Specter's Wake

by Quinn Ryder

  The sweetbutts looked over at me and giggled.

  I wonder if any of them are Dusty?

  It was a brief thought that invaded my mind, but none of them looked very old, and Filly had given me zero information other than her name to go by. Dusty could literally be any female that hung around the club.

  Almost immediately, one of the women had her eyes set on me. She strolled across the room; her big ass titties bounced obnoxiously in the short, green, plaid shirt that she was wearing. The shirt happened to be tied just above her belly button, revealing a hidden daisy tattoo that barely peeked out from behind the shorty-shorts riding up her sexy, milky-white thighs. From the size of the daisy and its location, this girl was not Dusty.

  Her hair was pulled back in identical, short, auburn pigtails that were curled under and adorned with red ribbons. The red ribbons in her hair signified that she was someone’s Old Lady, and judging by the mischievous gleam in her eye, she thought I had no idea what those ribbons meant. When a woman got dubbed as someone’s Old Lady, they were given leathers that stated, “property of” and then had the members name she belonged to scrawled across the back. Some girls chose not to wear their leathers that tethered them to a club member; which was fine, but if they chose not to wear it, then they had to have red ribbons in their hair so other members knew she was off limits. Club rules. By this girl’s sexy saunter, I could tell she was the type of woman that didn’t like to be tied down to anyone and her current stride screamed that she was currently seeking out another lion to claim.

  “Hey there, Handsome. What’s your name?” She tickled her fingers up my forearms and pushed her tits out so I could see down her shirt. Behind my sunglasses I glanced down briefly, but there was no way anyone could see where my eyes were wandering. As far as everyone else knew, my eyes were trained on the club crest pinned against the wall. My expression remained emotionless and disengaged, and that seemed to only fuel her flirtations more.

  “I’m Daisy,” she told me a little too sweetly.

  “Potential prospect,” was all I gave her in response. That should’ve been enough, but Daisy was persistent and way too fucking bold. She fucking crawled onto my lap and straddled me like a professional stripper ready to give me a lap dance, and then the little flirt started squirming.

  Fuck my life.

  “I bet you got a big ass dick hiding in those jeans, Prospect. Why don’t you let sweet Daisy suck you off, huh?”

  The big prospect coughed the word, “Whore,” rather loudly, and smirked when her hand slid down my front, grabbing my junk through my jeans.

  “Ooooh,” she squealed. “I was right, you’re packing some thick, strong, cock in these pants.”

  I could hear the club’s voices loudly speaking behind the door. That meant Church was almost over and whatever club member Daisy belonged to, would be coming outside at any minute.

  She began rubbing me even harder, leaning forward so she could whisper in my ear. “Take me to the bathroom before they get out of Church, no one has to know but you, me, and that thick ass cock of yours.” She licked my ear and proceeded to move her tongue down the slope of my neck.

  When my cock began to twitch in response, I knew it was time to eject Daisy and send her packing. I grabbed her forcefully by the hair and tangled my hands in the ribbons. She moaned playfully, like she actually thought I wanted to fuck her, while a crafty smile tickled her lips at the same time.

  “Take me now, Caveman,” she teased.

  I untied the ribbon wrapped around one of her ponytails and dangled it in front of her face. “I know better than to fuck someone else’s Old Lady.” I grabbed her hips and gently pushed her off me just as the doors opened in the meeting room.

  Daisy pouted, her lower lip jutting out like I took away her favorite lollipop. Her frown got even bigger when Guerrilla marched out of the doors and grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her on top of one of the pool tables nearby.

  “Miss me, baby?” he asked, sliding open her legs and pulling her against his body. I could smell the alcohol on him from where I sat. Guerrilla was an alcoholic back when I was in the club, but from his track marks and sunken eyes, I could tell he was also a drug-addict now as well.

