Ride (Bayonet Scars) (20 page)

Chapter 22

I am not ashamed to say that no man I ever met was my father's equal,

and I never loved any other man as much.

- Hedy Lamarr

FORSAKEN CUSTOM CYCLE
is dead, as usual. Pulling into the parking lot, I let my baby growl as she crawls across the pavement. The shop is closed up for the night, not that we’re turning customers away. In a small town like Fort Bragg, so far away from any major cities, there’s not many people who can afford a custom order that starts at an easy twenty-five grand. Most people around here are lucky if they don’t have to choose which bills get paid each month.

The fourteen-foot high chain-link gate with black vinyl privacy slats swings open, providing me entrance. I lift my chin at the prospect, Tall, who’s on the other side. His real name is Aaron, but I’m half to forgetting that since we only ever call the prospects their nicknames in front of Cub. It drives her nuts that every time she asks them what their names are, they’ve been ordered not to tell her. The guy looks thin and much too gangly to handle his shit, but he’s a mean motherfucker. I roll in, to find that Tall and I are not alone.

Grady, our Sergeant at Arms, fought Pop on leaving the clubhouse unprotected. He eventually proved his point, and we’ve had at least one prospect here at all times since. At least now I don’t have to open the gate my own fucking self. Pulling up between Tall’s brand new Sportster and Duke’s Softail Convertible, I cut the engine and give the kickstand a nudge, then swing off my girl. She’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had because she’s never bitched I’ve been riding her too long. I take off my helmet and set it on her handlebars, then follow Tall into the clubhouse.

The short amount of time I was able to relax from the house to here does nothing for how fucked I feel about Alex. Every time she asks me questions I can’t answer, it just pisses me off. Every time she asks me to explain or apologize for something I’ve done, or haven’t done, there’s this pit in my stomach that I think might eat away at my soul. It’s so fucking lame to think about it, but that’s all I’ve been doing. This stupid chick who Ma’s been crying over ever since I met her turns out to be Alex, who isn’t the sweet, kind, little girl Ma’s been passing her off to be.

Thoroughly pissed off, my shoulders tense, and my fists ache to hit something—anything. Inside the clubhouse, the walls are a mixture of exposed brick, wood paneling, and painted gray sheetrock. Industrial-sized fluorescent lights hang in long rows overhead, half the bulbs cracked or burnt out. The main room of the clubhouse is dimly lit with old, tattered furniture scattered around the space. Straight ahead is the bar, a two hundred-square-foot space that’s sectioned off by a change in flooring from the basic concrete slab of the rest of the space to a faux-wood finish.

I grit my teeth at the sight before me—Duke, his left elbow resting on the bar with a beer in hand. One of the Lost Girls, one I think I’ve fucked, stands between his legs, her hands rubbing his jean-clad thighs. Her trashy bleached-blonde hair hangs over her shoulders, spilling down her bare back to her absentee bra line. One look at her bare tits, rounder than normal and defying gravity, and I remember that we had a go a month or so back. I never forget a decent pair of tits.

Duke turns his head toward me and takes a pull of his beer, completely ignoring the bitch in front of him. Noticing his diverted attention, she faces me with a smile. Her lipstick has half worn off, and her eye makeup is smudged. She’s one of the nastier bitches I’ve had around my dick, but she was so persistent. I’m a gentleman—I hate to turn a lady down.

“Ryan,” she says with a purr, turning to face me. She places one hand on her hip, just above the top of her jeans, and cocks her head. Her tits still look like something I’d like to suck on, but she’s one stupid bitch. She already tried to convince me to ride her bare once. I ain’t going down that rabbit hole again. Still, looking at her, I think I’m going to need to find a way to release some tension.

“Who’s here?” I ask her. Her smile falls, likely realizing I’m not up for fucking her a second time.

“Chel’s in the palace,” she says in irritation. I grin at her, feeling like it’s my lucky day. As I pass, I gently give one of her tits a pat—a show of appreciation for the work she’s had done—and veer off to the right, down the main hallway to the palace, which is the second door on the left. Inside, the walls are painted black on three sides with a floor to ceiling mirror covering the entire fourth wall. Two long couches face three evenly spaced stripper poles which are bolted in place.

