself on the handle of my little two-wheeled suitcase. “Shit baby, I think I could come just looking at this ass.” He pulls the skirt up to expose my butt.
Our temporary room is at the top of the stairs and through the thin walls, I can hear the front door opening and closing and the murmurs of greetings.
Do I care that there are a bunch of random people filtering in downstairs? Nope. I shift my legs wider apart and tilt my butt up toward Grant. He releases an appreciative breath. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous but there’s a mess downstairs and I told Junior I’d help him clean it up.”
With a sigh I stand up and brush my skirt down. “That sounds like zero fun.”
“I know, baby.” His eyes are locked on my skirt. With a regretful sigh, he tips his neck to the side and taps a finger against his pulse point. “Kiss me.”
“I’ll get lipstick all over you,” I warn.
“I know. I want your mark on me. So kiss me, mess me up and we’ll rub it in. I don’t want there to be any problems tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
He just taps his neck again so I lean forward and lick him. When he groans, I go for the bite. His arms tighten around me and for a minute, I think he’s going to forget about the company downstairs and throw me on the bed but he’s too much his father’s son which means duty before play. I let him go and rummage around my junk for a makeup remover tissue. I use it to smear the lipstick, leaving a noticeable residue behind.
“You think a lipstick mark is going to keep the women off of you?” I ask skeptically, folding the tissue and then laying it beside my makeup.
Grant has a hand on the doorknob but isn’t in any hurry to leave. “No, but every bit of armor helps. Junior says that the crew left over is dysfunctional as shit. There’s a lot of infighting amongst the brothers over chicks. He doesn’t trust more than a couple but his dad brought in a fuck-ton of patches in the last few years—like eight or so and there are even more prospects and hangers on.”
“Why doesn’t he just kick them out?”
“They know too much. He didn’t say what they know about exactly, but he feels that if he cuts them loose, either they’ll go to a rival club with information about Misery’s deals or they might even rat the Misery boys out to the cops.”
I release a low whistle. “That’s not good.”
“Junior thinks that most of the guys are decent but isn’t sure. Tonight he’s introducing Abel and I as nomads breaking off from the Death Lords. We’re going to stick around here for a while. We’re using you and your beauty school stuff as an excuse. When you’re down there, remember not everyone’s friendly. Don’t drink anything that doesn’t come from Abel or me. Don’t eat anything either.”
“Eating?”
As he rubs a frustrated hand over his hair, I admire the bulge of his biceps that peeks out from beneath his short sleeved t-shirt. “Sounds stupid, I know, but I feel like we can’t be too careful. We’re out of here tomorrow because I’m not leaving you alone in this shithole.”
“Why is it in such awful condition?”
Grant opens the door and ushers me through. “Junior says they moved here a year before his dad died. He hasn’t spent any of the club money on it because his father was sick and then after, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay. Plus, it’s a bunch of guys under thirty and you know we don’t know how to fucking clean.”
I roll my eyes at this because Grant is a neat freak. He’s probably more grossed out by the bedroom and the general condition of this house than I am.
15
CHELSEA
Downstairs the common spaces are filling up. I don’t see a lot of leather cuts so the crowd looks like it’s mostly made up of prospects, hangers-on and women—or girls more likely. Nearly everyone looks to be around Wrecker and my age which feels odd to me. The Death Lords is an older club with men like Judge and his friends although Judge has made an effort to bring in younger guys like Abel, who has to be is in his mid-twenties since he served two terms in the Marines. Easy and Michigan are in their thirties but the rest are an older crowd and Judge has a strict age limit on the women allowed at the mashes.
Here, though, some of these girls could easily be in their teens. I shoot a concerned glance at Grant but he’s being drawn away by Junior to meet the few guys who are wearing Misery cuts. He gives me a quick hard kiss on the temple.
“Remember what I said,” he mutters and the leaves me standing with Abel between the entrance of the front room that has two sofas facing each other and a dining room that has only a table that is currently filled with cans of beer.
“You stuck being my babysitter?”
A small smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”
Hmm. There are a number of girls trying to catch his eye. He’s letting his hair grow out and it’s curling around his ears and falling over his forehead. He looks like an older, hotter Tim Riggins with his strong jaw and wheat blonde hair. If I wasn’t totally gone for Wrecker, I would definitely be making a play for Abel. He moves with confidence and a sense of purpose. Plus, he has the cut. For some girls that’s all they need to get their panties wet.
“Do you want me to vet them for you?” I tease.
“Sure. I like them quiet and not crazy.” He leans against the door frame, one foot in the front room and one in the dining room and his watchful eyes miss nothing.
