“Not angry,” Slate muttered. “Fuck me.” He sighed. “He’s more resigned.”
Mason turned when Mica walked up beside him, her hand on his arm, and Bones and Slate watched as she pulled him to the dance floor, demanding his attention for the span of three minutes. After the dance, when Rupert reclaimed her, Mason turned and walked to them, his step lighter in a way Bones didn’t quite understand. “Mason,” he greeted his friend, “you will let me know how Molly fares, yes?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Mason responded immediately, hand out for a wrist clasp. “Glad to see you found the place.”
“I understand you are losing Slate.” From the way Mason glanced around, Bones decided to curb his curiosity, understanding the reticence of discussing anything in an open venue. “Will you be traveling to Fort Wayne often?”
The expression on Mason’s face changed, becoming sly. “Often enough to figure out what has the man drawn to that town. Thinkin’ it’s DeeDee’s gal, but I’m not sure.” Slate had stepped to the buffet table, and Bones turned in time to see him stare through a woman who was apparently making an approach. “You see that shit? Turnin’ down pussy. Ain’t like him, so I suspect there’s a reason with a rack.”
Bones snorted, nodding. “Are you going home or to your clubhouse tonight?”
“House, why?” Mason lifted an eyebrow, and Bones grinned.
“Thought I could come and chat. Share a bottle.” He wouldn’t come out and say it, but he really wanted to make sure Mason was okay with tonight. Losing Mica would do more than sting, even if it had been orchestrated by Mason himself.
“Not opposed. Roll in ten?” Bones nodded and turned, lifting a hand to Mica, who returned it with a quick wave of her fingers. She raised her arms again, slipping them around Rupert’s neck, flowing with his movements as he swept her back to the dancefloor.
An hour later, a nearly-empty bottle of bourbon between them, Bones quizzed Mason. “Truly you want to shift your colors west? The Rebels are solidly set in the center of the nation, Mason. What gain is there to spreading yourself thin?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. The more we control, the better off every chapter is. Look.” Mason pointed to a map pinned to the wall behind the bar. There were flags and pins in ten locations, each marked a Rebel Wayfarers chapter. “You see?”
“I see a network. As I have said, it’s a robust network, Mason. You have locked down many key cities. Interstate and highway junctions, where traffic in and out is easily disguised. Why—” He leaned over, picking up the bottle and pouring into the two glasses sitting on the table. “—do you need more? Is that just gluttony?”
“Fuck, Bones. There’s a need, man. Just leave it at that.” Mason took the glass Bones had extended, sipping at the liquor. “Fuckin’ leave it.”
“What you do stands to disturb clubs. That turmoil will have an impact on me and mine. Of course, I am not going to leave it.” Bones scoffed, taking his own measured drink. “Your Rebels are too big to do things on a whim.”
“Not a whim, man. Wanna contain shit if I can. The only way to contain is to build borders.” Bones squinted, looking between the man and the map, considering. Mason repeated his words with a firm nod. “Only way.”
“Shooter is west.” Bones knew this wasn’t lost on Mason, but needed confirmation. “You want to launch into areas that butt up against Outriders territory?”
“Fuck, yeah. Pin him to the west coast. Control his motherfuckin’ damage.” Mason sipped from the glass cradled in one hand. “He’s dangerous, but you know that.”
“Better than most.” Bones agreed.
Justice Morgan, Shooter’s father, had run a chapter in Mason’s home county in Kentucky for a long time, keeping the club’s activities local, playing it smart and maintaining a low profile. Then, unfortunately for all involved, Morgan had been lost in an accident in Utah more than a decade ago, leaving Shooter as his sole heir to the expansive Outriders club.
The shared hatred of Mason’s half-brother wasn’t news to either of them. Bones had intervened many times over the years, defusing arguments and fights on both sides, but what Shooter had done recently was beyond the pale.
Shooter’s members in Kentucky had gone into a local strip club and rampaged as if they were Vikings, raping and pillaging at will. The aftermath had shuddered throughout the entire motorcycle community, and more voices than just Bones and Mason were raised in dismay, not wanting any kind of attention turned their way from the authorities, but most certainly not that kind of attention.
