BUTCHER
Riding With Wolves, Book Three
FAITH WINSLOW
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 1
~ Lexi ~
Axe-grinder.
String-picker.
Shredder.
These are a few of the terms people sometimes use when talking about a guitarist or guitar player.
I guess they are meant to be good things, and each somehow implies that the guitar player is acting fiercely upon his or her instrument.
But, if you really wanna see fierce action upon an instrument, don’t look to the axe-grinder, string-picker, or shredder. Look to “The Butcher,” because that sexy son of a bitch grinds, picks, and shreds like no other… at least as far as L.A.’s backdoor music scene is concerned.
John Crane certainly wasn’t the best guitarist in the world, or in the country. And he probably wasn’t the best in California either, but when it came to L.A.—or, Central L.A., specifically, and Central L.A.’s dive bars, in particular—he was a living legend, and he really lived up to his nickname.
People called John Crane “The Butcher,” and I could see why. He cut some killer riffs and sliced some sweet progressions on his guitar, and what he delivered on the stage was meaty, raw, and visceral. I’d seen him play numerous times over the past few years, and I was always impressed. He really knew what he was doing, and you could just sense his connection with his instrument. It was a part of him, an extension of him, and he played it as such, which was not just entertaining but also incredibly moving.
Yeah, John was damn good at playing the guitar. And guess what? He also looked damn good doing it. He looked like one of the many cliché images that came to mind when you thought of a guitar player or an aspiring rock star. You know…a scruffy mop of brown hair, a chiseled face with eyes that could entrance a queen cobra, and a lean, muscular body. He had a constantly disheveled look about him, the kind that made you think he just rolled out of bed (and makes you wanna drag him right back in there).
But even with all this showmanship—with all his musical skill and poster-worthy good looks—there was something lacking when it came to John Crane’s “rock star” presence. He may have looked the look and talked the talk, but he didn’t walk the walk. When he wasn’t on the stage, he always stayed out of the limelight. He didn’t chase after chicks, party his socks off, or seek out compliments or flattery.
Usually, once his band—Broken Brother—ended its set, John Crane ended his evening. Maybe he’d stick it out for a quick beer or two, or hang around for a few minutes to talk with his bandmates, but he always did so in the shadows and maintained a modicum of quiet composure.
He was either an introvert or a misanthropist, but regardless, he certainly didn’t interact with many other people, and he certainly didn’t talk to strangers freely. He was aloof. Remote. Distant and detached. Standoffish. All told, he was a very mysterious person, or rather, quite simply, a mystery, and I wanted to unravel him…and tonight was going to be the night I yanked the cord and started.
Tonight was going to be the night that I finally talked to John “The Butcher” Crane. One way or another, we were going to have a conversation, and I wasn’t going to leave the place, or let him leave, until we did.
The Boneyard was packed, but I was going to do whatever it took to make my way to John Crane and make meaningful contact with him. Tonight was the night. No question. It was long overdue.
Now don’t get me wrong… It’s not as if I’m some crazy stalker or super-groupie. I do happen to be a fan of John Crane, as well as of Broken Brother, and I’ve followed their music for a few years, though over the past several months, I’ve followed it more intently.
A person can only be so aloof, so remote, so distant and detached, and so standoffish before it gets a little fucking annoying. I’d tried to talk to John Crane before—and, every time, he walked right past me, as if I wasn’t there, or worse yet…as if I didn’t matter. This was the backdoor L.A. music scene, baby, not Hollywood, Nashville, or the heart of Harlem! He was playing in dive bars on the outskirts of Central L.A. for Christ’s sake. Who was John Crane to have such a God complex?
Maintaining a comfortable distance from your fans was one thing, but completely ignoring them was another. Even though John Crane was damn good at playing the guitar—and looked damn good doing it—that gave him no right to treat the rest of us, out in the audience, as if we weren’t even human. We were his fans—or at the very least, the people who paid to see him perform—and we deserved something.
And all this fan wanted was a few words with the bastard—well, maybe more than a few words, but we won’t get into any of that just yet. Suffice it to say, I wanted a few words and was gonna get ‘em.
I didn’t know exactly what my plan of attack was going to be. After all, there were so many variables to consider, and most them couldn’t even be foreseen, let alone manipulated. I figured my best shot was to wait until Broken Brother was done with their set, rush over to wherever John Crane decided to spend his ever-so-brief post-show moment, stand between him and the door, shove my tits in his face, offer to buy him a beer, and introduce myself to him.
And…that’s exactly what I did. But, unfortunately, that’s when things got messy. John took me up on my offer and introduced himself to me…and I didn’t know what to do in response. In planning my loose plan of attack, I never actually thought I’d get that far and hadn’t even considered what could, or would, happen if I did.
