by Mackenzy Fox
But this is different. Miss Morgan now owns this joint, and if she’s smart she’ll realize she has us by the balls.
Hutch always has to be right. Always. And he isn’t going to let a woman come into his Church that he’s spent over half his life running and keeping legit and tell him what to do, especially a beautiful, twenty-something-year-old beauty queen from the golden state. Not going to happen.
I almost feel sorry for her. If I didn’t want to bone her so bad I might, actually, but I can’t stop looking at her. Picturing her hair loose and my mouth at her neck is rendering me speechless... and rock hard.
“That just isn’t going to be possible,” Hutch mutters. “We will discuss the counteroffer, and once we’ve done that, Steel will deliver it and our terms in person.”
She blinks a couple of times as if digesting what he’s just said. Surprisingly, she doesn’t move to leave as most people would after that blunt dismissal. She just stares back.
“Counteroffer?” She fires back, repeating his words.
Hutch sits back in his chair and studies her. He’s a fairly big man, not bigger than me, but intimidating enough. To emphasize his point, he crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes as if he’s not understanding why she’s still sitting here.
“That’s what this is, Miss Morgan, a negotiation.”
She doesn’t let up. “I’m confused. When you say, ‘delivering your terms’, what terms would those be exactly?”
Hutch doesn’t miss a beat.
“Well, given the fact that the club has built this building from the ground up with our own funds from its previously dilapidated state, no depreciation, for example, has been taken into account for what we’ve put in.”
She clasps her hands together tightly.
“Depreciation is claimed on your taxes though, right? It’s not something that would be reflected in the price of land or its value. In fact, it has nothing to do with it. If you chose to use money of your own to rebuild and renovate this building, that was between you and Max. So, I don’t see how it’s relevant, to be frank.”
Fuck. She’s smart. I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from smirking. We all stare and can’t quite believe the words that just came out of her mouth. She has no idea who she’s dealing with, and she doesn’t seem to care.
Hutch’s jaw twitches. He isn’t used to anyone, especially a woman from out of town, firing back at him like that or posing any kind of challenge.
I try not to stare at her chest as her breathing becomes more rapid. This is getting more delicious by the second, and I don’t like where my thoughts are going but I can’t help it. She’s hot.
“Like I said, we’ll be in touch,” he says with finality, frost in his tone.
“Right,” she counters, then glances at the woman next to her, completely ignoring the dude on the other side. “Well, we’ll see ourselves out then. Thank you, Mr. Hutchinson, for your….time.”
I like the sarcasm, but Mr. Hutchinson sounds so wrong. I like her. She’s got spunk.
He gives her a curt nod.
“See you around,” Gunner calls after her. Bones snickers across the table, shaking his head.
The assistant gathers the remaining contents of the paperwork together messily while I stare at Miss Morgan’s perfect ass as she disappears.
I glance over to Brock, who just sits there shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, an amused look plastered on his face.
“Nice piece of pussy,” Gunner remarks before anyone can cut in. “Wouldn’t mind getting me some of that.”
“Didn’t know you did redheads,” says Bones, referring to the lawyer lady, whatever her name was. More laughs ensue.
Gunner rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair. “Funny fucker,” he mutters.
“Keep it in your pants,” Hutch replies. He sounds exasperated and definitely not pleased. “We don’t need sexual harassment charges on us. She doesn’t even realize she’s got us by the balls, and I’d like to keep it that way. She might be a sweet piece of ass, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you charm the pants off her and blow this whole thing. The last thing I need is some crazy bitch disgruntled because you wanted to chase some tail and didn’t call her in the morning.”
“Gunner hasn’t charmed anyone in his entire life,” says Rubble. “Let’s be real here.”
“I think what I have in mind might actually sweeten the deal, for everyone concerned,” Gunner laughs like he’d be doing this poor, unsuspecting chick a favor. “She might be a little bit more flexible about things when I’m done with her.”
I don’t know why I want to punch his face right now. Maybe it’s because I like her... or maybe it’s because someone should fuck up Gunner’s face just so he’ll give it a rest for a while. He can’t rely on personality alone; he needs his looks.
“Not with this girl,” I mutter.
All eyes fall on me.
“She’s too smart for you anyway, brother,” I add. “A woman like that won’t jump into bed with you or anybody, that I can guarantee. She’s too prim and proper, she’s a ball buster, and she ain’t gonna go down without a fight. I know her type.”
“I’d like to see her prim and proper on the end of my…”
“Steel’s right,” Hutch cuts in before we all get an unwanted visual of what Gunner’s about to describe. “She’s not exactly stupid, which is a shame because it would make life a hell of a lot easier. If she’s inherited Max’s pig-headedness this could be a long, drawn out process.”
Groans roam around the table. He’s right.
“What’s the plan of attack?” Bones asks. “What’s the offer?”
“More than we should pay,” Hutch grumbles. “We’re better off riding this out, getting the bank to foreclose, and moving in with a dirt cheap offer. What she’s asking is more than fair in this current economic climate, but I don’t feel like playing fair right now. Max fucked with me for too long, and someone has to pay. It’s a pity that it has to be his pretty daughter, but life isn’t fair... plus, I don’t really give a shit.”
