Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  “I was offered an administrative role in my old unit, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted the challenge, I wanted…” The exhilaration. The thrill. The knowledge I was doing what very few could. I don’t try and explain. If captured, all someone would need to do to render me helpless is take my hearing aids away. I shrug. “I took medical retirement and decided to visit the US.”

  “Where you found your place and stayed.”

  He’s looking at me with a look on his face I’m not able to interpret.

  6

  Road…

  I don’t know what to say. I’d watched her face while she was telling me her history. So many emotions had gone across her features. Pride when she told me she’d succeeded in something very few could, especially given her sex. Then sadness when she told me that, like me, she’d suffered the loss of a dream. Though hers puts my minor inconvenience into perspective.

  What kind of woman, person, come to that, must she be to have achieved all that she had? No wonder she’d had Stormy on the ground in seconds flat, she’d have to be an expert at unarmed combat. To stand her ground through the types of interrogation techniques I can only imagine, hell, even Blade wouldn’t break her. She’s so fucking strong, mentally and physically. My first thought when I’d seen her had been that I wouldn’t mind getting in her pants. Now I know she’s so far out of my league that just me thinking about it seems obscene.

  I realise I’m staring, my face blank, as I search for something to say.

  “What are you thinking, Road?”

  I reply honestly, “I’m thinking you’re fuckin’ amazing. I’m thinking you’re more than qualified to ride in an MC. You put me and most of the men I know to fuckin’ shame.”

  “You?” Her head tilts. “What do you mean?”

  I huff. “Look at you. If a man came to the club with half the qualifications you’ve got, any MC would snap him up. Me?” I gesture toward myself. “I’ve just about scraped through my GED, I’ve no qualifications, I haven’t even served. I’m nothing but muscle, a grunt.” I flex my arm demonstrating that I’m definitely that.

  She opens her mouth to respond, when another voice interrupts.

  “Well, you haven’t killed him yet.”

  Glancing up at the man who’s just placed a beer on the table and is pulling up a spare chair, I see he’s grinning.

  “Name’s Bolt.” Automatically, knowing I’ve already pissed off the men in this club by just breathing, and having heard Swift’s story, I'm wondering if they’re of the same calibre as her. So, with less confidence than I arrived with, I hold out my hand.

  Automatically, he takes mine and shakes it. Something about his feels odd. While his fingers curl around mine with just the right pressure, the skin is ultra-smooth, and cold to the touch. I focus on it, trying to see what’s wrong.

  “It’s prosthetic,” he tells me dismissively, eyeing my interest, stating it as though it’s of no matter at all. “Left the original in Afghanistan.”

  “Jeez,” I breathe out. “That sucks.”

  “Nah. I got used to it. Thanks to the club, this is all singing and dancing. And I don’t have to worry about getting my fingers trapped in a door.”

  “Yes you do.” Swift’s eyes narrow. “We’ve told you this, Bolt. That thing was bloody expensive. It was a prototype model. You break it, we might not be able to replace it.”

  “When you shook my hand,” I observe, “it was as if you could feel mine.”

  “I can.” He leans forward, picking up the beer bottle unerringly. “It works with my own nerves. Just as you’d grasp anything, your brain computes what pressure to use. The touch sensors in the fingertips tell me when I’m successfully holding something.” His eyes meet those of Swift’s. “This is a new experimental model, but I can do just about everything I could with my real one.”

  “Even wank,” she puts in, indelicately.

  “That too.” Bolt grins and winks at her. “But I stayed well away from my apparatus until I was completely certain. Didn’t want to squeeze too hard and not be able to open my fingers back up. I waited until I knew I had good control.”

  I have to bark a strangled laugh at the look on his face. Yeah, being a man I’d be cautious too, wouldn’t want to have an artificial hand locked around my junk.

  “Was it a long learning process?” I’m interested, then clarify, “I mean the whole using the hand thing, not jerking yourself off.”