  He was at least twice her age. It was obvious that Guerrilla liked his women young—really young. Daisy was maybe in her mid-twenties, with bright green eyes and legs for days. Guerrilla was in his late forties when I disappeared, so he had to be at least in his fifties by now. His dark hair was streaked with signs of age and hung long down past his shoulders. It was messy, dirty, and had that frizzy look where you know it hadn’t seen a brush in a very long time. His skin was covered in craters and meth pox. His nails, a bit longer than they should be, dug into the flesh of Daisy’s side as his cracked lips pestered her for affection. I watched the two of them as Guerrilla groped the hell out of poor Daisy’s breasts. She had what was supposed to be a friendly, turned-on smile on her face, but I could see right through it. She was repulsed, and I was floored that she agreed to be his Old Lady at all.

  Staring at her with more scrutiny, I realized she had the same sunken eyes that he did. No wonder she stayed around; he fed her addiction like she was craving jelly beans.

  I guess he caught me watching them, because his smile dropped to a scowl and he motioned to the war room. “They want your ass inside.”

  Daisy watched me with attentive eyes as I walked away. Her eyes were hungry but also filled with unnecessary hostility. She was going to be trouble, I felt it in my bones.

  When I entered the war room, every member of the club sat at a large oak table. Each wore the same expression: unamused scowl filled with intimidation. The rest of the prospects remained outside. They weren’t allowed in unless they were summoned.

  Scythe sat at the head with a gavel in front of him. Switchblade sat to his left and there was an empty chair to the right of him. Guerrilla came up behind me and knocked my shoulder, before he took the empty seat. There was nowhere for me to sit, so I just stood awkwardly in front of them all waiting my fate.

  “A bunch of these assholes are apprehensive about you joining our club. This cut isn’t something to fuck around with.” Scythe grabbed the lapel of his leather jacket, showing off the many patches that covered his front. One, the most important, carried his title of president. Below that was the club logo and name. On the other side was a new one I wasn’t familiar with. A skull with two guns crossing over it. We didn’t have that patch when Dutch was president, so I’ll have to find out what it means. “This cut is a symbol of brotherhood. Those who wear our colors, wear them with pride. We are a family. We lookout for each other. Club business is club business. Keep your fucking mouth shut and you’ll do fine. This shit ain’t for the weak, and if you fucking think you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, you’re wrong. We’re a family of fuck ups and felons, nobody fucks with the Devil’s Armada. We don’t take shit lying down, and if we need to, we come out guns cocked and loaded just like our dicks. If you’re serious about becoming one of us, then you need to show your cut the respect it deserves. Not everyone gets to wear our colors, not everyone makes it into the family. You already got a bunch of assholes that don’t fucking like you, so you may want to straighten your shit up before you get knocked the fuck out. Got me?”

  “I got you.”

  “You fucking address me as Prez, when you speak to me, Prospect!” Scythe’s voice increased by two decimals, and the men around him snickered.

  “I got you . . . Prez.”

  “Very good.” Scythe rose out of his chair and walked toward me, clapping me on the back so hard I almost coughed. “It’s settled then, boys. Let’s welcome our newest prospect. I call him Specter, but if you fucking assholes want to change it later, you can. Welcome to Devil’s Armada, Specter. Don’t fuck with the Devil if you can’t stand the flames.”

  A few guys cheered, but most really didn’t give a shit. I could tell they thought I wouldn’t last very long. L
ittle did they know, I knew everything I needed to know in order to stick around. In fact, my whole initiation into the club was unorthodox. None of these men knew me and the elders were all gone except Guerrilla and Trigger. There were only four men I recognized from when I was a member before. Scythe, Switchblade, Guerrilla, and Trigger. Everyone else was young and looked like they spent a few years in prison, and the ones who didn’t, looked like they only cared about themselves.

  Scythe looked over at Switchblade who was glaring in my direction. “He tried to keep you out, but when I told him he could order you around and make your life a living hell, he changed his tune. Be in for a lot of hard work, Prospect, and knowing Switchblade, he’s gonna have a lot of shit work for you to do. He fucking hates your guts.”

  “The drink last night didn’t help?”