Curled up on the corner of one of the couches is Chel. As per club instruction, she’s wearing as little clothing as possible—cut-off jeans shorts, a midriff-bearing tank, and sandals. Her fake tan looks fresh, but the dye job she’s got on her bright red hair needs a touch-up. Without thinking twice about it, I pull two hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and toss them on the book in her lap. A screech flies out of her mouth as she looks up at me. Her face is free of make-up, with the exception of the cherry-red lipstick that’s painted perfectly on her lips. The lack of make-up makes her facial piercings—a nose stud and an eyebrow ring—less obvious against her pale skin.

“Ryan,” she says with a smile on both her face and in her voice. She gathers the bills in her hands and waves them at me. “What’s this for?”

“Get your hair done.” I hate when she does this shit. She knows I don’t give a fuck what she uses the money on. “Or your nails. Buy a dildo. I don’t fucking care.” She lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head at me.

“The club does enough. You know how I feel about the extras.” She reaches her hand out, offering the money back. I shake my head and bend down, tossing her textbook on the floor. She always does this, and I always persist, so I don’t know why she keeps fronting. We’ve told her time and time again that the club takes care of our own, and as far as we’re concerned, she belongs with us. After the shit she’s been through, and with a kid no less, Forsaken makes sure she gets what she needs.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you suck my dick as a thank you,” I say, smirking. She purses her lips and crawls forward. With her legs tucked underneath her ass, she grasps the front of my jeans and pulls me closer. Her expert fingers work the button of my fly and then slide down the zipper. She takes her time rubbing her hands along my hardening shaft as she kisses the V between my hips. I throw my head back and close my eyes. In my mind her bright red hair darkens and grows longer—down to her mid-back. Her green eyes become dark brown ones, and her flat, button-nose morphs into a sweeping curve. She frees my hard dick from my boxers and just as the rush of having her lips on my cock overtakes me, she’s no longer the willing Lost Girl. She turns into my Cub, all spitfire and sass. In my head, Cub tells me she’s sucking my dick because she wants me to feel good, but not because she has to.

Just as Chel takes me in to the back of her throat, my fantasy is cut-off by the disturbingly loud alarm ringtone coming from my cellphone. I try to ignore it as Chel works her magic, but I can’t. It’s Cub’s ringtone, and she might be in trouble. Worried, I pull my phone out of my pocket with my right hand, and use my left hand to keep Michelle where she is. It’s just a phone call; I can multi-task. I slide the bar on the screen and bring it to my ear.

“What’s up?” I ask, almost calling her Cub. She has no clue, nor does she need to know that we call her that. She’ll just get all girly and start thinking it means shit it don’t.

“Where did you go?” she asks, huffing. Suddenly, I can see a future I might have had, had Pop not laid it out for me. I leave the house, and she huffs. It doesn’t matter how hot and sassy she can be, she’s a chick just like the rest of them—wanting to chop off my balls and carry them in her purse. I should probably buy Pop a fucking beer for saving my ass from that shit. Had things gone on long enough, I might have chopped ‘em off and given ‘em to her myself.

“We got Church tonight. What’s wrong?” My tone is icy and I know it, but I’m not fucking around. If Squat fucked up, he’ll be dead by midnight.

“Nothing,” she whispers, her voice cowering under my snap. I look down, realizing that Chel’s stopped her ministrations, which just aggravates me further. I tighten the grip I have on her head, but her hand comes up and taps out on my hip. I blow out a heavy breath and let her go.

“What do you mean, nothing?” I say. “Do you got a problem or not?” I mouth ‘what the fuck’ at Chel, who just shakes her head and sits back on the couch, wiping the spit off her lips. My dick is still hard as hell, and it’s got nowhere to go.

“Everybody left,” she says, using that small voice I can’t stand. “I mean, Ruby’s here. Squat’s outside. But Jim and Ian—they left.” Fuck. She sounds helpless and scared—both of which flip some kind of switch in me and simultaneously piss me off and freak me out.

“You’re not alone. We got Squat, Dunce, and Rink on the house. You’re fine.”

