by Wild, Nikki
The man who’d led us to the clubhouse and gotten Lip to come out and talk to us was crawling towards the clubhouse, trailing blood behind him; I watched four of his brothers come to his aide, pulling him screaming to his feet, lifting him and carrying him inside. He was hit, but not dead. And Lip? Where was Lip?
“Alright,” a voice said from beside me, and even though my ears were still ringing, it surprised me enough to cause me to jump. “Either Dutch is crazy enough to maim his own men tryin’ to dupe us, or you boys are tellin’ me the truth.”
I saw Lip standing there, unscathed. Shit, it was like the man just dematerialized when the shootout started and put himself back together once it was done.
“You’re Grinder’s boy,” Lip said, eyes no longer narrow. I nodded, dropping my pistol to my waist. “Grinder always was a good man. I ‘spect I can trust him. I reckon you and your mates ought to follow me inside, we got some things to talk about.”
Across the roaring crowd, the men going crazy with rage, I saw Blade crouched on the street, beside a gleaming hunk of metal. Grinder stood off to the side a ways, watchin’. I told Lip we’d be inside promptly, and jogged over to tell them that we were in. But I slowed up quick when I saw the figure lying dead as a dog in the street, his face turned in my direction. Marty. The prospect Blade had wanted to cut. The prospect who’d still be alive if he had been cut. It made me sick to my stomach, and reminded me that we still hadn’t heard from Hunter, which made me sicker.
“Let’s go,” I shouted from a few feet away. “Lip says we gotta talk. I think we’re golden.”
Blade looked up at me from where he crouched over Marty’s body, shakin’ his head.
“Ain’t never gonna be golden again,” he said, rising with a sigh. “But let’s see what we can do.”
We left Marty there on the street. Wasn’t nothing else we could do. He was property of the Blackhawks now, the first to give his life in repayment for the lives already taken. I didn’t know who actually shot him down, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was Blade.
You could almost see it in his eyes.
Shit. Hell was far too good for Dutch Turner.
Cross
It was well past dark by the time we made it back to the cabin. The men were still up, playing cards or milling around. We explained the plan as simply as we could.
The Blackhawks wanted to strike as soon as possible, but they didn’t want to rush anything, either. They would spend the next day building up the defenses at their clubhouse and collecting arms, planning their assault. If Dutch’s boys had the balls to stage another ride-by, the Blackhawks would be ready. And judging by Dutch’s actions so far, sending out small troops to deal slight damage, I could tell he wanted to draw the Blackhawks to him. Use our territory to his advantage. We knew those streets better, after all. Since he was suffering in the numbers game, he was trying to make up for it in terrain.
As for us Crusaders, we would meet the Blackhawks before the sun rose the next day, at a rendezvous point outside the city, and storm our clubhouse. The men were clearly perturbed by the idea of raiding our own home. I can’t say I was fond of it, either. But we couldn’t let Dutch’s home field advantage give him the edge. We knew the territory just as well – if not better – than his crew of young bloods. We knew our clubhouse, as well as we knew our bikes. Where it was vulnerable. Where it was strong. How to get in when everyone inside was armed and shootin’.
By the time we had the plan laid out, I was edging towards mania. I just wanted Bex. Mack told me they’d put her up in the master bedroom, a kindness I thanked him for. She was waitin’ for me, I knew. I wanted to show her I’d kept my promise. I’d come back.
For now, at least.
When I finally managed to extricate from the crowd and climb the stairs to the bedroom, I was all nerves and half-hard. The shoot-out had me more than on edge. I couldn’t get Marty’s dead body out of my head. And the fact that we couldn’t bury him proper, couldn’t take him home. As much as I tried to push it away, it kept on crawlin’ back in.
Bex needed to see me, I knew. But I needed her, too. I needed to bury myself inside her and fuck the whole damn world away. For as long as I could, for as long as she’d let me. The only time I felt right was when her hands were runnin’ through my hair and her voice was in my ear.
