by LS Silverii
St. John reconsidered the information he thought about sharing with Justice. He understood the role women played in the Savage Nation, and Justice never allowed human trafficking to become part of the club’s repertoire. All mommas, old ladies and pigs were consensual, but still, the almost inhumane attitude toward Abigail sickened him.
“That’s not it. Never mind,” St. John said.
“Bullshit, you got something on your mind. Speak up,” Justice ordered.
St. John rubbed the back of his neck as he propped up on his hands and leaned forward.
“I got a source who said the feds went to bust the three bandits hired to hit Dragon Mike. Some of the feds teamed up with local Vegas SWAT for the raid, except when they were all alone in the desert, the locals attacked the federal agents,” St. John explained cautiously.
Justice launched another wad of cud, but closer to St. John’s boots, “How the fuck you know that?”
“It ain’t important. You want to know the rest or not?”
“Shoot,” Justice snarled. Suspicion tainted his tone.
“The three killers had already bolted from the target house and that’s when we fucked them up. Your Vegas chapter is split deep, boss. Dragon Mike and the other true Nation brothers might still be in danger.”
“Good for them feds—hoped they murdered their ass,” Justice spat.
You stupid fucker, it was your own brother, your childhood friend Voodoo, and my partner who got attacked.
“Maybe so, but I thought you’d care more about your empire falling apart than a few feds in the desert. You know what happened to the Roman empire, right? I’d hate like shit to see it happen to you,” St. John tossed him a crumpled wad of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Names of those rats your brother killed in the desert, and their butt buddies back at the Vegas chapter.”
Justice flexed up off the dusty flatbed, his face pulled forward into a contorted inquiry. “My brother?”
“Lawless. Ain’t that some shit? One of the feds you wished dead was your own blood brother. Sometimes you should watch what you wish for.” St. John walked away.
“Hey boy. Where you think you going?”
“I held up my end, and now you’ll hold up yours. I’m taking Abigail into town.”
Chapter 12
St. John climbed lightly upstairs toward Justice’s suite. His excitement over taking Abigail away from the oppression and sexual abuse caused his heart to beat a little quicker. Although only a temporary reprieve, it would still be nice to see what lay below her hollowed shell.
Her door was ajar, the room empty. He tiptoed across the open-air hallway until he heard voices coming from the far corner. He slipped along against the interior wall until he was able to peer through the crack in the door.
The room looked like a torture chamber—how had he not see it before? Shackles with chains, leather straps and whips of every imaginable style, and a wooden sawhorse mounted into the floor. He saw them, and strained his ear to listen.
“Sue, please, baby, please give it to me.” St. John knew the voice to be Abigail’s, though he couldn’t see her yet.
“Baby, you know you’re Justice’s property. But damn it, sugar, you know what the good book says about desiring your neighbor’s shit?” St. John watched Sue stalk back and forth. He’d heard the blood brothers mention Sue’s deadly sin as that of envy—he figured Sue was envious of Justice.
“I know, but all I’ve thought about since the first night was how much I needed to feel your monster dick inside of me.”
She came into St. John’s view. A leash was tethered by a hook into a collar she wore. She walked on all fours like Sue’s pet, attached to a zip line stretched from wall to wall. No stress in her face. St. John couldn’t detect signs of intoxication or drugging—she looked like she was actually begging for Sue’s cock. He debated whether to look away or intervene.
“You ain’t nothing new. All of you pigs beg for it once you’ve had it. Why are you any different?” He towered over her—his fingers stroked her shaggy hair like a pet. St. John shook his head at the thought of having to fight Sue, or any of the Boudreauxs.
Every one of these fucking blood brothers are genetic freaks.
“I’m Justice’s pig, but you can take me before he will. Please, I’ve not had sex since he caught Fury sucking that cop. I guess he can’t get the thought out of his head.” She pawed at his zipper.
Sue’s head was almond shaped; his eyes resembled a cat’s. They were odd, but intimidating, actually appearing upside down, with the upper lids being more open than the lower ones. The sharp pointed corners of his mouth barely moved when he spoke, but his words were clear.