“What does crazy mean to you? Because for some guys that means no texting every day and for others it means don’t leave a dead bunny on my pillow.”
His gaze swings to me. “That happen
outside of a movie?”
I nod. “Not a pillow exactly, but Flint had been dividing his attention between a couple of sisters at a meet-up down in Missouri. It was a week long and he just figured that because it was a meet-up, there was no point in making a choice. Anyway, he’d spent too long with one of them, so at the end of the week she stuck a dead rabbit in one of his saddlebags.”
Abel winces. “I’ll remember to stay away from sisters.”
“And the underage. Where are all the older members?”
“Junior said that most of his dad’s friends have drifted away in the last year. There’s only a couple members in their thirties.” He gestures an elbow toward a stocky male with a long beard and a big pot belly. “Pig over there is about thirty-five and been with Misery for twelve years.” Pig has a girl on his lap that can’t be more than sixteen. My stomach starts to hurt.
“And the other one?”
“Moose, but he’s not here.”
“Oh is Moose the one we saw at the bar?”
Abel nods. “That’s right. He’s been with the club for over a decade. Thought he should’ve been president but none of the old guys would back him and most of the young guys like Junior.”
I make a face. “Junior’s a terrible road name.”
“And Pig is much better?”
Before I can answer, a girl about my age stops beside me. “Hey, cool vest.”
She’s punked out in a black t-shirt, tutu, black tights that are ripped around the thigh, and motorcycle boots. It’s a good look but not one I’m confident enough to carry out.
“Thanks, cute skirt.”
“Like it?” she twirls and the layers of tulle flare out and then fall back again. “I made it myself.”
“Really? that’s amazing.”
“I’m going to get a drink. What do you want?” Abel asks, clearly not interested in what he perceives will be a discussion about clothes.
“Beer is fine.”
“Oh I can get you something better,” the tutu skirted girl says. “My man brought Mike’s Hard Lemonade for me.”
Abel shakes his head and I recall Grant’s earlier warning. “Nah, beer is fine for me.”
“Hey, grab a Lemonade from Dozer okay? He’s the guy with the purple mohawk and the Misery leather vest.”
Abel’s face changes slightly from moderate tolerance to horror but I’m not sure if it’s because she refers to the vaunted cut as a vest or that someone with a purple mohawk is wearing one.
“Go on,” I urge him before he says something that offends this new girl. “I’ll stand right here.”
“Alright,” he replies reluctantly, but moves off toward the kitchen.
“So over protective…boyfriend?” the girl asks. “I’m Laurel by the way. Dozer is my man. Short for bulldozer because he’s built like a frickin’ big-ass tank.”
She holds her hands about a foot apart which I hope refers to his length and not his girth. “I’m Chelsea.”
“What’s your vest say?” She places a hand on my shoulder to turn me around. I shift so she can see the back.
“Death Lords MC.” Despite claiming Dozer as her man, she doesn’t wear a corresponding leather so their relationship can’t be that serious. “Wrecker.”
“Wait, does that patch say ‘Property of?’” Laurel gasps.
Either there are no old ladies attached to the Misery biker club or this whole group is cobbled together by shoelaces and wet, flimsy newspaper. “Yeah. I’m Wrecker’s old lady,” I tell her.
“Here’s your lemonade babe.” The purple mohawk guy interrupts us, shoving a bottle into Laurel’s hands. She reaches up and kisses his cheek in gratitude. Dozer’s arm comes around her automatically, as if they’ve been together for a long time. “You’re new here.”
“I am.”
“Her vest has her man’s MC name on it. Why can’t I get one of those?” Laurel pouts. Her hand pats Dozer’s own leathers.
His eyes cut to mine with a hard warning. “We don’t do that here,” is the explanation he gives her. Then he turns to me and lifts a lock of my hair with hand holding his own beer bottle. “Like your socks. You wearing anything under that skirt?”
I jerk away, gaping at him. Doesn’t he have any respect for Wrecker’s cut? “None of your business.”
Laurel’s mouth gets tight but she doesn’t protest.
“Yeah? My cut says differently. This here’s Misery property and I’m a Misery MC.” Dozer tips his head back and swallows some of his beer.
“And I’m not interested.”
“Problem?” Abel arrives.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I say and take the beer from his hands, grateful to hold something so I don’t slap Dozer and cause an incident.
“She yours?” Dozer asks.
“We’re visiting,” Abel replies.
Dozer snaps his fingers. “The loaners from the Death Lords come to whip us into shape.” He laughs. “If this is the type of goodie we’re offered, I’m totally down with joining your crew.”
Abel’s lip curls at Dozer’s easily changing loyalty.