The light was on, leaking under the door, but I couldn’t hear anything happening inside. I creaked the door open, and saw the bedside clock at 2:45. I hadn’t known just how late it was. It explained why Bex was lying, fully clothed but eyes closed, on top of the covers.
Her black hair spread out like a silken fan on the white pillows, her head turned slightly to the side, her body listing in the same direction. The bed was a king size, the room nearly bare around it. I kicked my boots off before entering, wanting to watch her sleep a little before I woke her up. Sittin’ on the bed, I admired her freckles, her heart-shaped face, her long, thick eyelashes. Her eyes rolled behind their lids. She was dreaming. Of me?
She moaned in her sleep, turned over onto her other side, curling up a bit more. I let my hand land on her arm, stroking her warm skin, marveling at how soft it was. I don’t know how women keep themselves so damn soft, but every man on earth is thankful that they do. Slowly, I let my hand move over, until I could feel her breast, her chest rising and falling with her breath. I stroked her lightly, feeling her heartbeat underneath her breast, not sure whether or not I wanted her to wake up yet. Maybe it would be enough just to lie at her side, hold her, watch her sleep…
But then it was too damn late. Her mouth moved, her head turning slightly, her back arching so that her breast filled my hand. Her nipple tightened, and my cock reacted, whether I wanted it to or not. I leaned down, laying myself at her side, letting my cock nestle at her backside, grinding gently while I stroked and fondled her chest. She moaned again, louder this time, and her hips thrust backwards against me.
“Cross,” her voice, thick with sleep. “Cross?”
“Yeah, baby,” I said, leaning up to whisper it in her ear, knowing how my breath would make her shudder. She did, and I got a little bit stiffer. She turned her head enough to look me in the eye.
“You’re back,” she said, still coming out of sleep. I grabbed her breast harder, pressing it to her chest and rubbing my thumb across her nipple. She wasn’t wearing a bra, I guess, because I could feel her, hard as a pebble beneath my fingers. My other hand made quick work of my jeans, my legs kicking them down to my ankles so she could feel my hardness against her. She was wearing those crazy leggings that make a woman’s ass look tight enough to bounce a dime off of, and I buried myself against her thighs, nudging between them.
“I’m back,” I said, her moans gratifying my every movement and making my cock twitch. By the time I moved my hand from her breast to her pants, diving past the elastic top, she was wet, and hot, and ready for me. Like she’d been dreamin’ of me, after all.
Her hips jerked as I found her clit and rubbed it, a tight circle that had her buryin’ her face in the pillow. She didn’t want the men downstairs to hear her crying. I didn’t care. I needed to hear it. I needed her to scream my name, so I didn’t have to listen to the gunshots still echoing between my ears. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, just enough to get her face out of that pillow.
“Don’t you hide, baby,” I warned. “I don’t care who hears you. You’re gonna make some noise from me, you hear?”
I pinched her clit gently between two fingers, and she cried out, the sound a perfect harmony to my rushing blood.
“I’m takin’ these off,” I growled, grabbing the elastic top of her pants and yanking them down; I took the chance to kiss down the side of her stomach and the swell of her hips, trailing my tongue down her curves until she was halfway to drooling.
Coming back up, she reached around her back, finding my shaft and squeezing it in her palm. Her touch was soft and perfect, and I bit down gently on her neck, feeling her fingers dance u
p and down from my head to my base and back again. Each stroke had my balls churning, my blood pounding in my ears.
Slowly, I felt her pull me forward, until I slipped between her lips, my cock sliding against her wetness, not entering her yet, my tip rubbing her clit until her back arched. I loved the way she was whimpering, holding back from begging, so I teased her again, rubbing myself against her without entering, letting her feel me throb against her slit but refusing to give her what she needed.
“Cross,” she moaned, a complaint on her lips, her hands gripping my base like she could force me to enter her. “Please…”
“Not yet,” I growled. “Roll over. I want to see your face when I finally get inside you.”
