by Nicole Snow
The woman across from me didn't deserve any of this shit, however I justified it. Two wrongs never made a right, but between me and the club demanding money from her folks, we'd kept her alive.
“I won't try to run,” she said, reaching for my hand. “There's nowhere to go without you. I don't know the rest of your biker friends from the pimp or the Deadhands. I shouldn't trust anything you say, but I want to believe, Skin, that you're not like them – I know you don't want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. That means something. Just a little bit.”
Fuck. I didn't like anybody seeing past the barbed wire I put up in my cold face, least of all this wounded dove.
“Don't try to get all emotional on me, lady,” I growled. “If you think I'm soft, you'd better get your head checked. I've done plenty of shit I'll pay big for one fine day in hell. I don't worry a lot about morals, beyond what's best for keeping my own ass safe and what benefits the MC. I'm gonna help you get out of the quicksand, Meg, but that's where this ends. You don't wanna get attached. I'm not your friend. Just your ticket outta here.”
Her pale face softened. She nodded like she actually understood, fixing those glacial blue eyes on mine. I stared her down 'til she broke and blushed, then I slid out of my seat and grabbed her hand, leading her out to my bike.
We didn't say much as I drove her back to the clubhouse. She was probably getting tired now that her belly was full. I hoped it'd save me from having to deal with her anxiety tonight.
It was gonna be hell sleeping in the same room with this chick, feeling her pressed up against me. Damn if I'd let her make me feel anything else.
I had to stop thinking sex.
This pussy shortage wouldn't last forever. I'd find others – lots of other sluts – and by the time I did, this stolen princess would be outta my life. I'd let the Prez put her reward cash to good use while I fucked myself completely free of her.
Women were fuck toys, and a special few turned into old ladies. Not for me. The only pillow talk that ever interested me was the filthy kind.
The chick with her little hands pressed around my waist while we roared through the mountains needed more than that. She was too screwed up for drama-free pounding after what Ricky the shithead did to her.
I'd save her from my dick, and I'd save myself from the love and tears that I knew would come raining down.
This was just another job, another mission for the club. One more chance to get things right after we'd been staggering around drunk on too much danger and not enough cold, hard cash.
Nothing more. So help me God.
* * * *
I showered like I always did with the door wide open to my little bathroom. Having a woman in the room never changed my habits, not even this broken hearted beauty.
Still caught her looking.
For some fucked up reason, that made me grin through the suds and hot water hissing over my face. Her soft blue eyes took little snatches of my body whenever she thought I wasn't looking, too blinded by the water to notice.
Whenever I looked back through the cheap shower door, she jerked her eyes away, hiding her beet red face behind this mystery story magazine I'd picked up for her at a gas station.
Little minx, I thought with a growl, feeling my cock blazing to life. Take a good, long look. It's only natural.
Don't care if you're too screwed up to fuck. It doesn't change the fact that I want it anyway. Want it, need it, feel it so bad I've got hot coals burning in my balls.
Before I finished, I reached down and grabbed my swollen cock, giving it at least a dozen hard, quick strokes with my slick hand. Didn't feel a tenth as good as her pussy would wrapped around me, and I knew she was looking.
Hell, her eyes stayed fixed in dumb amazement on my dick up 'til I ripped open the door and stepped out, wrapping the towel around every raging inch of me and tucking it around my waist.
“Glad you enjoyed the show,” I said with a smirk, stepping back into the room and grabbing my clothes.
She shrugged and shook her head furiously, too embarrassed for words. I walked back into the bathroom to change, wondering what kinda fireworks were going off in her head.
I wasn't stupid – I knew I shouldn't be teasing her like this after she'd just walked outta hell. But fuck, the girl needed a distraction.
If watching my dick took her mind off all the nasty things she'd suffered under Ricky, then I'd give her a peep show every fucking hour she was holed up in my room. Some strange, merciful part of me wanted to wine her, dine her, and fuck her 'til she couldn't remember her own name, much less what the last six months had been like.