  “Let’s just say, I’ve broken more than my fair share of eggs.” Bolt doesn’t seem bothered talking about what could be regarded as a disability. But then, he doesn’t appear to regard it that way.

  “What would worry me,” Piston comes over and also pulls a chair up, “is what if the electronics get jammed? There you are, stroking your dick and all of a sudden your hand closes. Squeezes your damn cock right off.”

  Bolt rolls his eyes. “I can load, fire a pistol, fight. Write with a pen and use a keyboard. But how my prosthetic feels on my cock is all these fuckers ever ask about.”

  Piston chuckles and slaps his back. “Don’t really even think about it anymore, Bolt. You’re still the same asshole you were before.” He turns to me. “Hey, Road. See you’ve got yourself a new tourer. How are you finding it?”

  In the meeting, Piston hadn’t even acknowledged he knew me. But here, sharing beers, it’s like being with any other set of brothers. But I can’t forget, when I’d seen him in his role as road captain, he perpetuated the lie that Snatcher was their president.

  I’m still wondering what that’s all about. As I answer his innocuous question, my mind races in the background. Swift may be exceptional, but they’ve hidden that they’ve got a female member. Snatcher’s not the prez, the stranger, Pip, is. What else is going to turn up if I keep lifting stones to see what’s underneath?

  Sure, on the surface, companionably drinking and chewing the fat is the same as I’d expect as a visitor to any chapter, but for all intents and purposes, I’m being kept incommunicado and a prisoner. I’ve got to remain on my guard. I’d told them I’d stay and see where they were at, Which suits my purpose and Drummer’s. So for now, I’ll go along with that plan.

  “Are you really the road captain?” I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes.

  “Me?” Piston laughs. “Yeah. That’s my job.”

  He gets a bit of ribbing from Bolt about a time he got coordinates muddled up and sent them miles out of their way to the wrong location, while I just sit back, slowly sipping my drink and observing.

  The evening proceeds. A few more beers are downed, by them, I’m purposefully limiting myself. I meet Duty and Honor who seem to come as a pair, but whether they’re like my brothers Joker and Lady, I have no idea nor care, I wouldn’t have any issues one way or another. I also meet Cowboy who seems serious and quiet. A couple of times I try to turn the conversation to how the club brings its money in, but the discussion either gets neatly turned back to bikes or they ask questions of me, about racing or my injuries. In the end, I’m defeated and stop bothering to pry. They are clearly not going to enlighten me, and all I’m doing is wasting my breath.

  Swift challenges me to a game of pool, and I manage to best her, though it’s not an easy victory. At darts, she wins, but it’s no matter, I’m not one of those men who feels they have to prove themselves at games.

  “You’re good,” I tell her, as she tells me the numbers she’s aiming for, then watch impressed as her darts landing exactly where she’s said. It’s as though she’s giving them instruction. Me? I’m just lucky if they hit the board.

  “I was brought up in an English pub,” she tells me. “Played darts from the time I could hold them. Played on the pub team as soon as I was old enough.”

  “I suspect they were glad you were playing with them and not against them.”

  She concentrates, throws a dart and hits the bullseye. “Uh-huh. The bar was lined with trophies.”

  “Your parents run it?”

  “They did. Bu
t it was a country pub, and as the drink-driving laws got enforced, people stopped driving out to get a drink. Business fell off, and eventually it wasn’t profitable anymore. Of course, by then, it couldn’t be sold as a going concern as no one wanted it.” Pain flicks over her face. “The building was demolished, and a couple of houses were built there instead.”

  “So your family home was gone?”

  She nods. “Seems a waste, but time moves on.”

  “Your folks still alive?” When she raises her chin, I ask the natural follow-on question. “They mind that you live so far away?”

  “I’ve been independent since I was eighteen, so they kind of expected they wouldn’t see much of me when I grew up. I go back and see them from time to time.”