“Down, baby. Don’t tempt me.”
“Give momma what she needs. I’m begging you, baby,” Abigail rose up on her knees and began to unzip Sue’s pants.
His hand smashed against the side of her head and she crumpled onto the dusty wooden floor. Rage crashed over him, and St. John’s gut knotted. He leaned off the wall, aiming to stop the attack. St. John knew Sue’s criminal history included violence and a short stint in max lock up for murder—until the witnesses all disappeared. He wasn’t one to wait for a temper to wane—he always escalated to worse case scenario.
Sue ripped her up off the floor by a thick-fingered fist of blonde through black hair. “I told you not to tempt me.”
“Sorry, baby. I just want you inside me. I need to feel alive.”
St. John wiped his brow at what he was witnessing. She still insisted on reaching for Sue’s cock. Was she out of her mind? Sue’s gaze became inflamed, almost hypnotic—the intensity with which he switched personalities was strikingly sinister or masterfully minded.
His fist balled tighter which cocked her head until her reedy throat arched awkwardly back. St. John tensed in case Sue launched another assault on the rail thin girl. He wondered whether he’d misread earlier.
Even at five-feet-ten inches, she was lifted onto her toes when Sue mashed his mouth into hers. St. John heard the muffled groans from each and cringed to see their jaws flex as tongues engaged. He’d been so focused on her safety that he’d failed to notice his own erection.
Sue released her mane and she dropped limp to the floor. Her head snapped up because of the leash and collar that connected her to the zip line. She struggled for breath until she relieved the strain by returning to all fours like his pet. Sue’s back faced St. John, but he could see that his pants had been undone. He watched Abigail rise to her knees again, but Sue’s lower body concealed most of her torso.
He heard her moan, and cough initially. His own engorged dick pressed against denim once he saw her hands run around Sue’s hips until they grabbed full palms of his ass. She looked to be pulling him deeper into her throat. Sue swayed as his hands moved from her tresses to running fingers through his own hair.
“You know in Dante’s writings they’d sew peering eyes shut with wire because they gained sinful pleasures from watching others?” Whispered, the words sent cold shivers up St. John’s spine.
His heart pounded. Black spots flecked his vision. “What are you doing?”
St. John’s meat stiffened harder as the woman’s hand traced around his hip and squeezed his crotch. “I like to watch too. Spent years watching my old man fuck everything that crawled. I also like to play.” Liza Boudreaux breathed hushed confessions against his ear.
His hand brushed against her stroking wrist. “Mercy?”
“That’s him. Says he trusts you—so I know you’ll keep your trap shut about this too.”
Liza pressed her head against St. John’s shoulder. They both gazed at the mouth fucking Sue was subjecting Abigail to. Her hair whipped back and forth with each mighty thrust of his enormous dick between her stretched lips. Liza’s strong fist beat St. John’s dick in similar rhythm. His heart continued to race.
What if Sue catches us?
St. John relaxed against the wall as strength fr
om both thighs escaped. He wanted to cum so bad—it’d been a long time. His lungs puffed out more air than they took in. Eyelids batted as blood marshaled for the sprint from his brain to his groin. He was close, and Liza worked his shaft like she knew it too.
His eyes squinted then they strained. Finally, through the dilated ecstasy of approaching pleasure he saw her do it. Sue pumped Abigail’s mouth with such force that even St. John’s eyes watered—but she held onto his thighs. St. John positioned his own torso to block Liza’s view, but she didn’t seem to mind.
St. John grinned as he watched Abigail worm her right hands behind Sue’s knee, and then his calf until it landed on the pair of jeans that rested atop his grungy leather motorcycle boots. Her fingers massaged the waistband until they dipped into a pocket. Sue’s own orgasm had begun to erupt into what St. John could only imagine as being like drinking from a fire hose.
Abigail quickly slid something from his pants, and under her panties. She then fought the flood.