My face turned psycho killer whenever I thought about it. I remembered Ricky, that sniveling, greedy piece of shit.
I would've killed him the night I went tearing down to save her if I wasn't in too deep a time crunch. I rolled on my jeans and looked at my gun, hanging on its holster. I pulled it out and felt the raw power in my hands, brought it over in my safe to lock up for the night, the same way I always did when I had a chick in the room.
Meg watched me walk out and put the gun away, slamming the safe shut with a loud clap.
I hadn't forgotten all the business I had with this girl, or the promise I'd made to her. She'd pay up and go home. We'd find a way to deal with the Deads and keep our club safe. But damn if I'd let that sick motherfucker slink away into the night, only to set up shop and do this to some other girl who never asked to be pulled into violence and slavery.
I'd end him one day. I'd do it with pleasure. I'd let Meg know when I did too, if only to give her closure so she could live the rest of her days without worrying about seeing his evil ass ever again.
“Take the bed tonight,” I told her. “I'll crash on the floor.”
She sat up and watched me flop down with a pillow and a thin sheet. Shit was hard as concrete, really, but I didn't give a shit.
There wasn't much to my bed. Still better than the crappy cot she'd slept on forever in that whorehouse.
I closed my eyes for about a full minute before I heard her voice. I looked up, and she was staring over the bed at me, straight down with her gem blue eyes.
“There's enough room for both of us, Skin, if you'll behave yourself. I'm okay with us sharing. It's a cold night.”
I grunted, mulling it over for a second. The raw need roaring through my cock threatened to strangle the gentleman inside me. Fine, whatever. I popped up and rolled into bed next to her, promising myself I'd keep my hands to myself.
She switched out the lamp a second later and pulled the sheets tight. I laid awake for a long time, thinking about how this whole twisted situation would blow over. We'd get the reward for the club, the day all this shit would finally be wrapped up by dropping her off at her parents' door.
I thought about the hundred ways I'd like to slaughter Ricky the pimp again. I thought about how I'd fight to keep this club intact and protect every last brother wearing my patch, how we'd butcher the Deads or anybody else who fucked with us.
I thought about anything and everything that didn't involve me throwing the covers off Meg, tearing her panties off, and sinking my cock deep inside the hot, warm hole I wanted to fill with every fiber of my being.
All the dirty, bloody thoughts in the dark ended when she rolled toward me. I felt her heat, her sweet young body, pressed into me as naturally as a kitten curling up to its mother. The soft whimper leaving her lips told me she was asleep, doing it unconsciously.
Fuck it. I couldn't lay there a second longer without feeling her.
I threw an arm around her waist and pulled her tight, silencing the lust in my blood. She craved comfort, and I'd give it to her, if only for tonight.
There was something strangely peaceful about having this chick huddled in my arms. Didn't change the fact it was confusing as shit. I hadn't even fucked her, and we were spooning like lovers – something I never did with the whores I bedded.
What the fuck?
I was still think
ing about how ironic life could be when the sandman finally caught up to me and dropped the five ton hammer on my head.
* * * *
The next day, everyone was frustrated. Both the prospects ran into trouble with their bikes in the morning, and half our crew spent the entire day fixing them up.
When I came in to clean up, streaked in grease and oil, I found her in my room, a notepad and pen in her hand. She'd barely opened her eyes and muttered a few words this morning. I'd left her the paper and told her to start working on a plan that would get her parents' attention, without getting our club busted by any boys with badges.
“Didn't know you were into mud running,” she said with a smirk, as soon as our eyes locked.
I gave her a stare. “You've still got your sense of humor. That's good. What else have you got?”
I walked over and ripped the notepad outta her hands. She yelped protest, but I ignored her as I flipped the pages, staring at a few lines of neat cursive scrawled several pages in.
It looked like the start of an outline, a bunch of question marks – never a good sign.
“Skin, give it back! I promise I'll read you everything. I'm having a hard time...”