Shooter had laughed it off, pointing to clubs of old, saying it was nothing more or less than had been done before. Truth, in some cases, but not for decades. There was a reason for biker rallies, those parties where citizens were discouraged from attendance, because the less those sheep knew the better, and rallies allowed men, and women, of like minds to gather and celebrate the life they chose to lead.
Not those working-class citizens. Women and men who had shown up to their jobs like any normal day, only to have their world turned upside down, pain and humiliation raining down on them without hope of rescue. Some of the stories Bones had heard told of the Cynthiana chapter’s actions were so rancid they turned his stomach.
“His bullshit’s dangerous. Dangerous to all of us. If I can keep him contained—” Mason shrugged, “—we all come out winners.”
“I do not disagree. Should we engage other clubs?” With that word, the single “we,” Bones told Mason his actions with the Rebels would have any active support from the Skeptics that he needed.
Blowing out a breath, Mason shook his head. “I got friends. Rebels have friendly relations with a dozen clubs who would benefit from this. So many ways it can go, brother.” He lifted his glass and drained it. “We’ll circle back around in a couple of weeks. See where we want to aim. Glad you’re here, Bones. You’ll stay the night.”
“That was not a question,” Bones noted, lifting his glass to where Mason offered the bottle, carefully lining up the weaving rim to catch the pouring liquid. “And is an astute observation.”
“You and your bullshit way of talking.” Mason lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a long pull. “Like you think people won’t notice it keeps everyone at a distance. Yeah,”—he grinned—“it’s a fuckin’ astute observation. You’re fuckin’ wasted, brother.” Reaching out, he tapped a finger against the side of the glass. “Drink up, you’re among friends. Got your back, brother. Always safe here.”
“I know.” He locked gazes with Mason and nodded, getting a chin lift in return.
“Bed for me. Room at the top of the stairs for you, if you can get there.” Setting the bottle beside his discarded glass, Mason heaved himself off the couch and stood, looking down at Bones. “Shiny side.”
“Shiny side,” Bones agreed, lifting and draining his glass. I will sit here for a time, he thought, stretching one leg out, easing the muscles in his back complaining of an old injury. A few minutes later, or it could have been hours, because in his ease at the company he kept, he had fallen asleep, Bones startled awake when a hand touched his belt.
Chin down, he looked at the woman who knelt between his knees, squinting to see her clearly. Still half asleep, all he could see was how the dark hair haloed her too-pale face. He blinked, surprised, thinking for a moment it was his Ester, then was disappointed as her features resolved. She was just one of the women who lived in this clubhouse, sheltered by the club, servicing members as they desired.
“What do you do, girl?” He was gracious with his declaration of her age; she had passed girlhood long ago, but it cost him nothing to be kind.
Her fingers rolled the hidden latch, unhooking the tines from the links of his chain belt. Eyes lifting to his, she smiled. “Wanna blow you.”
“You desire this?” Unbidden, his cock stirred under her hands, and she felt it, palming the length of him, stroking him through the fabric of his jeans. Nails scratching lightly against the swelling head, she nodded. “Then enjoy your
self.” He granted permission, placing his palms on the tops of his thighs, a threat or promise, because they were in close gripping proximity and she recognized this, glancing at them, then back up at him, her small smile slightly larger.
Less than a minute later, she had extracted him from his jeans, and set to her self-appointed task. She licked the length like a sweet, the tip of her talented tongue darting around the rim of his mushrooming head until she drew a groan from his throat. Her hand a vise, clamped around his shaft. She stroked quickly, focusing on the root with her fingers, her knuckles bumping his belly with each movement of her arm.
Taking him into her mouth, she kept his cock shallow and suckled hard, flicking the slit and drawing out droplets of hot liquid. He felt the tiny tremors that accompanied this with anticipation and clenched the muscles of his stomach, jerking his cock against the roof of her mouth to escape the sensation.