  “Nope, he still wants to kick the shit out of you.” Scythe pushed me out the door and the rest of the men followed. We stopped in front of the pool tables and waited for the rest of the men to file out of the war room.

  Cipher walked up with two other men I didn’t recognize. One was shorter with slightly long, wavy curly hair, with a black bushy unkempt beard speckled with grey hair. He had a friendly smile and a lightsaber tattoo that went from his wrist down his forearm. He looked like he might have a little Latino in him, but when he spoke a thick, American drawl came out. So maybe it was just his slightly darker skin and jet-black hair that made me think that way.

  He stuck out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome, Prospect, I’m Obi, Treasurer of the club. Don’t go fucking around with my money or shit won’t be pretty. Got me?” His grip got tighter.

  “The only money I fuck with is my own.” I looked down at his tattoo. “Nice ink, is that how you got your name?”

  Obi grinned. “Every club needs a sci-fi nerd. I may have grown up reading comic books and pretending I was Ben Kenobi, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fuck your shit up if you mess with me.”

  I nodded. “The force is strong with this one,” I joked, my comment directed to Scythe and Cipher.

  Everyone laughed. Including Obi. Then they all stopped and glared at me.

  “Don’t be thinking you can butter us up by being funny, Prospect. This shit is serious. You wanna be part of our club then you got to pay your dues.” Obi extended his hand, “We need a grand up front.”

  I knew Obi was full of shit, dues weren’t that much. Today I would owe them for my patch and colors, also first month dues. That’s around a hundred fifty, max. The rest would be due within sixty days.

  Cipher stepped in. “Obi, don’t be a dick. As your sponsor, it’s my duty to look out for you, Prospect. You have sixty days to pay your dues, three hundred twenty-five all together, but a hundred twenty-five is due today.”

  “You’re my sponsor?” I questioned, wondering why it was him and not Scythe.

  “Yup.”

  Obi glared. “He still owes me fucking money, Cipher. He can’t just waltz in here and not pay his dues.”

  I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my wallet, and handed him four hundred dollars. “Here’s four hundred, that’ll cover my colors, patch, my yearly dues, and first three months of membership.”

  Silence.

  Crap, I forgot I shouldn’t know this shit.

  “Are you sure you haven’t prospected before?” Scythe asked me with narrowed eyes.

  “No,” I replied without twitching.

  “He sure as hell acts like he knows what’s up,” the other man who was standing with Obi answered. He towered over me. He was at least Six-five with a sleeve of tattoos up his left arm, all in blue and white ink. His muscular torso was covered by his cut and a black tank, but I could tell by the way his arms were shaped that he worked out frequently. “Maybe he’s a fucking spy.” I swear the veins in his arm bulged and his biceps grew three inches when he squared up to me.

  “Is that it, Prospect? Are you a spy?” Scythe’s voice was almost menacing. Now all of them were standing around me, practically looming.

  Cipher stepped in. “Hey now, he’s my prospect, back off. I’ll get him in line.”

  “Prez, I’m no spy.” I refused to make them know I was squirming inside. I stayed calm, eyes showing no ounce of the fear that coursed through my veins. “Just a man who’s been lost and looking for a place to call home.”

  The man I didn’t recognize glared, his eyes narrowing even more. He thought I was full of shit, and maybe I was, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. “The name’s Ice. I’m the club Enforcer. You fuck with my club and it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever fuck. I have no problem breaking your dick off and grinding it up in my mulcher so I can feed the aftermath to my fucking dogs.”

  So, he was the club’s Enforcer. That made total sense. Big, angry, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Ice was definitely someone I didn’t want to fuck with.

  “He won’t,” Cipher chipped in. “Specter’s gonna be a badass prospect, you fucking watch, Ice. You’ll be amazed at what this man can do for the club.”

  Ice wasn’t convinced. “We’ll fucking see.”

  Guerrilla picked that exact moment to walk over. Daisy was draped over his arms, tits practically hanging out of her shirt. Every man in this place has his eyes glued to her chest and she didn’t seem to give a shit. She fucking loved the attention.