  If I had parents, I think I’d visit often, or perhaps, I’d have ended up taking them for granted. Who can say? I was abandoned as a baby, put straight into the system. I’d like to say I was adopted and grew up happy, but that wasn’t how things played out. Instead, I first was fostered by a family who wanted a baby. When I started to grow, they decided I wasn’t so cute as I was, and gave me up. What followed was a chain of foster homes, some better, some worse, some downright terrible. I was no stranger to bruises and broken bones.

  “Did you ever want to try to trace your birth mother?” With that sentence, she reminds me she already knows all the facts about me.

  Track down the woman who made my formative years a misery when she left my future to chance? I’ve thought about it, wondering why she’d given birth to me only to give me up. More than once, there’d been times I’d wished I’d never been born.

  “No.” I give her the truthful response. Even if I were to find her, what purpose would it serve to hear the sob story that led to my sorry existence? To return, not as the baby she’d given up, but the man who’d lived despite the harsh conditions I’d had to survive. To give her the pleasure of seeing the boy grown up without her having the burden of raising me. In my mind, she didn’t deserve a happy reunion. I also didn’t deserve to be made to feel worse, to discover in the same way as she hadn’t wanted me as a baby, she also might not be impressed with the reminder years down the line. Nah, no reunions happy or otherwise are in my future.

  As the evening goes on, glad I’ve kept sober, I take my chance to watch and learn. I note Swift is treated just like one of the men, which no longer surprises me. Now knowing her background, it’s clear to see she fits right in. Her in-depth knowledge of bikes and even my own sport means that after a while I find I’m able to ignore that she’s got a decent, if small, pair of tits and other attractive assets, and instead, I’m talking to her as I would any brother back home.

  Except there’s one question that I don’t feel right to ask until Swift excuses herself to visit the bathroom and for a moment I’m left to my own devices. Apart from Swift, I’ve seen no other women around. No old ladies or sweet butts. Such a masculine environment strikes me as strange and the dynamics are far from what I’m used to. I approach Bolt.

  “Do you have sweet butts?”

  “Whores? Nah, we’re not like other clubs. If you want to get your dick wet, you’ll have to go into town, or wait until the weekend when we party. Hangarounds come along, both women and men, depending on your taste.” I presume he’s talking about Swift, but see him nod toward Duty and Honor which raises my suspicions again.

  “Each to their own, but it’s pussy all the way for me, man.” I’m not comfortable yet calling him or anyone here, brother. I rub my leg.

  He notices. “Swift taken you to your room, yet?”

  “Have I got one?” I raise my eyebrows. “Or is that a euphemism for a cell?”

  He slaps me on the back and chuckles. “I like you, man. Your lodgings will be more comfortable than jail, I assure you of that. Hey, Brute, c’mere.” His last is directed to a man who’s joined the prospect, Igor, as I’ve discovered his name is, behind the bar. Continuing my reconnaissance, I bank that observation, there are at least three prospects.

  A big man lumbers over. “Whatcha want, Bolt?”

  “Take Road to room eleven. Then get his gear in from his bike.” He turns to me. “You want both your saddlebags?”

  I nod. “Sure.” While answering, I eye up the big man, noticing his nose has been broken a couple of times and not straightened quite right. Reckoning I won’t cross the man who looks like he could take on Mike Tyson, I see Swift appearing behind him.

  “Oh, I was going to see if you wanted to call it a night. It’s okay, Brute. I’ll take him to the room, you just get his stuff.”

  Bolt lifts one eyebrow toward her and smirks. Swift slaps him hard on his shoulder, his bionic hand rubs the sore spot.

  They’re sharing a joke but I’ve not heard the punchline.

  I ignore them. I’m too old for childish games. In truth, my leg is aching, and I could do with swallowing some painkillers down and getting horizontal to take the pressure off. I pull the cane toward me, push the tip against the floor, and balance myself once I haul my ass out of the chair.

  My limp is more pronounced than normal as I try to keep up with Swift’s pace. Instead of getting frustrated with myself, I remember I had a long ride today, pushing myself on the final leg of my journey. Then I was forced to stand, sit, stand again. All without the aid of the Tramadol which I usually take because it tends to make me drowsy and dull my senses. In a place like this, I need to be on high alert.