Chapter 2
~ Butcher ~
There are plenty of perks to being an active, performing musician. Girls, free drinks, and drugs are the most obvious, of course, along with fame and fortune (or the potential for those things). But, call me crazy, because it ain’t any of these perks that have me hooked on the lifestyle. It’s something way more basic.
I fucking love to play guitar, man.
And if there’s any chance that you didn’t get that the first time, I’ll repeat it: I fucking love to play guitar, man.
For me, playing the guitar is something that I have to do. It’s like eating food, drinking water, sleeping, and taking a shit. If I don’t do it enough in any one day, I’m gonna get sick and suffer.
I’ve been playing ever since I was a kid, and for many years, I kept my music to myself and played only within my home. But then, one day, I discovered how awesome it was to play for others. And since then, it’s been like my drug, and I need to ge
t my fix on, even though I know it’s not good for me in the long run.
When you’re playing for an audience, you’re communicating with them through something that isn’t a part of you, something that speaks in sounds, not words or identifiable images. It feels really amazing to be able to do that. It makes you feel alive in ways you wouldn’t believe and sends a buzz right through your heart, mind, and body. And to tell you the truth, sometimes, it turns me on a little—especially when I haven’t gotten a piece for a while.
So that’s why, every once in a while, after a show, I’ll find myself craving pussy. I may not be in the industry for the girls, but the girls are definitely in it for guys like me, and I’d be a fool to pass on what they’re offering one hundred percent of the time.
That Friday night at The Boneyard just so happened to be one of those nights where I found myself craving pussy. I showed up to the show pumped and revved to go—in more than one way—and as I looked out over the people who’d assembled in gig area, I liked what I saw. There were plenty of fine pieces of ass to choose from, and I’d inevitably end up getting hit on by a good number of them.
But even though I liked my odds, as per getting laid, I did feel a little strange about the audience that night, just as I’d felt at our last couple of shows. Broken Brother has been going strong for almost five years now, and our fan-base has remained steady…and by “steady,” I mean that it has consisted of pretty much the same people the whole time.
Recently, however, there has been a surge of interest in us, and we’ve been drawing in new fans and listeners. Our shows attract more patrons these days, and not all of them are the type who necessarily fit in at a hard rock show in a biker bar in Central L.A.
I’m talking folks like yuppies and college students here. Ya know, the “sore thumbs” in a room full of middle fingers. They leave their prim and proper lives behind for a few hours and cross over into the bad part of town to hear music they can’t understand or follow. They’re pretentious and are there because it’s hip to be there, not because they have a passion for our, or any, music. They nod their heads, drink too much, and don’t even bother to dress appropriately for the occasion.
Yeah, I’m talking about those people. And those people have been coming out to our shows in record numbers…and I knew why.
Ya gotta understand. Since we started performing at bars, for a variety of reasons, Broken Brother has maintained what most people would consider a low profile. Other than running our show dates in local papers and occasionally hanging up fliers in a limited number of places, we really didn’t promote ourselves—and we certainly didn’t expect, or want, anyone else to do it for us.
But a little while back, one of those local papers did something more than run our show dates. They ran some joker’s review of one of our shows, which garnered us more fans—and more attention. Then, they ran another piece (written by that same joker) on music in L.A. It mentioned us and listed our dates, and sure enough, it brought us even more fans and attention…
And believe it or not, we weren’t really looking for either.
But, hey, what the hell, right? When life throws you lemons, you might as well make lemonade. And most of the asses this unwanted publicity brought in were ripe for the squeezing. Plus, if I was looking for a quick, one-nighter to get my rocks off, it was much better to do it with one of these fly-by-night fans than to do it with one of our steady regulars. There were already strings attached with our regulars, and I was after a no-strings-attached, casual-sex encounter.
So I knew what I wanted when I went out on stage that Friday night at The Boneyard—and I knew I was going to get it. It was just a matter of selecting who was going to give it to me. But as soon as I stepped of off the stage, fate stepped in and made that decision for me. A hot, tight little thing walked up in front of me with her tits aimed at my eyeballs. Her body begged to be touched, and her clothes begged to be torn, wrinkled, or stained.
She leaned into me, pressed those delightful titties up against my arm, and mumbled something in my ear. The only thing I heard amid all the noise was her offer to buy me a drink, and I breathed in her sweet perfume as I accepted. I could have looked all night and I wouldn’t have found a chick finer than this one, so I nodded my head to the universe, thanking it, as I wrapped my arm around that tight little thing and led her toward the “Private” section at the end of the bar.
I guess—amid all the noise—I hadn’t heard all that this girl had to say when she walked up to me. And I guess—amid all the noise—when I nodded my head to thank the universe, I didn’t hear when the universe responded. But if I had, I’d have heard the universe laughing.
Chapter 3
~ Lexi ~
“Everyone calls me Butcher,” John Crane said, arching his neck toward me.
