He saw me like this, she thought, flinching as she understood the look of concern and confusion on the face of the man behind the piercing gun. It’s a wonder he didn’t call the cops as bloody and bruised as I am.
Gleaming in the lights, the bar glinted golden as it flashed with her movements. Bright and shiny, it stood out against her skin, emphasizing the bruising on her face. Eyes constantly returning to that beacon, she worked faster, rinsing the cloth, cleaning a small section of skin, then rinsing again. The rust-colored water swirling down the drain became less noticeable with each cycle. Finally, features clean, she stood facing the mirror and forced herself to meet her gaze, staring. “I’m the same person,” she told her reflection. “No different, it’s just me.”
One hand lifted to her head, she ran her fingers through strands of hair, wincing as they tangled on dried blood. She whirled, turning on the bath taps and without waiting, stepped into the tub, flipping the lever to activate the shower. Cold water hit her back like a physical blow, and she gasped. Her spine bowed away in reaction, the movement setting her ribs to complaining again. Stripping off her underwear, she roughly scrubbed every inch of her body in the gradually heating water, only slowing as she carefully worked her fingers into the soreness between her legs. After the first downward glance, she studiously ignored the pink that stained the water. Staying in the shower until the hot water ran out, she then remained for a time until shivering from the intense cold woke more pain.
Again in front of the mirror and ignoring the pain, she roughly dried her hair with a towel, staring at her reflection. Still me, she reaffirmed, her hand going to her hair once more. Digging scissors from the messy vanity drawer, she tipped her head this way and that, running her fingers through, grasping onto strands and pulling them straight, evaluating what needed to be done. With tears in her eyes, she lifted the scissors, watching as they shook in her trembling hand. Snip. Another strand. Snip. Methodically, she worked her way through, evening out the length, ignoring the tears flooding down her cheeks, dripping to the porcelain where short bits of hair lay. Still me.
Chapter Six
Twisted, age thirty-two
“It ain’t fuckin’ with you to explain the situation.” Twisted shook his head, flattening his palms on the table in preparation to stand up. A move, that if he made it, every man in the room knew meant these talks would be over in a way that said they were over. Meaning this conversation wouldn’t be revisited.
As expected, his counterpart at the table backpedaled. Fast. “No, no. Jesus, man. Fuckin’ chill. No disrespect intended.”
“Tellin’ me to chill don’t ‘xactly sound respectful.” Twisted flexed his arms, pushing harder against the table, enjoying the fear and panic that flooded the face of this numbwit when the fabric of his jeans finally cleared the chair. Twisted bent over the table, putting his face close to the pasty features of the man still planted firmly in his seat, false hope keeping him there.
“So, followin’ up on my previous statement, explainin’ the situation to your stupid fuckin’ ass ain’t fuckin’ with you.” He jerked his head, smiling coldly when he heard the clicking ratchet of Po’Boy’s pistol cocking behind him. “This? Now this is fuckin’ with you.” Another nod and the room filled with deafening echoes of gunshots and screams. He held himself steady, not even flinching when blowback splattered his face, the hot liquid mixing with the sweat on his brow and creating a stinging rivulet of red that covered one eye.
Po’Boy spoke, “Fish in a barrel.” He turned to look at his brother, watching as his veep’s eyes intelligently swept the men standing around the room, taking in everything at a glance. “Guess it’s too late to say I think he really was tryin’ to be respectful. He just didn’t have it in him. Terminal cranial rectumitus.” That pulled a snorted laugh from Twisted, and he reached up, wiping with the pad of his thumb across his eye, cleaning the blood away. “Fuck, brother.” Po’Boy winced. “You look like that kid from that fuckin’ cannibal movie about that scary-as-fuck island.” He pulled a bandana from his back pocket, flicked it open and offered it, the crisp folds proving the unused state of the fabric. “Here, clean your fucked-up face, man. Gonna scare the kiddies.”
“You carry this shit for me?” Twisted reached out and took it, pressing it to his face with both hands, wiping firmly, clearing the splatter away as best he could without water and a mirror. “I’m touched, brother.”