“Suck me,” he hissed, and found she took direction well, hollowed cheeks marking her immediate response. “Yes,” he rewarded her and groaned again. “Suck me hard. Feel me in your throat? Is that what you want?” Her head bobbed, and he took it as an invitation, threading both hands into her dark hair, feeling it dry and sticky with what he hoped was gel. Not wanting to lose the beginnings of pleasure to his imagination, he pulled and lunged up with his hips at the same time, feeling the chill of the metal belt hit his exposed hip. That contrasted with the heat of her mouth along his length, and he lunged again, pushing her head down, feeling her hands clutching at the muscles of his thighs.
Knowing her experienced, he waited until she gave two fluttering slaps before he released his hold, letting her draw him out, noting she didn’t lose the knob from her mouth as she sucked air around his soaked cock, then she volunteered her throat again, shoving her mouth onto him, nose grinding the hair in his crotch before he even had a chance to repeat the motion.
He rewarded her again. “Good. Fuck, yes.” Grunting, he thrust deep, feeling the muscles at the back of her throat clench around him. “Hot and wet, suck me.” Two fluttering slaps again, and he released for a moment, hands tight in her hair. Not giving her more than a handful of breaths before he shoved her back down, pumping up and into her throat. An image of Ester’s hair came to mind, and he looked down to see the raven locks of the club whore dancing across his hip. “Beauty.” Eyes closed, he saw Ester’s mouth, saw her chewing on the inside of her cheek, saw the sweep of wet left behind on her lip when her tongue trailed across.
With a groan and Ester’s name on the tip of his tongue, he came, holding the whore in place, uncaring of her struggles until he finished shooting ribbon after ribbon of white heat down her throat. He let his hands fall away, hearing her pant for air as she rested her cheek on his thigh, exhausted from the ten minutes spent under his hands.
Afterward, he leaned his head against the cushions while she licked and cleaned him. “Very good, girl. Was there anything you wanted?” He wouldn’t insult the Rebels by offering to pay her, but if she asked, he could reward her.
“Warm your bed?”
Tucking himself away, he shook his head as he refastened his belt. “I sleep alone. Aught else?”
“Whiskey?” she asked, and he knew her drinks were free here, so he raised an eyebrow. She smiled as she answered, “They don’t keep good stuff here.”
Arching up, he gently pushed her out of the way as he dug out his wallet. Two twenties tucked into her hand earned him a smile. “Should buy a bottle or two.” She nodded. “I am headed to my bed. This is my reminder I sleep alone. Tell the others.” He gestured towards the other club whores gathered with the Rebel members at the pool tables or bar. He handed her another twenty. “My gratitude.”
“I’d a done you for free.” She gave him that, and he took it as the compliment she intended, nodding.
“But I value your charms more than that.” Bones rose from the couch, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. The unspoken words “you should too” were between them, and she moved away quickly, leaving him to make his way to the empty room upstairs.
***
Bones twisted his head, staring over his shoulder at the artist working on the back of his arm, checking her progress. “Silly,” he called, a thought striking him. She tossed a glance up at him, then back to her work, that single look her response to urge him to complete whatever thought he interrupted her with. He laughed and obliged. “I have thought of a theme to tie the shoulder to my chest. You need to put on your cap of thinking.”
“Thinkin’ cap,” she muttered, shifting so the angle of her thumb drew his skin taut for the needle, “got it. Tell me.”
“Redemption.”
The ever-present buzz of the tattoo gun stopped, and she lifted her head, staring into his eyes. “Say again?”
“Redemption. I’ve enough to anchor the idea.” And he did. His shoulder was covered by a massive cobra, delineated in fiery reds and oranges. “Naja haji,” he named the snake, “is grace and speed, and hidden wisdom. And draca”—he jerked his chin, indicating the dragon wings on his chest—“is passion. Hidden wisdom and a hunger for life can easily be drawn to wishing for a long life.” I wanted to be saved. “Redemption will give one a good life, for as long as you are breathing.” He twisted his head, staring at his shoulder. “Hidden wisdom is a blessing. Think on it.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, and shifted, the buzzing returning as she tucked her chin, eyes to her work. “I’ll think about it.”