We were in the “Private” section of the bar, which wasn’t much more private than the rest of the place. It was only a roped-off section of the room, behind which only the elite of the dive bar elite were allowed to drink their PBR pounders and bottom-shelf cocktails. It was still crowded, lacked ample seating, and smelled of sweat and urine—and it was still just as hard to hear and talk to Butcher there as it was when I first approached him closer to the stage.
“Everyone calls me Lexi,” I replied with a broad smile.
“Huh?” Butcher asked.
The next band had taken the stage already, and their music was loud, fast, and heavy. It wasn’t as good as Broken Brother’s, but it wasn’t all that bad.
“Lexi,” I repeated slower, articulating each syllable as if it were a long word.
Butcher grinned at me to let me know he understood and pressed his hand against the small of my back, guiding me toward the bar. He’d had his arm around me since he led me over to the “Private” section, and the feeling of having it there was really growing on me. There was something about it that felt electric, as if he plugged into my spine somehow and sent a pulse of energy through me.
When we got to the bar, Butcher held two fingers up to the bartender in the shape of a peace sign, and few seconds later, the bartender brought two bottles of beer over to us. Then, the two of them just stood there, waiting. The bartender was staring at Butcher, Butcher was staring at me, and I was looking back and forth between them.
Then it hit me, and I remembered—I’d offered to buy Butcher a drink.
“Oh,” I said, though I doubt either of them heard me. I reached into my bag, pulled cash out of my wallet, and threw a ten-dollar bill down on the counter. The bartender picked it up in a flash, took it to the register, and went on to serve another customer.
Butcher grabbed his beer and turned around. And just as I grabbed mine and turned too, he wrapped his arm around me again and placed his hand just above my hip, nudging me and steering me away from the bar. I went with the flow and let him direct me. It felt natural and organic, and I was lost in the moment.
I followed Butcher to the back of the “Private” section, and we managed to find an open high-top table against the back wall. However, there were no stools next to it. Apparently, the large party at the table next to us had taken them, and they obviously had no intention of giving them back.
Butcher shrugged off the lack of seating, leaned up against the wall, and rested his elbow on the back of the table. He took a long, slow drag from his bottle, and scanned his eyes over every inch of my body as he swallowed. The way he looked at me kind of made me feel like a piece of meat—and think of me what you will, but I kinda liked it. I’m all for women’s rights and equality, trust me, but I am, at the bottom line, a human, and most humans want to feel wanted, which is how Butcher made me feel as he eyed me over.
Our conversation definitely wasn’t going how I’d hoped it would—and it wasn’t really going anywhere at all, since we weren’t even talking—but nonetheless, I liked where things were headed with Butcher, and I was too into it to get back on track or change our direction.
Butcher set his beer down on the tab
le and stared directly at my tits before looking me in the eyes. He didn’t say a word, but his expression said, “Come here,” and I found myself uncontrollably moving towards him.
I did not stop until I was right up in front of him, with only an inch or two between us. I could feel the heat coming from his body. It hit me in waves and made me tingle.
I took a sip of my beer, too—a long, slow one—and kept my eyes locked on Butcher’s face as I did. He looked calm and cool, but at the same time, intrigued and eager—and he looked like he was jealous of my bottle.
As soon I was done with my sip, Butcher took my beer from my hand and placed it on the table next to his. Then he reached his hand up to my neck, cupped the back of my head, and pulled me forward, drawing me closer to him and bringing our faces—and mouths—closer together.
The next thing I knew, Butcher’s lips were on mine. He kissed me, hard and with passion, and I kissed him back, lapping my tongue against his as it entered my mouth. Making out like this in a bar wasn’t usually my thing, but I couldn’t resist once I got a taste of Butcher. He was sweet, sour, and oh-so hot, and the more of him I got, the more I wanted.
I pressed my chest up against Butcher’s, ran one hand up to his shoulder, and placed the other at his waist, atop his leather belt. I could feel his lips curl into a smile when I touched him there, but still, he didn’t break away from our kiss.
A few tongue-twisting, lip-smacking moments later and I was ready to drop to my knees, bend over, or jump up on the table and go spread-eagle. Butcher’s mouth had me spinning, and his hands had me reeling. He didn’t grope me or do anything inappropriate, but the way he lightly moved his hands, gently caressing me as we fervently kissed, drove me absolutely bonkers. I was putty in those hands, and I wanted him to mold me.
“It’s too loud in here,” Butcher said, peeling his lips from mine. It was the first time either one of us had spoken in minutes, and the first time I heard him clearly since we met. We were so close that there was no missing what the other said now, though there was still so much that was distracting. Butcher’s cock was rock hard, and it was pressing against me, digging into my belly. It felt sooo good; I couldn’t think, let alone speak straight—so instead, I simply nodded.
BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) Page 1