  No wonder the damaged muscles and newly healed bones are screaming in agony.

  I’m thankful that in this multi-level clubhouse there’s no need for stairs, and my grimace when a particularly bad bolt of pain shoots up my leg as I step inside the elevator means I almost miss that instead of pressing a button, Swift presents what resembles a credit card to the keypad inside. The doors shut, and once again the car starts to rise.

  I note that access to the level above seems to be security controlled, and once again marvel at the differences in this club. No tech knowledge be damned. They aren’t living in the stone age, no, they’ve gone far beyond.

  Music is again playing quietly in the elevator, the type that gets on my nerves. That generic nothing played on a constant loop that gets stuck in your brain. Why the fuck they have it, I’ve no idea.

  Leaving my questions about the security access for now, I jerk my head toward the speakers.

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “What?” She frowns. “Oh, the music.”

  “Music?”

  She chuckles. “Honor’s joke. I don’t even notice it now.”

  “Thought an MC would have something more gutsy. Hard rock at least.”

  Now she eyes me seriously. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  With that enigmatic statement, it seems we’ve arrived. When the metallic voice announces the doors are opening, I step out.

  The corridor could be that I’d find in any impersonal hotel I’ve ever stayed in. Doors off to either side, the only thing distinguishing one from the other is the number on the door. Swift stops in front of the one marked ‘11’ and I notice that she turns her back on me as she presents yet another key card to the lock. I have an inward laugh at myself, knowing she’s written me off as no threat. But it would be a stupid man that tried to overpower her as I’d earlier witnessed, and also, if I’m to learn anything of benefit to Drummer, she, my partner, would appear to hold all the keys, and I’m not referring only to the one she’s holding in her hand.

  The light flashes red then green, and Swift presses delicate fingers to the handle, slight but deadly as she’s already demonstrated. I suspect she’s learned how to pry out a man’s eyeballs with them, or twist off his dick without the need for the bionics that Bolt has.

  I laugh at myself. The thought of Swift’s hand on my cock is one I have to put out of my mind fast. She’s akin to a brother.

  As standing behind her gives me a decent view of her pert ass, I entertain a niggling thought that that’s going to be harder th
an it should be to remember.

  Again, similar to many hotel rooms, the key card slides into a holder by the side of the door and when Swift has done just that, immediately the lights come on.

  “Really?” I question again.

  “It saves on electricity,” she replies. “There’s a spare card in the desk so you can leave this one here if you’re charging something.” I think we both remember at the same time that they’ll have left me nothing to charge. She changes tack. “I’ll be here in the morning. Zero eight hundred hours suit?”

  It suits. Fucking early though for a man who’s used to working the late shift at a strip club.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Oh, here’s Brute now.” She steps back to let the big man put my bags just inside the door, then her eyes meet mine once again. “Goodnight.”

  I won’t pretend to be surprised that after giving her a moment to walk away, when I reach for the door handle, I find it locked from the outside.

  I’m a prisoner. A cursory search of my bags shows my tablet is gone. With Pip in possession of my cell, there is no way for me to reach Drummer.

  7

  Swift…

  I enter my own room a few doors down from Road’s and for a moment lean my back against the door and close my eyes.

  My background is no secret from anyone here, but I don’t often expose my wounds to the world, preferring to move on rather than look back. Road’s first question had challenged me, opened a need in me to explain why a woman with my background fits the bill of someone attracted to joining an MC, even if they don’t have a dick swinging between their legs.

  I have to admit there aren’t too many clubs I could join. A women-only club had never appealed to me, in fact, it wasn’t until I’d met Pip that I thought any MC would become my new home. He’d had to convince me to give it a try. But once I saw what this chapter of the Satan’s Devils stood for, the tables had turned, and I knew I wanted nothing more than to earn my place to ride beside them.