“Yeah, no shit,” I said, my eyes scanning what she'd written. “Letter to the press...anonymous call from a truck stop...dropping you at the Knoxville police in nothing but a sheet and a note stuck to your back.”
I looked up as she grinned uncertainly. “Come on, baby. You're a smart girl. I know you can do better than this. What else have you got?”
“That's it,” she said, blushing.
Bullshit. The way she jumped up from the bed and started tearing at my hands when I flipped a few more pages said otherwise. I pushed her away easily and turned my back, only stopping when I flipped another page and saw my own face staring back in dark ink.
Shit. It was good for an amateur. She'd done me realistic, capturing my intense eyes and all the little details on my mug in all its glory. She'd even gotten the scar going down my cheek, the long gray line I'd taken in a knife fight several years ago with another drunken punk one fine night.
“Fuck me. What the hell is this?” I spun around, confronting her.
She looked like she wanted to sink to the floor. “I got bored. I used to sketch sometimes. It was a good way to pass the time at Ricky's place, and during long, boring lectures when I was in college. There isn't much to draw around here...so I did you.”
I snorted. She looked on in horror as I grabbed the page carefully and tore it out of her notebook, then a few more pages I threw at her as I folded up the drawing and stuffed it into my pocket.
“This is all you get. No more distractions. I need ideas, babe, and you're the one who knows your family better than we do. Let's get this thing done so you can go home.” I watched her nod weakly. “Relax. I ain't gonna throw you over my knee and spank your ass red or anything. Let's keep this professional.”
“Professional?” she repeated, a sharp edge entering her voice. “If that's what you want to call keeping me here against my will and asking for these stupid ideas on the fly – okay. Sure, I can do professional.”
Her sass pissed me the fuck off. Why couldn't she see I was actually trying to help her, trying to save both our asses from this quagmire I'd chosen to get us into by saving her from the Deads?
“Look, you're gonna do this for me, Megan. This isn't a negotiation.” I gave her my coldest look, forgetting about her wounded state. “I've got shit to do for the club. I'll bring you a burrito, and leave you alone to think so you can get some ink on paper.”
Her blue eyes flashed fire. Hate. I watched her bottom lip sink into her mouth, like drawing blood was the only thing keeping her from going at my face with her sharp little nails.
I turned around and walked the fuck out. Got a couple steps down the hallway before I heard her slam into the door.
Beating, punching, kicking, screaming.
She was so loud, so shrill, so desperate, my brothers heard it all the way in the bar. They looked at me like I'd just dropped some poor bastard in front of 'em. Sixty flashed an uneasy smile, before hiding it a second later behind a fresh shot of whiskey. Crawl pretended I didn't exist.
Firefly cocked his head as I sat down next to him. Our huge Enforcer looked at me, the dark, sandpaper stubble on his chin twitching.
Fuck his amusement. Fuck his laughter. This shit wasn't funny. Not for me, not for Meg, and not for the club.
“Brother, you've got one fuck of a problem on your hands,” he growled, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let her beat herself stupid. She'll give up after a few more minutes. These chicks only make it worse if they get their claws in you. Trust me.”
He talked knowingly. Just then, I didn't really give a shit. I grabbed the nearest bottle of cheap, off brand whiskey and popped the cap. There wasn't time for a shot glass. I filled my mouth with fire and pushed it down my throat.
Only a snort. I'd learned my lesson that first night with her in my room. Shit, she could've killed me while I was passed out cold on the floor from this cheap swill. She hadn't, though, and that said something too.
“Whatever. Getting my dick wet is gonna be the first thing on the agenda once she's handed me our cash. The Prez'll throw us a bone before we get down to business. We'll celebrate. We'll drink and have a hog roast, bring the old girls to the clubhouse.”
I wasn't kidding. I fully meant to fuck every drop of frustration out of my balls once my bird was mended and out of her cage.
No, fuck mended. That wasn't my problem. Her folks were rich – they'd buy her the best shrinks money could buy to get her head working again.