“What if they come while you guys are gone?” she says. This clingy thing she’s doing is new. I’m conflicted—one on hand, I feel needed; wanted even. On the other hand, I don’t know what to think.

“They’re not coming while we’re gone. Shit, you’re safe. You’re fine. Ma’s got more years’ experience with a gun that I have on this planet. If you’re scared, go talk to her. Spend time with her. It won’t kill you. Promise.”

A muffled sob breaks out on the other line. Rubbing my temple with my left hand and gripping the phone tightly with my right, I count back from one hundred. I have Church in a few minutes and can’t be running off, but something has her freaking out, which is making me worry. The last thing I need to do when my dick is trying for some relief is to be worrying about Cub.

Snapping my fingers, I motion for Chel to hand me her phone. When she does, I type in Ma’s number and wait for her to pick up.

“Hey Chel,” she says on the third ring. In my other ear, I can hear Alex sniffling and blowing her nose. At least she’s calming down.

“Ma, it’s me,” I say.

“Your dad just left for Church.”

“So I’ve heard. You hear your kid? She’s in her room fucking panicking that Mancuso might show up while we’re gone.”

“What?” she says, her voice alarmed. Her footsteps sound in the background, followed by the creaking of a door.

“Alex?” Ma says, her voice echoing in both ears. Alex’s surprised gasp is high-pitched in my right ear, but barely a whisper in my left. I feel like a damn fool standing here with two phones to my head.

“You got this, Ma?” I ask into the phone in my right ear, realizing a second too late that Alex is on that line.

She hmphs and says, “Traitor,” then the line goes dead.

In my left ear, Ma says, “Thanks, Punk,” and hangs up the phone. Tossing Chel’s cell at her and shoving mine back in my pocket, I look down at my half-hard dick.

“Girl trouble?” she asks, smirking and resuming her position. The thought of discussing Alex with her makes my dick want to deflate.

“No, now blow,” I say, pointing at my dick.

“Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like word hasn’t spread around the club anyway,” she says, reaching into my boxers and cupping my balls. I close my eyes once more and try to drown out the subtle judgment in her tone. The shit that’s been flying around here hasn’t come from me, but between the Lost Girls and my brothers, word has spread. I wasn’t exactly subtle that night I fucked Alex and sent her packing. Half our charter was in the room when she walked out, looking so fucking used. It’s not like I knew anybody was there, but even if I had, what did she expect me to do? Escort her to the door? Pop made it pretty fucking clear at Church last time that Alex was off-limits to the club. It’s one thing to fuck her—my brothers won’t rat on me for that—but it’s another to claim her.

It takes me longer to come than I’d like, but when I do, I come down quick. Before Chel can even finishing swallowing, I’m zipping up my pants and I’m out the door. When I make it to the end of the hall and into the chapel, all of our members in good-standing are in the room. The long, rectangular table stretches out over ten feet in length. At the very back of the room, Pop sits at the head of the table with our Sergeant at Arms, Grady, to his left, and Wyatt, our Vice President, to his right. Next to Grady is Ian, our treasurer, and across from him is Duke, our secretary.

I cross the room and sit in my seat beside Ian and across from our patched members who don’t hold officer positions—Diesel and Bear. Chief and Fish sit next to me and at the end, respectively. Over all, we’re a fairly young charter. We have to be, for the shit we do. As members age, they tend to uproot for Nevada or Oregon, maybe Arizona. The oldest of the old usually put themselves out to pasture like Rage has, in the Nevada desert. But out here, in the middle of Mendocino County, where we grow the finest fucking bud on the planet, we need the younger guys—more for their brawn than their brains.

Tall comes to the doors and shuts them, closing himself off from the patched members of the club, and Pop thunks down the gavel as Church begins. He starts off by going over old business, getting up to date on our grow houses, and making sure we’re set up for runs into Wilks as scheduled. Then we finally get to the important part of Church: Cub.

“Ruby got a hold of Gloria last night, found out a few of Mancuso’s guys left a few days ago. Low ranking,” Pop says.

“Not a problem,” Grady grunts out from Pop’s side. But Pop waves a dismissive hand in the air.