She sighed, turning over, her breasts round and juicy and inviting; I sucked one hard nipple between my lips as I slid between her thighs, pressing her knees open wide, positioning myself against her entrance. She was dripping wet, her heat radiating against me, inviting me inside. But I wasn’t done teasing her, sliding my cock between her lips again and rubbing her clit while I teased and tugged her nipples, licking one and then the other, her body writhing underneath me.
“Cross! Please!”
Yeah. Fuck yeah. That was a start.
“Louder,” I growled. She bit her lip, aware of the crowd just down the stairs. I bit lightly at her nipple, ground my hips down, and she gasped.
“Fuck! Please! Just fuck me, Cross!”
Oh, god, I loved hearing that, the way she sang my name like a fuckin’ hymn. I groaned, finally slipping into her, feeling her pussy clench and then spread for me, letting me in inch by inch, her velvety walls stroking me all the way down. With her nails digging into my back and my name still rolling from her lips, she let me all the way in, until I was sure I was piercing her very center, buried to my balls. I thought she might have wanted even more, from the way her hips lifted and her shins wrapped around my waist, pulling me against her.
“This what you like, baby?” I growled into her ear, still with my hands on her breasts, beginning to thrust now. “Tell me how much you like it…”
“Fuck,” she cried. “I love it, Cross, fuck, it’s everything I…oh, god…”
Her body was heating up, her legs starting to quiver. The faster and harder I went, the more she responded, taking every pounding thrust like it was a gift. Her nails were going to leave marks between my shoulder blades, and I fucking loved it. I loved her soft pussy, I loved the way she screamed, I loved every inch of her body beneath mine.
“Come for me,” I demanded, needing her to drip down my balls, wanting her to suck the cum right out of me. “Come for your man, Bex.”
“Oooohh,” she groaned, her head dropping back against the pillow, her hips bucking underneath me, driving me deeper into her slit until I was pressed against her womb. Her pussy clenched, squeezing my shaft like a vice, pure heaven. She was clawing at the sheets, sweat glistening between her breasts, skin glowing as her blood rushed and foamed, bringing pleasure to every nerve in her body. Watching her was enough, and I felt my own body tip over as my balls churned and then released, her pussy still clenching, milking my cum, hungry for it.
We slumped together, both breathing hard, sweating and spent. She groaned under my weight, pushing me off while wrapping her arms around me at the same time. She closed her eyes, rubbed her nose against my chest, right in the center of my Dead Crusader’s tattoo. My arms were strong enough to hold her. But it wasn’t fucking enough.
I wanted it to be. I wanted her to be enough. I would have given anything for her to be enough.
But she wasn’t.
I could still see Marty’s body. I could still remember Dutch callin’ me boy, before Sylvia and all this mess. And I started seeing and hearing other things, things that hurt as much as needles in my skin.
“Cross?” Bex could feel it. I knew she could feel it. She could feel everything. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’, beautiful,” I said.
“You’re a liar,” she shot, givin’ me a look.
“Maybe so,” I said. “But you’re tired, and we can talk in the morning.”
“I’m not tired,” she protested, but the very word tired was enough to have her yawning.
“Now who’s the liar?” I teased. She eyed me again.
“The mornin’?”
“The mornin’,” I promised. “Everything in the mornin’.”
“Holding you to it, Cross DuFrane,” she said, closing her eyes again and rolling from my arms. Bex always did like to be the little spoon. But before I lay down beside her, I headed to the bathroom, needin’ it pretty bad. I stared in the mirror for a bit after I was done. And then I did somethin’ very strange. Somethin’ I would never think was somethin’ I would do. I opened the medicine cabinet. Mack had back surgery some years before, and I guess he did some of his recovering there in the cabin, ‘cause there was a bottle of pills gatherin’ dust in his medicine cabinet.
So I took some.
Because I didn’t want to hear or see or remember a goddamn thing, and I knew those pills could do that for me, I took some. Just popped ‘em into my mouth, re-capped the bottle, and put it back. Went and lay down beside Bex, and held her, and let the happiness set in. I forgot everything, all right. This time, it was enough.