The second she walked outta this clubhouse, she wasn't my problem anymore.
Too bad you can't stop thinking about it, a dark voice said in the back of my mind, telling me how fucked I was. You care too damned much. That's dangerous.
“Sure, brother, just as long as the Deads don't crash our party first,” the Enforcer said, knocking back another drink.
I watched Firefly grab the bottle and polish off the kerosene before I could get a second shot. Fuck.
The guys laughed while I walked behind the bar and dug around, finding nothing but beers and half-depleted drink mix. Shit had officially gone from bad to worse.
I couldn't drink her away, couldn't fuck her out of my mind, not 'til she gave me what I needed. Worst of all, I couldn't stop thinking about her.
I swung my fist across our shell of a once proud bar. Several bottles crashed onto the floor and shattered. Firefly beamed death at me, shaking his head, his fist visibly flexing, a reminder that he wouldn't hesitate to keep shit in line, including me.
“Somebody tell Tinman or Lion to clean this mess up the next time you see 'em. I need to make a run.”
I made a hasty exit before they could give me anymore shit. Maybe I deserved it, yeah.
Maybe I deserved all this horseshit for letting her get to me, trying to play hero, landing the MC in deep.
I headed into town to pick up food, wondering if I'd have to fight her to eat later if I stopped at one of the little watering holes there to finish getting drunk.
I'd find some way to forget her, and all the nasty shit she made me think about. I had to, if I wanted to get through this alive and keep my sanity.
Poor, desperate, stubborn Megan wouldn't bring me down. I'd dump her off as soon as I could, collect the reward, and get on with the life I'd dedicated myself to.
She wouldn't strap me down on any big karma wheel and spin it 'til it ripped my damned limbs off. I'd always been a Pistol, by blood and by patch. I'd be one 'til the day I died.
I'd be a fucking fool if I let myself go to pieces over this ungrateful whore.
V: Caged Dove (Megan)
I wasn't sure when I finally gave up trying to beat down the door. The first few times I hit it, the rotten thing creaked and bounced on its old hinges, feeding my fantasies that I might actually smash my way out of here.
Of course it was insane.
I was too enraged to think about how I'd get through all the raging bikers outside, or how I'd ever find my way home if I escaped by some crazy miracle.
I embraced the anger, lived it until my shoulder burned so hot I couldn't even feel it.
Rage was all I had. When I was screaming and slamming my full weight into the door, hopeless and desperate, I didn't have to think about my miserable situation.
I didn't have to remember Ricky's vicious abuse, or how my friends and family hadn't done enough to track me down after I disappeared. Didn't have to remember I'd ended up as nothing more than bait for this disgusting motorcycle club, or how badly my stomach growled. It hounded me to shut up and take the food Skin would inevitably bring.
Skin. Fucking Skin.
Officially the last man in the world I wanted to think about, including Ricky.
I hated him, right down to the pale scar on his stupid self-righteous face. I hated the way my body reacted to him, the way I craved his warmth. I hadn't meant to roll into his arms last night.
It wasn't supposed to happen. And I definitely wasn't supposed to like it so damned much.
I'd woken up with him this morning, relishing his heat, feeling far safer than any woman should with a man holding her captive.
Truth be told, I hated him because he wasn't another greedy, abusive asshole like Ricky. He saved my life, and now I owed him and the rest of his nasty looking friends.
Moral gray area? Oh, yeah.
I couldn't sort the rights from the wrongs anymore. All I wanted was to go home and forget this nightmare forever, and if the bastard was going to make me plan everything out in meticulous detail, well...I would.
I'd show him I could get the money from my family with ease, if that's all it would take to get him out of my life forever. Ignoring the ache in my bruised arm, I flopped into the chair and picked up the pen and paper, using a magazine behind it for writing support.
I was completely ready to write down the first thing that came to mind. If my brain wasn't fresh out of ideas, stuck in this impossible situation.
