I sat in the car for another minute or two before the front, passenger-side door opened and a bottle-blonde wearing a skimpy off-the-rack dress and too much makeup slid in beside me. Thing-1? Thing-2? Thing-3? Or Thing-4? I’d asked Gator to send out the tall one with the full, round tits—but instead he’d sent out the one with an ass shaped like a heart.
No difference. It didn’t matter. Pussy was pussy, and these kind of women were all the same. In a few hours, I’d be done with her anyway.
Chapter 7
~ Rachel ~
“What the hell’s going on here?” I asked.
I don’t even know why I said it out loud. I wasn’t talking to anyone in particular—and even if I had been, there’s no way they could have heard me over the loud cacophony of noises overpowering the parking lot outside of Bradley’s Funeral Home.
It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and Terry’s funeral wasn’t slated to occur until nine thirty, but there were already nearly two dozen motorcycles parked in the lot—and most, if not all of them, had their engines revved up and purring.
I looked out over the crowd of people surrounding the bikes, but I couldn’t really identify anyone for sure or totally make out faces. I wasn’t that familiar with my brother’s “brothers” to begin with, and nothing about the way they looked that morning made it any easier to discern one from the other.
Leather. Denim. Long hair. Bandanas. Sunglasses. They all looked mostly the same, with only negligible differences. So I looked out over the crowd again and tried to find the one person who I knew would stick out—I couldn’t stand him, but at least I knew him better than the others, and if I asked nicely enough, maybe he would tell me what was going on.
For the first (and probably last) time ever, I actually wanted to see Sam Hammond’s too-good-to-be-true ruggedly handsome face—and for the first (and, hopefully, last) time ever, I was disappointed when I didn’t. Unfortunately, “The Hammer” was nowhere to be found. He was not among the mass of bikers. If I wanted to know why they were all assembled at the funeral home with their loud bikes, I’d have to ask someone else—and I hoped whomever I asked would be willing to answer. You never know with those biker types.
I walked over toward the bulk of bikers and passed a group of girls along the way. Two of them looked familiar—they were among the babes who’d circled Sam in the corner the previous afternoon. Two of the original four were missing, but had been replaced by three others—and all of them hushed their voices to whispers when I walked by.
They’d done the same thing yesterday—but nonetheless, I managed to hear them. At that point, they were, not surprisingly, talking about Sam, and I heard one of them say something about “revenge.” I didn’t hear that word this morning, but it was still fresh in my mind, and for a split-second, I wondered if that was why Sam hadn’t showed up at Bradley’s… Maybe he was out exacting revenge for Terry’s death?
But no sooner had I had the thought than it left me. Even with the biker bond between them, and even with that baby in Hannah’s belly, I figured Sam didn’t care enough about Terry to seek revenge. Sam Hammond only cared about himself.
I’d made my way to a burly biker and was just about to ask him what was going on when I heard more rumbling from behind. I turned just in time to see two more bikes pull into the lot, and I felt an uncanny sense of relief when I saw Sam driving one of them.
I clicked my heels and walked away from the burly biker, headed for the parking spot that Sam and another biker crammed into. As Sam peeled off his leather gloves, he looked out at me over his aviators.
“Morning,” he said with an expressionless face, as I continued to approach him.
“What’s going on?” I asked, waving my hands in the air. “Why are all these guys here with their bikes like this?”
Sam smirked and removed his sunglasses. He ran his fingers through his untamed locks and examined the assemblage of bikers. I noticed then that he actually looked fairly decent, despite his unruly hair and leather. He wore clean, crisp jeans and a white button-down shirt beneath his jacket and had shaved his face. I was both shocked and soothed that he went to such lengths to appear civilized and respectable.
“These guys are the Wolves,” he answered. “And we’re here for Terry’s Memorial Run.”
The other biker who’d driven in with Sam excused himself and walked toward the door to the funeral home. He was a big, blonde lug I’d met briefly before. If memory served me correctly, he went by the street name “Gator.”