Dutch
Dutch fingered the leather quietly, as though considering its quality. The patch was bare except for the bottom rocker: Prospect. Marty’s cut had come back to him with a note.
You wanted a war. You got a war.
“They won’t wait long,” Sylvia said, barely looking up from her nails. “I would think they’ll strike in the morning.”
“What makes you think that?” Dutch snapped. He was beset with a constant unease, his stomach always roiling. This was not going the way he’d imagined it. Sure, he’d managed to do some damage to the Blackhawks, but he’d lost one of his own, too. And more men than he thought had turned on him. The club was almost split even. And from what Soldier reported, while sewing up his own leg, the men who’d followed Blade and Cross weren’t just going to hide out or leave town until was over.
They were fighting back.
Against their own brothers.
“Why would they wait? They think they’ve got it in the bag,” Sylvia said. “They think they’ve got us outnumbered.”
“They do have us outnumbered,” Dutch growled.
“Only in quantity,” Sylvia said, sounding bored. “But three of those old geezers aren’t worth half one of our boys. Can barely shoot straight with their shaking hands and cataracts.”
Dutch was of the opinion that Sylvia was wrong. Those men might be old, but they weren’t useless. And the Blackhawks themselves were nothing to scoff at.
“Besides, we’re going to make them come to us,” Sylvia said. “And we’ve planned for that. We have home field advantage, darling.”
She was right about that, at least. The clubhouse was a fortress. He had men at every window, ready to pick off their enemies like snipers. They’d have to rush the door to do any damage, and by then, the numbers might even out.
“Now, I’d like to talk about her,” Sylvia said, putting down her nail file and leaning forward, elbows on Dutch’s desk. He could see all the way down her low-cut dress, the small, firm breasts that had once seemed so delicious and exotic. Now, he wondered if they were worth all the shit that came with the rest of the package.
Not that it was just the tits. It was her whole being. And it was the drugs. He knew it was the drugs. Which just reminded him that he was sitting in front of another line, waiting there all neat and clean and pretty. It disappeared up his nose and Dutch remembered why he wanted this war. His heart beat hard in his chest. He felt like a king. He was a king. She was his queen, and they were expanding their kingdom. No one could touch them, no one could beat him, he had the strongest army in the world…
“Dutch,” Sylvia’s voice snapped. “The girl. The bitch who betrayed us.”
&n
bsp; “Right,” Dutch said, nodding and sniffling, rising from his seat to pace the room. “What about her?”
“I want her,” Sylvia said. “I know where they’re keeping her, and I want her.”
“How do you know?” Dutch asked, marveling once more at his queen’s endless gifts. She smirked.
“Old man Mack hasn’t filed taxes for years, but last time he did, he claimed a property outside of town, out near the mine,” she said. “A cabin. I checked it out, because I thought it was strange that no one seemed to know anything about this cabin. It’s still there. It’s secluded. It’s the perfect place to hide a bitch.”
“They’re all there,” Dutch guessed, feeling quite brilliant as he did so. Sylvia shrugged.
“Possibly,” she said. “Likely, in fact.”
“So we should storm it! Let’s ride out there and cut those bastards off at the knees…”
Sylvia tsked.
“And leave the clubhouse vulnerable? This is our ace in the hole, Dutch. We want them to come to us, remember, love?”
“Right,” Dutch said. “Right.”
“Even if we killed each and every one of them out in the woods, we would leave ourselves vulnerable to the Blackhawks. What would we do if we returned to find that they’d ambushed us, taken over the clubhouse, using our own home against us?”
“Right,” Dutch growled. “Right. We stay, and we wait for them to come to us.”
“Yes, baby,” Sylvia purred.
“But you can’t go out there alone,” Dutch said.
“Actually, I think going there alone is a brilliant move,” Sylvia said, rising to meet Dutch mid-pace. She closed her arms around his neck, his hands gravitating to her hips. “I’ll go tonight, hide myself in the woods. I’ll be able to tell you the minute they leave, so you can prepare. And when they’re gone…”