“You know it, Twisted. You’re my main man. Ain’t got no side men, but you my main, bro. Straight up.” Po’Boy grinned, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes, and he let Twisted know why in the next breath. “Big Nico ain’t gonna be happy with this. We cleanin’ up or letting him deal?”
“Let him deal. His mess, all day long this is his mess. We put this shit on pause for him. He can clean up the trash.” To that end, Twisted pulled out a phone, connected the battery and dialed a number. One ring, then a well-known and much-hated voice sounded in his ear, the one-word greeting of “Well?” not sitting easy with him. Fucking Gollum. Fiddler was president of the Guanyin’s Shield, a semi-local MC, run much along the line of Leswayne’s Vicar’s. Gollum was Fiddler’s son, a ruthless man well known for holding information in a tight fist. He was playing go-between for Twisted and Nico right now, but just hearing his voice made Twisted’s skin crawl.
“Tell your boss his leaky plumbing is plugged. He’s got some cleanup, but nothing his housekeeper can’t handle. I don’t expect more flooding, but might be some foundation damage he’ll need to look at.” The dead jackass sagging backwards in his chair across the table was a cousin to Nico’s ole lady. He’d been positively confirmed by their fed contact as the sole witness against Nico who had not gone into WITSEC. There was no doubt the asshole gained his knowledge through his blood connections, which meant Nico had more trouble than he knew. Twisted would explain that to Nico next time they met, but it wasn’t something he needed to lay out over the phone, even on a clean burner like this one. “Let your boss know I can do an inspection tonight, if he wants.”
“Ain’t my fuckin’ boss, asshole.” Scorn thick in his voice, Gollum responded, “Plan on that inspection, though. He’ll want to control any additional damage.” The click and null of a disconnected call released Twisted to lower the phone, retracing the movements needed to remove the battery and stow the device.
Turning, knowing every man in that room would follow without question, he strode from the room, bloody footprints in his wake. Glancing down, he grimaced, seeing his shirt and vest were covered with the same gore his face had been. Riding through downtown Metairie would suck like this. “Got a tee?” He looked up at Po’Boy, seeing him nod silently in response to the question. They’d developed their own shorthand over the years, even more so in the past half-dozen after Whitewall stepped down, leaving Twisted room to bring in new blood loyal only to him. It had been a full decade since Papaw passed, the officers working hard to ladle protocol and knowledge down his throat every day. Force feeding him from a fucking firehose until Twisted, even more than he had ever thought possible, lived and breathed the club.
“Bitch.” Standing by his bike, he grabbed the fabric sailing his way, laying his vest across the seat so he could tug the sodden shirt over his head. Covered again, he adjusted the weapons strapped to his torso and legs, straddled the bike and kicked a dozen times before the engine caught. Need a new fuckin’ bike, he thought, item number fifty-three on today’s coulda-woulda-shoulda list. Glancing down to check his bags, the officer patch sewn to the front of his vest caught his eye and he reached up, fingering the edge. There was a half circle out of the lower left corner, the bullet hole from a shot that hit Papaw. He’d had one of the club’s bitches sew around that ragged edge, keeping the President patch from fraying more, and then put that goddamned bloody rag on his vest. Ends today, Papaw, he vowed.
Looking up he saw a question on Po’Boy’s face and elaborated. “Nico’s bitch.” Nodding understanding, Po’Boy got on his own bik
e, whirling his finger in the air to send the rest of the men on their way. Just him and Twisted for this run, one that would end again with death, but not by his hand. Not directly.
***
“You get it?” At Twisted’s words, the bitch rolled her eyes up at him, and he had a flash of a face he couldn’t forget. Another voice sounded in the room, and she pulled her mouth off his dick in fear, slobber stringing between her lips and his cock.
“Oh yeah, brother. I got all that shit. Fuckin’ choice spank bank material.” Fingers tapping on the face of the phone in his hands, Po’Boy stepped from the shadows as she gave a cry.