Chapter 13
The Harley Davidson Electra Glide slid smoothly along the blacktop highway toward Mystic’s small town square. The open air tingled with a hint of rain, but the cloudless sky seemed to promise an early cool Fall season.
They’d debated whether to haul ass to Hope Falls in the next county, but knew Justice would only tolerate Abigail being gone for so long before he tugged her leash.
Nervous hands shifted between her knees and his waist. Abigail rested against the sissy bar to allow the warm winds to beat against her pale face. Thoughts scrambled as a glance into the side view mirror revealed a ghostly figure barely reminiscent of the sexy tanned blonde she once knew.
Hiding dull blue eyes from the reflection’s condemnation, Abigail pressed her gaunt cheek against the back of St. John’s leather cut. The jagged thread irritated her sensitive skin. She found herself revolted by, yet drawn to, club colors—men had killed and died for these swatches of cloth. St. John’s top rocker, or patch, read Savage Souls MC. His bottom rocker read Florida, and the iconic passion cross main patch. He also had a collection of other emblems such as the outlaw 1%’er diamond patch, a SFFS, and a FTW.
“Hungry?”
She sensed his terse tone. “Sure, whatever.”
“We’ll head to the other side of town,” he shouted back. “There’s an old spot there where no one gives a shit about anything but the beer being cold.”
“Whatever you say.” She hated to act like a bitch, but she wasn’t sure why St. John wanted her away from the other brothers so badly.
Her thighs tightened against the saddle and his hips once the bike dipped deep into a mountain curve. An already queasy gut full of Sue’s semen pitched at the thought of being confronted about Gray Man, and the possibility that St. John knew about her plans. Abigail regained balance and tucked Fury’s pistol further into the pocket of her denim jacket. She may have lost track of how long she’d been the Nation’s captive, but she recalled with crystal clarity why she’d come—revenge.
“Fuck,” St. John spat, agitated. But he began to slow the bike.
Abigail turned her head to see blue lights quickly closing in on them. The strobe lights popped, then the siren wailed like an injured child. She inched her ass closer to St. John as a glance down showed the cruiser’s front push-bumper was dangerously close to their rear wheel.
“What now?” St. John’s head was buried in the leather pouch strung between his handlebars. “Now where’s my ID and shit?”
“Outlaw, step away from the bike,” Chief Perez’s voice pierced even the cruiser’s siren.
“Oh, hi Jennifer,” Abigail called from the back of the HOG. Her voice distracted as her left hand mashed the pistol deeper below her waistband.
Chief Perez’s demeanor shifted and she seemed to relax at the friendly face and greeting. “Which one is he?” She asked, ignoring St. John.
“This is James St. John.”
“New?” She brushed hair off her sunbaked cheeks. “Thought he was Fury.”
“Nope, this here dude is just a regular dude. Nothing like them Boudreaux brothers.” Abigail leaned from the saddle to pretend to whisper behind her hand. “If you know what I mean?”
St. John ignored both of them.
“Y’all seen Fury?”
Abigail winked at Perez. “Nope. He’s not my type.”
Perez walked around to the other side of the Hog—her right hand resting atop her firearm. She kept about a four foot gap between them but still had to look up to speak with him. “Maybe he’s your type. Seen him, Mister Quiet?”
“No.”
Abigail sensed St. John’s uneasiness with the police chief, and understood why. She intervened and took advantage of their positive relationship to divert the two from further interaction.
“Abi, you sure you doing okay with these animals?”
Abigail shuddered at being called Abi, but feigned a smile. “Yeah, Chief. These boys are all bark.”
Chief Perez asked about Sue, then saluted. “Okay, then y’all drive safe.”
St. John took the rest of the route to Ellie’s Outpost just below the speed limit. He looked to have more important matters on his mind than traffic stops.
“I gotta piss real bad,” Abigail whispered as her leg gyrated over and across the padded leather saddle.
“The head is around back.”