“Should we be riding this out?” Brock asks, concerned. “I mean, prime real estate in this town doesn’t come around too often.”
Hutch gives him a pointed look that says everything. “Who is honestly going to dare to outbid the Rebels?”
That is an extremely good point. Nobody in this town is going to go in and undercut Bracken Ridge MC, or Richie Hutchinson for that matter. They’d have to be demented... or suicidal. While the club is completely legitimate, there is still an element of fear around the MC where outsiders are concerned. Although, they don’t seem to mind too much when donations are needed for charity events or town projects. Oh yeah, they are happy for the Rebels help then.
The club has been established in Bracken Ridge for over thirty years, but it had taken Hutch a good ten years to drag the club’s name out of the dirt and stop all the illegal shit going down. This meant other members had come and gone; some were locked up and some just dropped off the radar. Now we all have businesses and work, no illegal shit and definitely no drugs. Too many brothers over the years had been into guns and drugs and ended up in a concrete box or six feet under. No one sitting around this table wants any of that shit going down again. It just isn’t worth it.
“You got intel on her?” Hutch asks me.
“Yeah,” I reply, offended he even has to ask. “Not much to tell, she’s an ex-banker or some shit from Cali, an only child, single, no kids, and she’s got a fucking degree in business management. So she knows money and obviously has some smarts, not your average blow in, lord knows why she’s bartending.”
“She was definitely well put together,” Rubble remarks.
I leave out the intel on her personal life that I’d stumbled upon. I wish I’d left the single part out, too, on Gunner’s account.
Ever since I first laid eyes on her ten days ago, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. One thing is for
sure though, I sincerely doubt she wants any biker action.
Brock sighs. “So, what’s next?”
“We send back a ridiculous counter,” Hutch retorts, like it’s obvious. “And if she refuses, then we won’t budge. If it’s a war she wants, then she’s got one. Max owes this club, and we’re going to get our dues, brothers, that I can promise you.”
Agreement goes around the table. Hutch pounds the gavel and sits back, satisfied.
Then he turns and points at me. “You’re going to deliver the new counteroffer.” He turns just as swiftly to Gunner and then points at him. “And you’re going to keep it in your pants at least for the moment, you got me?”
“This sucks,” Gunner mutters like a little girl.
“Until the deal is done,” Hutch grunts. “Then I don’t give a flying fuck where your dick lands. Chase her out of town for all I care.”
I bite back my bark at that thought. What do I give a shit what Gunner does anyway? I mean she is just another piece of ass, a challenge for him, another notch on his belt. That shouldn’t bother me at all; I was the same at his age. She probably found him attractive; most women do.
“You got that?” I say as we stand, glancing at Gunner. He’s not amused, but I like winding him up; it keeps him on his toes. “What little Miss Morgan doesn’t realize is she needs a real man to soften the blow, not some pretty boy hotshot who can’t even grow a decent amount of facial hair and has nipple piercings.”
“I know what she’ll be blowing,” he counters, smiling sarcastically. “Just because we’re not all mountain men doesn’t mean we’re useless.”
“You’re too fuckin’ pretty. That’s your problem. Chicks want a bit of rough, not Keanu fuckin’ Reeves.”
“Bite me.”
Then I grab my junk for good measure. “They don’t call me Steel for nothing, bro.”
“Shut the fuck up, the pair of you,” Hutch bellows. He crosses out the amount typed neatly on the purchase offer and scribbles some stupid amount that even I balk at, then shoves the papers at me. “Nobody’s sticking nothing nowhere, got me? Now get out of my sight and go bicker like little schoolgirls somewhere else. And Steel, when you’ve got her answer, call me. Until then, I don’t want to see or hear from either of you.”
We shove each other around until we get to the door, and he insists I go first because of “age before beauty”. I elbow him hard in the stomach, winding him as he curses me under his breath. Pussy boy.
“Good thing you got looks, brother,” Rubble grunts, barging past Gunner and shoving him into the door too, injuring his shin and causing him to curse some more. “Cause you’re shit at comebacks and even worse at growing a beard.”
I laugh, leaving Gunner cursing both our names and wander to the lot out back to retrieve my Harley and get home to my baby.
3
Steel
The workshop is locked up by the time I get home. Steelman’s Mechanics is my own business, one I started a couple of years ago after investing in Rubble’s tow truck shop in the adjoining building. We'd both worked every shitty shift in the universe to make his business viable, and then in turn he’d helped me build the workshop from the ground up. Now we share the lease on both the buildings. Fixing cars and bikes is my day job, but restoration is my real love --- my passion --- although I don’t get to do a lot of custom jobs around here.
My other love is my dog Lola, my baby. She looks up from where she lies between the office door and the couple of steps down into the workshop. She has a good vantage point from there and can see everything. Her tail wags wildly when she sees me, but she’s too lazy to get up. I sigh as I see the pink headband around her head with a flower attached. My sister Lily or one of the other club girls has clearly been here today. This is what they do: replace the skull bandanas I put on her with frilly, girly shit, just to annoy me.
