They’ll have more opportunities to get on each other’s nerves at tomorrow’s Woodlands party. I usually stand back during those events and keep an eye on my mom, just in case something sets her off.
This time, though, I’ll be front and center. Might even fucking do a few “Saturday Night Fever” moves to show off my ass and the sexy woman who owns it.
PART 5: AIN’T NO PARTY... REDUX
MONROE
The community party at the Woodlands’ clubhouse is supposed to freak me out. I’m repeatedly warned about how badly the introduction of Pixie Yabo—honey to the club’s giant Sergeant at Arms—went years ago. Ambushed by Taryn and DeAnna, Anders’s honey got slapped around and shoved in a toilet while Wyatt’s idiot wife ended up with a broken nose. Meanwhile, Taryn suffered the sort of scratches and bruises only a whiner would whine about, and I heard she whined plenty.
“No fighting,” I promise Conor.
“Damn. Well, maybe I can get Barbie and Bambi to throw down. These things are boring otherwise.”
“Won’t there be free food and booze?” I ask as I shove my boobs into my bra. “There’ll also be music and a dance floor, too, right?”
Conor leans back on the bed and smirks. “You’re going to dance? Now, I’m interested.”
“Oh, I’ll be getting down and funky. I mean, why not? The next few months will be life and death, hit or miss for me. Why not have fun while I can?”
“Don’t speak negatively about the future. It’ll be so fucking bright that you’ll need to wear shades.”
When I frown, he explains the shades thing is from a song. Nodding, I slide my low-cut, chocolate brown dress over my head and wiggle it downward until the bottom seam reaches my knees.
“McNamee family parties are boring as fuck,” I explain while rubbing lotion on my bare legs to make them shine. “They served heavy beer and sour wine. The music was only Flogging Molly, and the food was all potato-and-beef-based. I’d be bored, angry-drunk, and on my way to constipation.”
Looking sexy as fuck in his black buttoned shirt and jeans, Conor admires me spinning in my flowy dress.
“Fun story, bro,” he murmurs. “Now, get naked and ride my dick.”
“No fucking way. Once stuffed into this dress, I’m not breaking free until you pry me out later. However, I will turn around and drop my panties for a quickie. Just promise to keep your sticky squirts off the dress.”
Conor proceeds to screw any concerns right out of me. Well fucked is the best way to show up to a party. People aren’t as obnoxious when you’re riding the wave of a powerful orgasm. Hell, I don’t think I even notice anyone’s side-glares or snide comments for the first hour.
The Woodlands’ clubhouse is swanky with a damn chandelier. Who would think bikers could go so glam? I assume their wives designed the contemporary-style décor. Gray walls, black wood floors, and so many windows. And in the middle of the room is a large table overflowing with catered food. Pixie insists I try the dumplings.
“They look disgusting, but they’re good,” the brunette promises, making me smile.
Pixie is such a weirdo that I immediately trust her. The former cultist hippie chick doesn’t care enough to lie. What she says is what she thinks.
However, the rest of the club brothers and their women are super fake friendly. I get complimented so much that I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
However, I get the distinct impression they’re not kissing my ass—or even Lowell’s—as much as Conor’s. He is, after all, the future big shit in Elko. I don’t really understand this motorcycle club’s hierarchy. However, back in Minton, the closer someone was to Uncle Clive, the more smooches their asses received. I assume Elko’s system is similar.
Barbie arrives late, tells me that I look fat, and Conor needs to watch his weight. Then, she stomps off to stand in the corner with Bronco, who I sense she’s now tormenting.
“She’s kinda too into me, you know?” I whisper to Conor, who nods.
“It’s so obvious that I’m even jealous.”
As much as I hate being on display, the party isn’t bad. The music is classic rock and danceable country. Conor keeps feeling me up. The food is great. People’s fake compliments fluff up my ego. Conor and I circle the room more than once, talking to people. Every time we reach her group, Pixie rats out the other honeys’ flaws.
“Bambi’s family is the worst,” she says and gestures toward the door.