“Memorial run?” I asked, even more confused than I’d been when I posed my first question.
“That’s what I said,” Sam replied, slowly stepping off of his bike. I felt the familiar urge to kick him in the balls (repeatedly). He didn’t have to be such an ass and give me a hard time for asking him a simple question.
“I heard you,” I retorted. My voice sounded as angry as I felt. “But I don’t know what a memorial run is.”
Sam just looked at me. That son of a bitch wasn’t going to cut any corners. He wanted me to come right out and be direct—and I had no other choice but to do so.
“What’s a memorial run?” I asked.
“You really didn’t make any effort to understand your brother’s lifestyle, did you?” Sam asked, avoiding my question by asking his own. “Terry participated in two memorial runs since he joined the Wolves,” Sam went on, placing his shades and gloves in the satchel attached to his seat. “One, when Sully had his heart attack—and again when Tripper got in that horrible turnpike accident.”
Sam looked at me, waiting for me to say something, but I kept my lips sealed. I had no idea what—or whom—he was talking about and knew better than to flout it.
“Terry didn’t tell you about those runs?” Sam asked. “Or maybe he did—and maybe you just didn’t listen.”
Sam zipped up his satchel and looked at me with slanted eyes. He was still waiting for me to say something—and I still remained silent. He could give me as hard a time as he wanted, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he was pissing me off.
“Whenever a biker dies,” Sam continued, buffing some part of his bike I couldn’t identify if my life depended on it, “his brothers come out to honor him. We ride in the funeral procession—on our motorcycles—and fly our moniker in the air, for all to see. It’s our way of celebrating our fallen brother and giving him one last ride with his band—and it’s our way of showing everyone else in the world that, even though we’re down one member, we can still keep our spirits up and will keep ridin’ on into the future.”
There was something touching and sentimental to what Sam said, as well as to the way he said it—but as touching and sentimental as it was, I simply didn’t want to hear it.
“So all of these bikes are going to ride in the funeral procession?” I asked, waving my hands in the air again. “All of them are going to drive from here to the cemetery?”
“Yep,” Sam replied, stepping away from his bike and adjusting his hard, dirt-dusted jacket.
“No!” I shot back instantly.
“No?” Sam inquired, stopping dead in his tracks.
“That’s what I said,” I answered, taking a page out of his book.
Sam looked at me, waiting for me to elaborate. And when I did, I took the long route.
“All of these bikers are here to do a memorial run for my brother?” I asked rhetorically. “They’re here to honor him, celebrate him, and give him one last ride? They’re here to show the world that they’re still strong without him?
“Fuck that. These men—these Wolves—are what killed Terry. They may not have shanked him or bashed his head in, but no matter how you cut it, and whatever lies you want to believe, you and your gang are responsible for his death—and the way you want to observe that death is joke. You want to honor and celebrate a life you helped take. You want to give him one last ride, when you’re the reason he’ll never ride again. You want to show the world that you�
��re strong, but you’re too weak to hold yourselves accountable for what you’ve done.
“You’re telling me that you want to do all of that? Well, guess what? I say, ‘No.’ No, I don’t want your joke taking center stage at my brother’s funeral. No, I don’t want these bikes in his funeral procession. I’m saying, ‘No.’ No. There will be no ‘Memorial Run’ for Terry today.”
I’d said what I needed to say and stood my ground, but Sam stood his, too, and was unmoved by my diatribe. At some point, his eyes had widened, and he momentarily looked bewildered—but that point had come and gone, and he quickly returned to his cold, carefree demeanor.
“It’s tradition,” Sam replied, quite simply. He ran his fingers through his hair again in a gesture that would’ve made any of the other girls in the parking lot throb and shiver.
“I don’t care what it is,” I said. “It’s not going to happen.”
Just then, Gator appeared at the door again. He stood there and watched and listened for a moment as Sam responded.