Twisted reached out, gripping and pulling the straw-dry bleached blonde hair on the bitch’s head, putting her mouth back to work on his cock. Hands on his thighs she pushed, trying to pull back but he powered into her face. Lightly tapping her cheek when he felt the threatening edge of teeth, he shook his head, lips pulled back to bare his own at her. “You know how this goes, honey. Just take it.”
Eyes rolling again, she finally squeezed them shut and gave up, opening her mouth wide, offering her throat and he took that. Felt her convulsively swallowing around the knob of his cock when he pushed past the back of her mouth. From this angle, he could see the way her throat expanded around him with every thrust. “Fuck.” His mutter hit the air while in the background he heard recorded sounds from their earlier activities, ones in which she was participating eagerly, not like now. Po’Boy was watching the playback, making sure they had everything needed.
She swallowed again, and he felt her pull against his hands, but now it was in counterpoint to his movements. Enhancing not evading. Bitch is getting into it again. Even Nico deserves better. Goddamned fucking slut. “Get the camera ready,” he muttered.
Pulling out, he watched as she settled on her heels, face lifted, mouth open and tongue lapping the end of his cock. Hand moving fast, he worked himself, watching her as she waited. Hair in a tangle around her head from his tight grip, her hands folded on top of her skinny-as-fuck thighs, she was nothing but a receptacle and knew it. Might as well have cumbucket written on her tits, he thought, and with that, he started coming, shooting line after line of white across her face and hair, aiming more at her breasts. Watching as her hands came up, massaging that shit into her skin as if it were the finest creamy lotion, licking her lips, using the edge of one finger to loop more into her mouth.
“Fuckin’ porno,” Po’Boy muttered. “Got it all, boss.”
Her eyes flashed open. She had forgotten their audience of one, about to become an audience of hundreds. Catching and holding her gaze as he tucked his still hard cock back into his pants, Twisted waited a beat and then gave the order. Pulling the trigger without lifting a single fucking finger. “Post it.”
***
“So which of them do we want?” Dropsie asked the question every man at the table was wondering. One of the old school members still willing to challenge the national president and Twisted loved him for it. He loved that Dropsie never forgot he’d been a snot-nosed piece-of-shit kid when Papaw dropped him into the clubhouse for the first time seventeen years ago. George Bell a rapidly fading memory even for himself. Mother dead for eight years, brother estranged for ten.
“I’m lookin’ for club mentality, so anyone who defended the bitch ain’t fit. Club first, and you all know we need that attitude. We can build loyalty in a good man, craft their trust. But, a brother who gets it and lives it? Those motherfuckers are a lean crop. Need to harvest what we can, when we can. Patch properly, but fast-track those select few.”
There were nodding heads all around; he had a consensus for this, at least. Twisted leaned into the table, taking in each officer with his gaze. “We need fodder, too, so officer-loyal or loyal to a brother, we’ll look at them and evaluate. Feds are sniffin’ around, all up in our ass. We fucked their case good, leavin’ them knotted up in the front yard, a cold hose directed their way that doesn't feel too fuckin’ sweet. Reality struck for Big Nico when that video surfaced,”—he grinned at Po’Boy who grinned back—“and his shit imploded all around the feds. We all know that Nico had a play but didn’t take it. Didn’t man up, least not in time. Now we got a chance to scoop the cream.”
Through the years, Twisted had reached an uneasy détente with the clubs of the area. Not by choice, but because too many fights would leave Incoherent weakened, and Twisted wouldn’t allow that. The feds were enough to deal with and they were all over the area, looking for any slips that let them slide inside a club. They were enough of a threat that he’d stayed his hand from action, focusing instead on investigating Nico’s past. He’d found some interesting things that confirmed the intel Sabrina had offered, but not enough of an opening to exact the vengeance his heart called for. So he and the club had bided their time, waiting. That wait had ended today.
He’d met with Big Nico before the shit went down in Metairie. First time he believed he had the right questions, he’d sat down with and been disappointed in the man’s responses about the action ten years ago. So, Twisted started digging deeper. He dug and found gold, and then once he knew the full lay of the land, he’d taken action.