Over an hour late, brassy-blonde Bambi, gray-haired-and-bearded Rooster, girly-faced Wyatt, ginger-bitch DeAnna, and princess-stank Taryn walk into the room. Bronco rolls his eyes when he sees them, which makes Lana laugh. Lowell stands stiffly, just as he has all evening. Topanga loses her plastic smile when she spots Bambi. I suspect she hoped they wouldn’t show up.
Wyatt flips off Conor before heading for the bar. Bambi gives an exaggerated wave to her sister while Barbie looks ready to throw a drink. As Bronco plays peacemaker, senior citizen Rooster seems oblivious to everything while making himself a plate of food.
Finally, I notice how Taryn and DeAnna are decked out in the kind of dresses skanks wear to weddings to show up the bride.
The queen bitches of Woodlands—or the “Woodlands weasels” as a particular hippie honey refers to them as—already tried messing with me this week during my one shift at Bambi’s Bar & Grill. They asked to sit in my section, of course. Then, the women started shit by changing their orders three times. Next, they claimed their drinks tasted weird and kept having them remade. Finally, I “tripped” on my way back to their table with the latest round of ice teas, which spilled on top of the two shitheads.
“Sorry,” I whined, sounding put out while they squealed and fished ice cubes from their laps.
Taryn nearly asked for the manager before remembering who I was. The bitches announced they wouldn’t pay for the food. I called the manager to ask if it was common for Bambi’s daughter to have her food comped. Well, voi-fucking-la! Taryn and DeAnna never pay for their meals. Freebies for Bambi’s favorite twats!
“Well, we’re not leaving a tip,” Taryn finally growled as they prepared to storm out.
“Wait, do you ever leave a tip?” I asked and started to wave over Lisa Leigh to inquire if the Woodlands weasels were stingy with everyone.
Taryn ended up calling me an “ugly whore” before storming out. Seemed about right. The only part that felt off was how passive DeAnna acted. Her reputation as a super twat is renowned in these parts. I was warned early on to avoid pissing off the stuck-up redhead. Maybe Pixie busting DeAnna’s nose taught the bitch how her face wasn’t made out of armor.
I assume they’ll leave me alone at the party, considering what happened with Pixie. Besides, I’m not an outsider hooking up with a club member. Lowell is my father, and I’m dating Conor. I assume these details will offer me extra protection.
Nope!
While Conor and I get our funks on to my favorite song—a.k.a. Lita Ford’s party anthem—Taryn and DeAnna walk right over to us. We try to ignore them while they shake their heads in unison. I finally realize the trolls won’t fuck off until they’re acknowledged.
“You look like a turd in that dress,” Taryn says, snarling like the trailer trash whore she was born to play.
“You look like a turd in every dress,” I reply, winking at Conor.
“Taryn, you seem a little bloated,” he points out, “and your forehead is blotchy. Is my little cousin on the rag?”
“I don’t like this bitch.”
“She doesn’t like you, either. Not that we’ve ever spent any time discussing you. We’ve been too busy fucking in our committed relationship. You should try conning a man to stay with you. Preferably one who doesn’t refer to you as ‘Terri.’”
“Cocksucker,” she hisses.
“Nice striking of nerve, lover,” I say, smiling at Conor.
No doubt, I got spoiled living in Minton. Only my male cousins really fucked with me, and that was mostly wres
tling. I’m not used to getting sucker slapped. At least this time, I wasn’t dumbly staring at my daddy. Instead, I’m hornily eyeballing Conor’s hot bod.
Taryn’s hand nails me on the same cheek Topanga hit. The slap’s sound stops the party. Or, at least, that’s how it feels.
Everyone looks at us. Topanga gasps dramatically. Bambi flashes a smile at Barbie, who snarls in return. Bronco might be grinning behind his hand. Lana looks shocked. Anders is just very large and doesn’t really react. An irritated Pixie shakes her head. I remember what the hippie told me earlier when she mentioned the fight with Taryn and DeAnna at her meet-and-greet.
“Don’t waste time kicking them in the vaginas,” the brunette muttered. “It doesn’t work.”
Accepting her advice, I skip the crotch shot. Instead, I ball up my hand and swing away. Taryn sees my fist coming. Her attempt at ducking fails, and I nail her in the left ear. She caterwauls like the horniest, most pissed feline in history. I glare at DeAnna and wait for her to make a move. Freezing, she covers her nose with the palm of her hand.