“Your brother was a Wolf, Rachel,” he said. “You’re gonna deny his pack the chance to mourn him?”
“They can mourn him all they want,” I replied, “but they don’t have to make a scene to do it. I don’t want all those bikes riding in Terry’s funeral procession. I don’t want the gang lifestyle that killed him to be a part of his final sendoff. I couldn’t pry him from your clutches in life, but I’ll be damned if I let you make a mockery out of his death.”
“Well—” Sam started, but before he could continue, Gator cut him off.
“Hammer!” the big, blonde lug yelled from the doorway. “Come here!”
“Just a minute!” Sam yelled back.
“No,” Gator responded quickly. “Now!”
Sam turned and looked at Gator, and the two of them exchanged communicative glances. Then, without further pause, Sam briskly walked away from me and walked into Bradley’s.
I stood in place for a moment, still surprised, and intimidated, by my own candor. I was proud of myself for standing up to Sam like I did, but I didn’t know what I was going to do about it. There were around two dozen other bikers in the parking lot, and they all had their minds set on doing a memorial run. I might have been able to tell Sam I didn’t want one, but how was I going to tell the rest of them the same thing? And moreover, how the hell was I going to make sure that they honored my wishes?
It turned out that I didn’t have to worry about these thigs much longer. Less than five minutes after he entered Bradley’s, Sam came back out again. He walked right past me, to the center of the parking lot, cleared his voice, and then addressed his biker brothers.
“Wolves,” he said, very, very loudly. “Shut your bikes down and find a car to squeeze into. You can go to the funeral. You can go to the cemetery. But there’s not gonna be a memorial run today.”
The parking lot quieted down a little as the bikers turned off their engines. However, it was still purring with noise—and this time, the noise came from the disgruntled, disappointed men who were let down by and lamenting what Sam had just said.
Sam turned and walked back toward the door to the funeral home, shooting me a loathsome look along the way. It was obvious that it wasn’t a change of heart that caused him to back down from his position… and I was determined to find out what—or who—had.
Chapter 8
~ Sam ~
“Get up, get dressed, and get out,” I said, raising my voice and tossing Thing’s balled-up, off-the-rack dress at her from across the room.
I was disappointed in myself. I’d slipped up, and now I had to deal with the consequences.
Nine out of ten times, I knew better than to bring a groupie home with me—and on those rare instances when I did, I almost never let them spend the night, or at least never let them stay until morning. I usually kicked them out when I ran out of condoms or beer, got too drunk to fuck, or rubbed my dick raw—but none of those things happened with Thing the night before, and somehow, I ended up falling asleep while she was at my place. And when I woke up in the morning, she was still there, naked, with her arm draped over me like a cheap scarf.
I managed to pry her arm off of me and sneak out of bed without waking her and went about my business for a while before crowing at her. If mistakes like this had taught me anything before, it’s to let sleeping dogs—and sleeping Things—lie until the very last minute. If you wake ‘em before you shower, get dressed, and make your coffee, you gotta deal with ‘em while you do those things—but if you wait ‘til you’re done with all that shit and wake ‘em right before you gotta leave your crib or start your day, they have no choice but to oblige and “get up, get dressed, and get out” quickly.
I actually got a lot done while Thing was still sleeping. I had my cup of Morning Joe, made a few phone calls, and got a shower. I got a shave in, too. Really, I’d been wanting to let my beard grow, but the shave was necessary after the night I’d had. I’d really gone wild on Thing. I fucked the hell out of her three times and had my face between her legs for what had to be hours. Even after thoroughly washing my mug a few times, I could still smell and taste her pussy on my beard and decided I had to shave it. It was a nice smell and taste, mind you, but it was a little too distracting for what I had ahead of me, and seeing as how I was probably gonna get another piece of ass before the end of the day, I figured Thing’s taste might be offensive to my next partner. And, damn, if I was gonna have another girl taste Thing’s pussy, I’d want her to do it in front of me as I watched, not have her lap the leftovers from my face.