My dog’s a rescue, a pit bull ex-bait dog that I’d taken in some years back as a foster, but she’d never left. She wasn’t a fighter, which was why she had half the side of her face ripped open and had to be rushed to emergency surgery after she was dumped on the side of the road. Her sack of shit owner had deemed her useless and too costly to fix. Subsequently, she lost one ear and almost an eye on the same side, yet somehow the vet had managed to save her, which was basically a miracle. They’d literally sewn her face back together, when any other vet probably would have put her down.
I didn’t mean to keep her. I’ve fostered quite a few dogs over the years with the local shelter in town I help, Faux Paws. I just prefer a dog's company to that of humans’. They don’t judge you; they just accept all your flaws. She’s helped with my night terrors, something I used to get every damn night after returning from my tour in Afghanistan. Without her, I probably would’ve had a gun down my throat at that period of my life; things were bleak back then.
I tracked down the dog fighting ring she’d belonged to with a bunch of other keen dog lovers, including my club brother Rubble, and we’d gone at the perpetrators with a baseball bat. They wouldn’t be harming anybody again, that’s for sure, and the illegal dog-fighting ring was shut down.
Sometimes the club likes to dish out their own form of punishment to those who deserve it, and most of the time it isn’t pretty. I never harm anybody innocent or anybody who doesn’t deserve it, but jail is too good for those sons of bitches or anyone that can knowingly inflict that kind of torture on a living being. It boils my blood like nothing else can.
“Hey, baby,” I say. I take the four steps up to the office level, kneel, and rub behind her good ear as she rolls her head into my hand. I continue this daily ritual under her neck too, just how she likes it. “How’s my little angel?”
She whimpers in response, licking my hand as her tail whips around madly. I don’t know what she sees in me, but I’m grateful every day to have her.
She’s the most perfect dog I’ve ever seen: white with a bit of black around her face and a dark patch over her good eye that makes her look like a badass. She does look kind of mean, but she’s like me; her bark is way worse than her bite, not that I’d admit that to anyone. Despite her distrust of humans, she took to me right away. Maybe we clicked because we were so similar. We were both broken back then.
I rip the pink thing off her head, pull a skull bandana out of my back pocket, and place it around her head. She likes something around her noggin where her scars are. She’d had to wear a compression headband bandage for six months after her operation, then whined when we took it off. I guess she’s just gotten used to having something there, and it’s now like a comfort thing for her. I just don’t like the soft, pink, pretty shit. We’ve been doing this for years with the headbands, and so far neither me or the club girls have backed down. I’m determined to make her a biker bitch, and they’re determined to make her a princess.
I live above the workshop in the small, adjoining apartment. It’s convenient, and it has all I need. Plus, I save on rent.
“Come on, girl,” I say, heading to the flight of stairs that leads to the apartment. “You hungry?”
Her head whips up, and she suddenly jumps up like a spring chicken and flies past me up the stairs. She always acts so lazy and useless, until it’s dinner time, then she’s a puppy again.
I sigh, thinking about going to the Stone Crow later, although I’ve had worse jobs to deal with and this by comparison is a piece of cake.
I switch the lights on when I get upstairs and Lola is already at her empty bowl, moving up and down the kitchen impatiently, growling and snuffing at me to hurry up. I snort a laugh, toss my phone, wallet, and keys on the countertop, and reach for the fridge handle to pull out a beer and the container of dog food at the same time. I eye some lasagna in a glass dish that somebody left in there; I don’t cook very often so it was definitely not me. I flip the lid off my beer using the edge of the countertop and take a swig. Lola brushes up against my legs, looking up at me like she’s never been fed in her entire life.
&nb
sp; I can smell strong disinfectant, meaning one of the girls or sweet butts has been in today to clean too while they were at it. A few things are out of place in the living room.
Sweet butts, the girls who hang around the club hoping for more, take turns cleaning my joint. It’s always neat and orderly to begin with, though, something I’ll never grow out of from being in the military. But I don’t clean shit like bathrooms and kitchens; that’s women’s work, and anyway, they do a much better job than any prospect could ever do. I shudder at the thought of one of those turds being up here in my place, no thanks.
I pick the enormous empty dog bowl off the floor and even though it appears clean, I wash it again, just to be sure. Then I pile in shitloads of the meaty concoction I bought in bulk from some lady in town who makes organic fuckin’ dog food that Lola loves. I mean, I wouldn’t eat shit that comes in a can, so why should she? I put the bowl down, and she automatically sits and looks up at me, waiting for my command.
“Okay, baby girl,” I say as she devours her food in record time.
My apartment is pretty small; it has the kitchen, a living room with a TV so big it’s obscene, two bedrooms, a tiny laundry, a bathroom, and a balcony... not that there’s much to look out on except a deserted street at this time of night.
I walk into the living room, switch the TV on for some background noise. I then straighten up the remote controls back in the correct order, right the coffee table that’s been moved to vacuum, and then place the TV guide back to the left of everything, where it belongs. Yeah, I have slight OCD where belongings are concerned. I remove my cut and place it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, undress, and saunter naked to the shower.