He'd dealt with the leak because a statement had to be made about snitching. He and Po’Boy used the dead cousin’s phone to lure Nico’s ole lady to a bar where the back room was used for much more than meetings. Got her past any initial discomfort easily, mostly by pulling his half-hard cock out of his pants while he smiled at her. He snorted as he thought, Didn’t take much. Had her panting for it in under a minute.
He'd fucked her standing while she shimmied on his pole like she was still working professionally. Fucked her from behind, not wanting her face anywhere near his, letting her rear back into him, doing nearly all the damn work. Her taking his cock and moaning like it was the best fuck of her life. Then fucking her face, using her as his tissue, getting off on her play at rejection.
Still using the asshole’s phone, Po’Boy recorded the necessary parts, highlighting her face and making sure she was unmistakable on the video. Making it clear whose cock she was sucking, too. Huge fucking insult, national president of one organization fucking the ole lady of another’s president. Bigger affront to Nico was her getting her rocks off, eyes closed, facing the camera as she said clear as fucking day, “Never had bigger. Never had better, baby.” I couldn’t have scripted it better, baby.
So, not only had Nico’s bitch taken Twisted’s cock, literally gagging for it, but she’d told the whole world that her ole man was a little-dicked sad sack in bed. Big Nico no more. Using the asshole cousin’s online access to the secret group for that club, they uploaded that shit and then emailed it to every single person on the motherfucker’s contact list. Distributing it far and wide, they made it impossible to ignore by shoving it in Nico’s face and in the face of every man who followed him. Every man who called him president or brother. Twisted and Po’Boy’s job had been to shovel that shit, and then stand back and watch who fed from the table.
Bitch had been dead inside of twelve hours. No surprise there. The big surprise had been how long Nico had held out. It was another thirty-six before the dust settled, an entire club gone. Toasted by a single fucking woman by first exposing Nico’s shit to the feds through her loose lips talking to family, then by wrapping those lips around Twisted’s cock to add insult to injury.
Retribution, he thought, his mind supplying Sabrina’s despairing voice when she realized she wouldn’t be walking out of that room. Honesty came from her lips because while she didn’t know she’d wind up as gator bait, she just grasped that her breaths were numbered. It had taken a long time—so much longer than he wanted—but he’d gotten what he vowed that day in the bar, sitting on his ass in his grandfather’s blood, watching his brother walk out after that bitch. Twisted had gotten what he'd vowed to himself when he'd folded her up to stuff into the dark barrel. Vowed when he used every wedge he could find to wreak havoc on the foundation of Nico’s club, on his life
.
Feels empty, he thought then shoved that aside. Another thought popped up in its wake, one of his brother. There was no fault to be laid at Freddy’s feet over Jimbo’s death, other than being stupid enough to trust Sabrina. They’d infrequently talked over the years since Papaw’s death, barely staying in touch, only making sure the other had new numbers or addresses and sharing the occasional life event that defined them. Mostly that was on Fred’s side. Him cleaning up his act, landing a good job driving a truck. Marrying a decent woman. Having kids with her, talking about seeing his eyes in their faces and how that made him feel.
“Feds are no joke,” Dropsie warned, and Twisted nodded, bringing his attention back to the room, feeling the tension running between the men seated around the table.
Time to move this meeting forwards and the next piece of business was one that Twisted never thought to have to deal with.
“Know that. Also, know we got a man inside.” He raked the officers at the table with his gaze again, coming to rest on the face of their road captain, Chip. “And, from him, we know they got one on the inside here, too.” Face blanching, Chip pushed back from the table, not bothering to deny what Twisted implied. No words needed, one glance at Po’Boy and his veep was on the move, cornering the larger man and keeping him contained without laying a hand on him.
“Chip,” Twisted deliberately withheld “brother” from the man. “Pains me to say this, but I gotta ask. You wired?” He hadn’t anticipated the man would give it up like that, had expected to have to wade through a weave of bluster and lies, and Chip’s quick retreat meant he might have more to hide than associations. Fuck, Twisted thought, going over the conversations they’d had here today. Plenty to chew over, but he doubted they’d given the feds anything to actually play with.
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 9