After my shower and shave, I threw on a pair of fresh boxers, then started collecting Thing’s things to make her exit swifter. Her shoes and purse were still out in the living room, and I found her dress balled up on the floor by the bed. Her bra was hanging on the headboard, and I looked around the room for a moment, trying to find her panties—but then, I remembered. She hadn’t been wearing any…
So if you think that anything I’ve said so far about “Thing,” “groupies,” or “women like these” was too harsh or cruel, chew on that for a moment. This chick went to a funeral home wearing a skimpy dress and no panties. Who the hell does that? I may not be the most sensitive, politically correct man in the world, but don’t damn me for calling them like I see ‘em.
“What time is it?” Thing asked, rolling over in the bed. She was laying spread eagle, and her trimmed mound still glistened with residual wetness.
“Seven thirty,” I answered, searching for a nice pair of jeans in my dresser drawers. “Terry’s funeral is at nine thirty, and I’ve got a lot to do before then. I’m already running late… which means you gotta go.”
Thing turned over on her side, so that her breasts hung down at a very inviting angle. I stared at them for a minute and thought about going over and sliding my cock between them, but then I looked at her face and changed my mind. After a night of getting “Hammered,” Thing’s body still looked amazing, but her face had surely seen better days. Her bottle-blonde hair was messed and knotted, and her black eye makeup was smeared all over her cheeks.
“Can’t I just ride in with you?” Thing asked. “I was planning on going to the funeral, too. So since we’re both going, wouldn’t it be easier—?”
I cut Thing off before she could finish her sentence.
“No, you can’t ride in with me,” I interrupted, chuckling. “We’re doing a memorial run today. I’ve got to go pick up Hannah in the car first and drop her off. Then, Gator’s gonna take me to get my bike.”
Thing looked a little upset, maybe even hurt, that I laughed at her while explaining myself. But, really, the idea of her riding in with me was a little funny—or more aptly, a little absurd. She’d spent one night in my bed, and she wanted to get on the back of my hog and join me when I drove in for the funeral. No person in their right mind would show up to such a solemn event with a one-night stand on their arm, and no biker would ever put a one-night stand on the back of his bike when
he had something as important as a memorial run to do. If we bring women to those things, we only bring the women that are a full, integral, or wanted part of our world, not the chicks on the outskirts of it. Even a groupie like Thing should’ve known that, and it was ridiculous for her to even pose her question.
When the Wolves—and the Seraphs and the rest of the world—saw me this morning, they were gonna see me first with Hannah, then on my own. I wasn’t gonna have them think that Thing was my girl. I’m only thirty, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want anybody to think that some interchangeable trick with a heart-shaped ass could tie me down.
“Can’t you just drive me in to the funeral home with Hannah?” Thing asked, sitting up in the bed and finally getting her heart-shaped ass in gear.
“No,” I said, chuckling again. I’d done a lot to protect my sister over the years—and a large part of that was making sure that she didn’t hang around girls like Thing. Hannah may have had her own tumultuous past, but she was past that now, and I wasn’t going to do anything to remind her of it or implicate her in that lifestyle. I couldn’t have her walking into Bradley’s with a groupie whose name I couldn’t even remember—especially not a groupie who looked as disheveled as Thing.
“I’ll drive you back to your place, if you live close by,” I added, “or to a friend’s house, or a bus stop. Whatever. I don’t care, but you’re not coming to the funeral home with me—and you’re not coming along to Hannah’s either. I’ll drop you off before I go there.”
I didn’t even want Hannah to know that I’d bagged Thing. She’d become a little “protective” herself over the years, and she didn’t like the way I played the fields and streets. The less she knew, the better.
“But wherever I take you,” I continued, “you might wanna freshen up first—wash your face, comb your hair, put on a new dress. You can’t go to a funeral looking like you look—‘cause, baby, you look like shit.”
HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1) Page 4