  “Didn’t get to meet ya,” Guerrilla said, extending his hand. “Names Guerrilla, not the fucking monkey kind—the kind that’s ready for battle. That’s why I’m the fucking Sgt. at Arms for the club. Glad we got some new blood around here. These assholes are grating on every one of my last nerves.” His bloodshot eyes were glazed over and he looked high as a kite. I grabbed his hand and gave it a swift shake, but the second I took it I was sent back in time, flashing back to my attempted murder.

  That night, I remember getting a text from an unknown number. Whoever sent me the text said that Faith was in trouble and I needed to come quickly. I thought the call was fishy from the get-go, but a lot of members had burner phones and because the text had to do with Faith, I wasn’t going to ignore it, despite being ordered to help Guerrilla on a run. I knew I had time. Guerrilla was running late, and Switchblade had shit covered back at the clubhouse. I didn’t even tell Switchblade I was taking off. I fucking hopped on my bike, left my post, and raced to the GPS coordinates that were sent to me.

  I tried calling Faith a few times, but her phone kept going straight to voicemail. The fact that I couldn’t reach her scared the ever-loving shit out of me. My mind kept dredging up images of a rival gang grabbing her and me not getting to her in time.

  The coordinates sent me to the other side of town, deep in the mountains, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. There was a clearing that I had no clue was up there. It was off the highway and away from civilization. I remember feeling uneasy. It was as if my body knew something was off, but I was under the assumption that Faith’s life was in danger and her life meant more to me than my life ever did. I’d do anything to protect her, even driving up to some dead end clearing out in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

  “Hello?”

  The only thing that answered me was my own voice bouncing off the trees. I looked around but saw no other signs of life. No Faith. No people. Just the trees, the clearing, and me—vulnerable as all hell.

  “Faith, where the fuck are you?”

  She didn’t answer me, not even the crickets answered.

  I started to feel even more paranoid and did the first thing I could think of. I dialed my Prez.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Dutch’s number. He answered on the third ring.

  “What’s up, Midas?”

  I couldn’t answer him. The phone dropped out of my hand and I looked down at my shirt. The once white under shirt I was wearing was now soiled in my own blood. I didn’t even hear the shot ring out. Whoever shot me used a silencer.

  I collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

  “Midas, what’s wrong? F
ucking answer me, dammit,” Dutch yelled into the phone.

  I choked out, desperate to call out for his help, but my vision started to cloud. I could barely see through the veil of pain-filled tears that imprisoned my eyes. Blood sputtered out of my mouth, and my lungs squeezed as if breathing was the most painful thing I could ever think of doing. I clutched my side, desperate to stop the blood seeping from my wound. My whole body hit the ground; nose hitting first as mud shoved its way into my nostrils and scratched my eyes, burning them with every wet grain of dirt that mixed with my tears. My mouth was the last thing to touch the ground, tongue scraping the earth with taste deprived taste buds. It seemed like all my senses had stopped working except sound, because I could hear his steps like there were bass drums taped to my ears. The crack of bone crippled my body as a steel toe boot dug into my side and sent me flying into the freshly dug grave next to me.

  Somehow, I missed that when I arrived.

  My body flopped lifelessly inside of the hole, back hitting the ground with a thunderous THWACK that echoed even louder than my voice when I called out for Faith. I couldn’t make my lips move, but I wanted to groan—my whole body was fucking screaming in silence beneath my skin.

  Darkness overwhelmed my vision, between the mud sticking to my eyelids, and the tears that did all the crying for me, everything was a blur. I briefly caught a slight glimpse of the Armada’s infamous logo as my attacker walked past my grave to grab something on the other side, but that was all I was able to see before the first clump of dirt hit my chest, dropping on top of me like a hundred-pound weight had been thrown down into the hole instead of a pile of earth. Each shovel of dirt felt heavier than the last until every inch of my body had been pinned down by soil and I couldn’t move. The last thing to be covered was my face.