“I’m going to want a taste of you later,” Dozer leans forward with Laurel still clinging to him.
“Taste of what?” Wrecker appears at my back. His business must be done.
Dozer has no gut instincts or any instincts because he doesn’t heed the warning in Wrecker’s voice. “Taste of that hot snatch you brought with you.”
Abel straightens from the wall and Wrecker’s hand comes to rest on the back of my neck. I can feel the tension in his fingers. “I don’t think we met yet because if we had, you’d know better than to talk about Chelsea that way.”
“Bro, no offense.” Chin lift. “Pussy’s pussy though.”
“Wait. Wrecker and Chelsea?” Laurel pipes up. “You’re the sister, aren’t you?”
Heat rushes up and I can feel it pound in my temple. “Step,” I say shortly. “Stepsister.”
“But you two were raised together, right? I mean, that’s kind of wrong. What are we, in Missouri?” She makes a banjo noise—a bad one.
“Junior?” Abel mutters in an undertone.
Wrecker nods. Junior knew of our situation and told his club brothers and this one, this loose lipped Dozer, told the girl that he didn’t think was worthy of wearing his patch.
Very deliberately, Wrecker lifts the drink out of my hands and gives it to Abel. “Hold this, will you?”
Dozer’s dormant instincts must rattle at this because he turns a little, trying to push Laurel toward a different group in the room. “Come on, Laurel.”
She pulls away, maybe angry that Dozer hit on me right in front of her. “Do you do the father too? Is it some weird incestual thing with the Death Lords? Like I’ve heard rumors that some of the clubs have sex kinks and you gotta play that game in order to belong. Is that your guys’ thing?” Her eyes are wide, but there’s cunning behind them. She wants to start a fight. She wants to see her man throw down and prove himself to us interlopers.
Behind Dozer, I see Junior walking our way. Wrecker sees him too and they exchange a glance and a chin lift. Whatever Wrecker plans to do to Dozer has been okayed by the Misery Club president.
“Turn around baby,” Since prison, Wrecker’s become hard. Not just his body which is cut from quarry rock, but his emotions. His face is impenetrable. I know he’s pissed though. I turn slowly.
“What’s it say?” Neither Dozer nor Laurel answers fast enough because he barks it out again. “Can you read?”
“Property of,” Laurel responds with a so what expression.
“That’s right. Property of. You folks need a little education. This,” he reaches a hand down over my shoulder and lifts the open sleeve of my vest away from my body, “marks her as off limits to everyone which means little bitches like you don’t say a word to her unless she gives you clearance.” The little bitches insult is clearly directed to both Dozer and Laurel. He turns and addresses the ragtag collection of Misery m
embers. “Being part of an MC isn’t free drugs and alcohol and a non-stop stream of pussy. It’s about having each other’s back. When she’s wearing my cut, an insult to her is an insult to me. When I’m insulted, I strike back.” He spins and pierces Dozer with a glare. “You wanted to lick my girl’s pussy? Then get on your fucking knees.”
“We’re not in the Death Lords motorcycle clubhouse; this is the Misery motorcycle club.” Dozer waves a hand. But no one comes forward. Not Junior, not any of them. Dozer looks around and then at Laurel. He takes two steps away. “This is just a girl I fuck. She doesn’t mean shit to me.”
Laurel gasps and stumbles back as if he struck her. I didn’t like what Laurel had to say about me, but I sure as shit don’t like how Dozer treats her. My leather vest might say that I’m the property of Death Lords, Wrecker specifically, but he’d never treat me like I was a piece of trash.
Behind me, Wrecker’s hand slides under my short skirt. “One of you is going to make it up to my old lady. One of you is going to lick her pussy until she comes. Which one is it going to be?”
“Don’t do it,” Laurel begs but Dozer ignores her. Belonging to this club is more important than she is; important enough for him to bend his knees. Do I even want Dozer to touch me? He’s an asshole. Before he gets to the floor, another voice interrupts.
“Your girl is too fine for Dozer.” A tall muscular guy with a buzz cut shoulders his way to the front. A gray t-shirt is stretched tight across his chest and his cut looks like it had to be custom fitted around his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He’s about Wrecker and Abel’s age. There are minute creases near his eyes. “Chelsea, I’m Big Unit but you can call me Big.”
“Misery VP,” Wrecker noiselessly whispers in my ear.
“Nice to meet you,” I say faintly. I can see where he gets his nickname. My eyes involuntarily drop to his waist and the worn white patch in his denim indicates that he is likely big all over.
“What about Annalise?” Laurel hisses, grabbing at Big’s arm.
“Get gone, Laurel,” he replies but doesn’t take his eyes off of me.