Fine, that just leaves the shit weasel in front of me. Taryn kicks off her heels and balls up her fists.
“Big mistake, bitch. My daddy showed me how to fight.”
Conor leans down to my ear and asks, “Should I break this up?”
“No, I’m good. My uncle showed me how to fight, too. Let’s do this thing,” I say, kicking off my heels and shaking out my shoulders.
“Someone should break this up,” Topanga announces to the room while nudging her husband.
Frowning at his president’s laughter, Lowell mutters, “They’re adults.”
Taryn throws a punch and then another. She’s faster than me and hits hard. I manage to dodge most of her strikes. Yet, one nails me square in the right cheekbone while another gets me on the left side of my jaw.
Despite my throbbing face, I catch on to her technique quickly. That’s why I go low with my punches. My fist nails her in the left tit and then the gut. The second one leaves her a little breathless. Sensing she might be willing to quit, I pretend to be struggling.
“Maybe we should stop,” I mumble, through fake gasps.
When Taryn lets her guard down, I throw an uppercut and send her back on her ass. Standing over her, I smile. “I don’t know about your daddy, but my uncle taught me to cheat.”
“Hot damn, that was sexy,” Conor says, clapping approvingly.
Before I can receive a triumphant kiss, Wyatt rushes from across the room and tackles Conor. Time slows down as my man’s head bounces off the ground. My confidence evaporates. Should I help him? Will that make him look bad in front of the other men? Do I give a shit what they think?
No, no, I really don’t.
Reaching over to the nearby table, I grab a plate of food and throw it at Wyatt. Fighting him won’t work, though. He’s too big. Yet, I do distract him long enough for Conor to stagger to his feet.
When Wyatt reaches for me, Lowell barks out his name. The younger man stops to look at the VP he ought to obey. The rage in Wyatt’s blue eyes flares hotter. I see such hatred for my father in that asshole’s gaze.
Then, Conor slams into Wyatt, taking him to the ground. Before I can react, Taryn shoves me. DeAnna kicks out her leg, tripping me and sending me hard on my ass.
“We can cheat, too, cunt,” Taryn sneers through bloodied lips.
“I see that,” I say, scrambling backward past DeAnna and through onlookers. “By the way, I’m breaking the redhead’s fat nose.”
Now, I’m no superhero badass with kung fu moves. I also didn’t get pounded on growing up like my mom did. However, Clive’s boys—Brian Clive and David Clive—didn’t give me an ounce of slack when roughhousing.
“Your tits don’t make you immune to payback,” they’d say when I wronged them somehow.
Every time, I would file away those grudges for a rainy day. Now, I let them free and focus my subsequent rage on Taryn and DeAnna.
First, I grab a drink from a middle-aged honey’s hand and throw it at DeAnna. The dumbass redhead freaks out and hides under the buffet table. Even with my path to Taryn clear, I don’t run at her. She’s clearly pumped. Her mind is likely racing as fast as her heart. She’s aware of Conor and Wyatt beating the shit out of each other nearby. Everyone’s eyes are on them or us. She has an audience to cheer on her win or laugh at her loss. These people matter to her. To save face, Taryn won’t go down easily.
Of course, these same people are essentially strangers to me. I won’t feel included if they cheer my win, and my heart won’t be broken if they boo me. I plan to let my temper run free and see where shit lands.
When I rush Taryn, she backs up slightly, changes her mind, and then braces for my attack. I throw a punch, purposely missing. She takes the bait, ducking my hit and leaving her gut open. That’s her weak spot. I punch her hard, hurting my knuckles on her rib cage. When Taryn leans forward from the strike, I headbutt her with such intensity that I nearly knock myself down.
I’m not surprised when she hits the ground and stares dazed. That headbutt move even stopped David Clive when he wouldn’t stop tickling me last year. Uncle Clive applauded while his son stared stunned, much like Taryn does now.
I sit back on the ground before remembering how I owe DeAnna a broken nose. Seeing me crawling toward her, the little bitch scurries away like a scared rabbit. I stand and take off after her while the rest of the party descends into chaos.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Conor and Wyatt still battling. Their mothers are throwing down not far away. Bronco tries to break up his sisters’ fight until they threaten his dick. Then, he backs off and lets them have at it.