Change in progress
Bones
“Diamante.” Bones spat the word like a curse, and surely that was what they had become. Thorns in his side no longer, they had driven a wedge deep into the Skeptics’ territory, an insult he could not allow. So he had made the call to Mason. A man he counted as a friend, a man who was like a brother to him, for all they labored under different patches. Now Bones sat across a table from Shades, as they plotted the demise of a rival. Nodding at the closed door, Bones underscored the importance of discretion with a phrase. “Need to know.” Shades lifted his chin, message received. He reached back and pulled a small box off a shelf, turning a knob on the front so it emitted a small hum. Provided by Mason’s man, Myron, a tech genius, this was supposed to block any listening devices.
“Mason will do as I suggest,” Bones started without preamble, knowing Shades would fill in any blanks needed, or ask if he couldn’t. “By tomorrow, Dominos and Disciples will be no more. We will use the distraction to sweep Diamante up, everywhere they exist. And allow me to be clear, I want them to exist in Chicago no more.”
“Isolated?” Shades grunted the word, and Bones felt his mouth stretch in a humorless smile.
“Southern Soldiers will be conducting the same maneuvers tomorrow. As will other clubs in Louisville and Birmingham. Chicago will have no one to call on for timely assistance. Isolated—” He paused, the slow smile spreading across his face pulling a mirrored expression from Shades. “—and dead.”
“About fuckin’ time,” Shades muttered. “You got specifics for what we need to do, man?”
“I do.” Bones sat and looked at Shades, then sighed. “We will kill them where they stand, to a man, if they stand. Every patch belongs to me, I want them stripped and carried to my hand. If they do not stand, then we hunt them in the alleys and bars. We search the homes of friends and any family they have. At the end of the day, Diamante Chicago will be no more, and we will all breathe the easier.”
“Ain’t anyone gonna have problems with this, Bones. We’re solid.” Shades reached across the table, gripping Bones’ wrist. “Skeptics forever, brother.”
“Forever Skeptics.” Inwardly Bones winced, because that saying would not be true always. For now, it held, and he could meet the eyes of his second, and plan the death of a club.
***
Breathing hard, he uncoiled the metal links of his belt from his fist, unwrapping it with quick shakes of his hand so the buckle dangled towards the ground. Reaching behind him with his o
ther hand, he slipped the still hot pistol into the holster there, flipping the leather lock into place around the grip.
“Sound off,” he heard Shades yell and began the count with his number.
“One.” Sweeping the warehouse with a glance, Bones strode across the open area, hearing the men still standing in the room counting off. He noted the two holes in the numbers, each void matching a member he’d seen fall. Swallowing hard, fighting off nausea from the smells in the enclosed space, he knelt next to the first unspeaking member, fingers pressed to the thick neck. “Pulse, call Doc.” Their on-call medic was supposed to be positioned just around the corner, and Bones trusted Shades had made the right arrangements. Up, and moving to the next man, Bones was gratified to find this member yet lived as well. Noise at the doors and Bones looked up to see a man with a toolbox coming in. He called, “Doc, here first.”
Standing, Bones ran the length of his belt through his fingers, unconsciously checking for damaged or misaligned links. He used it as a flail, and a trapping weapon, dragging opponents closer than they liked when the chain wrapped around an arm or neck. Threading it through his belt loops, he waited for Shades to come and report, but already knowing what he would hear.
Five Diamante dead. This meant at least eighteen had fled, if their intel on the numbers was correct, and Bones had a great deal of confidence it was. His phone buzzed, and he brought it out from a vest pocket, looked at the screen, and grinned, feeling a fierce satisfaction. Rebel Wayfarers had grown in numbers, and chapters, as expected.
Shades made it to his side, and he gave him a chin lift, raising the phone so Shades could read the text. “Glad he came through for us,” Shades said, and shook his head. “It’s ‘bout fuckin’ time.” Without giving Bones a chance to question the statement, Shades swung immediately into his recitation of the battle’s outcome. “Cage rolling for two, got another van comin’ in for the trash. We’ll be here another twenty, then we can set the alarms like it’s any other night. Got our fuckin’ warehouse back, Bones.”
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