“The head?” She finally laughed. Quick steps lightened as she hurried around Ellie’s Outpost. It wasn’t as much about taking a leak as it was making sure the pistol was loaded and she knew how to use it.
Hell of a time and place to figure this shit out.
Abigail felt less than a slight sense of comfort once she returned—pistol tucked at her back in the waistband of her now baggy fitting jeans. She hid it there because that’s what she’d seen in the movies. St. John had removed his cut and laid it across his Hog’s saddle. It was odd for a brother to leave his colors anywhere other than draped over his shoulders but it did help her to feel less threatened.
Once they were inside and settled, their iced bottles of beer clanked. “Tell me, Abigail, what brings you here?”
“You did.” She drew back on a first swig of cold brew. It stung her throat with a delicious sensation.
“Good point, but let’s cut the bullshit. There’s something about you that screams ”rescue me“. I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself, but seems like you’ve put yourself in danger for a purpose. You’re all I’ve thought about, and I want to know why.”
Goosebumps raised along Abigail’s skin as she pressed against the chipped wooden picnic bench beneath the metal awning alongside the café. She shaded her eyes, pretending it was the sun that caused moisture to well in the corner of each eye.
“Who the fuck are you, the club head-shrink, or are you a holy roller who gonna save my soul?” She didn’t have to try sounding angry. Abigail was pissed. Who was he to stumble into her world? Ruin her plans?
St. John paced—his eyes intent on the gravel covered dirt ground. “That ain’t it, I just sensed something about you. I thought maybe you felt the same way about me. Until I saw you swallowing Sue of course.”
“Oh, really? Like I saw Mercy’s old lady stroking your dick like a naughty school boy behind class.” Her words exploded with laser precision intended to pierce, but not to kill, St. John.
He spun away and headed toward his bike, “You’re fucking impossible. Guess I was wrong—you really are just another piece of trash that the brothers will use up until they bury you out back in the compost.”
She’d dealt with dominant men her whole rotten life, and she knew how to challenge them without being challenging. Chasing a man to his ride was a big no-no. Her legs flinched to follow, but she planted an elbow against the bench to stay still.
“You sure are hot headed. Never expected that from you.” She landed the first ego blow.
He flung the leather vest around his shoulders. “You coming?”
Abig
ail sipped a longer draw of beer from the moist bottle, but fought the urge to cave to his question.
“I said are you coming?”
“No. I’ll call Justice for a ride, or maybe Sue. I’d love to ride him again,” she baited.
St. John’s face blanked. His sunglasses bounced off the flat black gas tank as his fist raged against empty air. She saw his shoulders set rigid. He opened and closed his fist as if pumping a grip strengthener. Maybe she’d pushed him too far. She hitched her breath and manipulated a grin that looked contrite.
He didn’t seem like one of the brothers, but he did know about Gray Man. And if he knew about him, then he knew about Ricky Geneti and her son.
“I’m not your enemy, Abigail. I see something special in you. The way the Nation treats women makes me sick. I only wanted to help you if you wanted it.”
Her nose crinkled. “You sure ain’t like the others. What you up to?”
“Nothing. Just trying to do a good deed.”
Fingers brushed off his comment. “Naw, I ain’t done nothing to deserve a good deed. I’m broken—nothing to repair.”
“Baby, I know broken. You ain’t it.” He came back and straddled the picnic bench next to her. She sensed an excitement building, but knew to survive she had to remain cool, detached.
The way the word baby rolled off his tongue sounded genuine. The brothers called her baby because they couldn’t remember her name. Shit, they called most of the mommas “baby”. But St. John was unlike the others. What did he want from her?
“Maybe so, but I still don’t know what you’re up to. We don’t know each other, and the only times you’ve seen me was while I was pleasing the boys. Oh, and Ms. Liza.”
“Ha, you too?”
“That shit ain’t funny. Well, maybe a little funny. Liza is aggressive, but hot.” Abigail had fallen into a friendly pattern of chatting up St. John. Unbeknownst to her, as he’d intended, she’d let her guard down.