Grabbing hold of DeAnna’s hair, I yank her toward me before shoving her back at an approaching Taryn. The two women fall together, tangled limbs keeping them from regaining their balance. I adjust my dress and get ready to throw myself on top of them. I don’t really have a plan. I just hope to keep hurting them until one of us gives up.
“Stop, bitch,” Taryn growls, holding her head after pushing DeAnna off her. “Just stop.”
“I haven’t broken her nose yet.”
“Do it later.”
Moving for them again, I mutter, “Fuck that shit. I’m breaking both of your noses now.”
“We’ll break yours!” DeAnna yells.
Taryn startles me by elbowing her sister-in-law in the face. “Shut up, dipshit.”
While the redhead holds her bloody nose and cries, Taryn gets to her feet and walks off.
“That’s it?” I ask no one in particular.
I receive only silence. The club brothers and their honeys are far too focused on the other more violent clubhouse fights. My catfight with these bitches barely gets a glance. No boos or applause. Way to make a girl feel invisible.
CONOR
Wyatt’s been a pain in my ass since we were kids. We’ve never been friends. I tolerate him. He often says he tries to tolerate me, but I’m too annoying. Aunt Bambi claims I’m scarred from growing up without a dad, despite my father dying when I was a young adult. Barbie claims Wyatt is scarred from owning an ugly woman’s face. The quiet hostility nursed by the sisters all their lives naturally transferred to their kids.
Today, the quiet part bails. Wyatt uses his sister’s battle with Monroe as an excuse to attack me. He’s dying to show the founding members how he’s a bigger badass. But Bronco didn’t become president based on his fighting skills alone. He was smarter than the other guys, too. No way is Wyatt beating me in a thinking battle.
Though after my head smacks the floor, I might be dumb enough to make things more level between us.
“You gonna cry?” Wyatt mocks as my head swims.
Seeing the asshole ready to attack while I’m down, Monroe throws a plate of food at him. My cousin doesn’t get any prettier with shrimp in his hair. I force myself to sit up when I notice Wyatt moving for Monroe. Someone calls his name. Lowell, maybe? The mood before trou
ble broke out makes me think no one will step in to stop the fighting. If I want Wyatt to submit, I’ll need to do the deed myself.
Still feeling woozy, I don’t dare throw punches. Instead, I tackle Wyatt. His head meets the same floor as mine did. I see pain flash in his blue eyes, even as his fist digs into my rib cage. I realize I’ll lose if I don’t create distance until my brain unscrambles. Crawling over him, I’m careful to grind my knee against his balls. I know I hit my target when he wails as loudly as his sister does when she ends up on the floor.
I wish I could enjoy Monroe kicking ass, but I’m too busy kneeing Wyatt in the face as I break free of him. Struggling to my feet, I instruct my brain to get organized. I’m on the clock here. No time to deal with the world spinning.
“Need a barf bag, boy?” Bambi taunts, clearly pissed that I injured her son’s floppy balls.
“Watch out,” Rooster tells his wife.
Too late! My mom punches Bambi in the cheek and shoves her toward her man.
“I’m killing you today,” Barbie warns her sister.
I don’t have time to watch them throw down. Holy hell! Two chick fights are taking place, and I can’t enjoy either one.
Based on how quickly Wyatt returns to his feet, I don’t think his head hit the floor nearly as hard as mine did. I might not win this battle. My woman will be disappointed and dump me for another, more worthy man. The club will decide I’m unfit to be president and force me to become Wyatt’s VP. My mom will wonder if I was switched at birth with her real, tougher son. Fuck that shit. No way am I losing this fight.
I swing around and duck Wyatt’s punch. He’s a sloppy fighter—all wrath and ego with very little strategy. I use his faults to my benefit. I dodge his attacks for the next minute or two. By the time my brain regains control of itself, Wyatt’s only managed to kick me in the ass and scrape my shoulder.
“Genetics are weird,” I say, cracking my neck to each side. “You look like your mom, and Taryn looks like Rooster. Pretty fucking creepy.”
Frost (EEMC) Page 13
