by L. M. Reign
Large hands grip the bar top on either side of me, caging me in. I glance at the end of the bar and note that tequila man’s seat has been vacated.
“Lookin’ for me?” His rough, scratchy timbre trickles into my ear.
Slowly, I turn to meet him. Leaning back against the bar on my elbows, I allow myself a moment to take in the firm body that’s settled comfortably between my splayed legs.
His brown eyes are framed with dark eyebrows, and my attention is drawn to his lips. Pink-kissed and curled into a smirk. The lone dimple on his left cheek would look boyish on anyone else but not him. He owns it, making it part of his charm.
“Possibly. Thanks for the drink,” I gesture over my shoulder at my empty glass. My eyes travel over the intricate sleeve on his arm, flexing as he adjusts his grip.
“Seems like you can use some company. I figured I’d help you out.”
“How generous,” I smirk, feeling the effects of alcohol warm my body, making me shiver.
“You cold, baby?” He slowly runs a finger down my arm.
“Why? Are you going to keep me warm?” My tone teasing, his lips curling up at my words.
Pushing off the bar, he lifts me up as if I weigh nothing and places me on the bar top, my legs dangling while he takes the seat I previously occupied. His height brings us face-to-face. Placing his hands on my thighs, he slowly trails them up and down creating warm friction. “I can take you upstairs and warm you right up.”
Placing my hands behind me, I lean back and close my eyes. A moan slips out before I can stop it, loving the sensation of a man’s hands on my body.
It’s been too long.
“Sweetheart,” he growls, gripping my thighs. I open my eyes, leaning forward to thread my fingers through his hair.
Settling my lips near his ear, I whisper. “We can do that. Or we could go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter to me.” I nip his earlobe and move my hands across his shoulders, feeling the muscles contract against me.
A growl rumbles through his chest and he hoists me up, carrying me into an open door beside the bar and slamming it shut with his foot. He sets me down on my feet and grabs my chin, tilting my face up to his before bringing our lips together for the slightest bit of contact. I feel myself working into a desperate frenzy when he pulls away, rubbing his thumb against my bottom lip.
“Don’t be gentle,” I nip his thumb, begging for more.
Grabbing the hem of his shirt, I pull it up. It’s not even off his head before his lips are on mine again, working our tongues in a dance with purpose. He lifts me again and I wrap my legs around his narrow waist. His legs, long and muscular, move forward until I slam into a hard surface. I groan at the rough contact.
“Need to see this body,” he says, trailing his lips down my neck. His hands roam my torso. Buttons fly from my black button-up shirt as he rips it open, exposing my red lace bra.
“Fuck me,” he groans, staring at my tits.
“I plan on it,” I whisper, biting my lip.
His eyes flare with hunger at my words, spurring him into a rush to peel my shirt down my arms. I freeze, hearing crashes and yelling beyond the door.
“Put me down,” I pant, squirming out of his embrace.
“Happens all the time, baby. Don’t worry it,” he pecks my lips, still trying to take my shirt off.
“Baby,” I purr, unzipping his pants and sliding my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, grabbing hold of his erection.
He has a piercing.
I groan, throwing my head back softly against the wall. I want to kill the bastard that’s ruining my chance at piercing sex. Stroking past his growing erection, I gently cup his balls and squeeze.
Hard.
“Fuck!” He drops me, and I withdraw my hand. Side-stepping when he leans forward, I yank open the door.
All the drunks in the bar are crowded in a circle, hooting and hollering as more bottles smash on the ground.
Fucking rednecks.
Thuds and grunts get louder as the melee explodes. I climb up on the bar and narrow my eyes at one of the figures in the center.
Milo.
Sitting down, I prop my feet up on a barstool and watch as women flock to the walls while staring intently, silently calling dibs on the winner.
“You fucked my girl!” A bald man swung at him.
“No. She fucked me,” Milo said pointedly, dodging his swing before being kicked to his knees from behind. I laugh and shake my head. Milo’s intoxication hinders his fighting abilities.
He should’ve seen that coming.
Before Milo could get to his feet, he’s restrained by another man who pulls his head back by his hair. The bald man takes advantage of the opportunity and delivers some gruesome, uncoordinated blows to my brother’s torso before I step in.
Standing up on the bar, I pull my gun from my boot and fire a warning shot into the ceiling, startling the crowd into fleeing through the front doors. The men that have Milo don’t even flinch, remaining in place.
“Let him go,” I say, bored. Jumping down, I stalk towards them, not lowering my gun as I maneuver myself with my back to the wall.
“Put that down, hon. Don’t think you know what you’re doin’,” the bald one leers at my exposed body. Licking his lips, he starts towards me, holding out his hand for my gun.
Okay.
I fire 3 shots; hitting both thighs and leaving a pretty hole where his extended palm was. Stepping over his writhing figure, I move closer to the man that has my brother.
“Round two,” I turn my gun on him. “Let. Him. Go.”
“Faoi am.” Milo glares at me from his knees, attempting to wrench himself from the man’s grip. About time.
“Pionós a chur isteach orm,” I tell him. Punishment for interrupting me.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” My almost lover from earlier barges from the closet.
“Does anyone here speak in complete sentences?” I roll my eyes, reaching for my second gun from my bra’s back holster and fire a round in his direction - purposely grazing his shoulder.
“Fuck!” His body jerks against the bar.
“Brass!” The man holding Milo yells.
Training both guns on the one holding Milo, I slowly count down. “Three. Two. One.”
“Fuckin’ take him!” He shoves Milo at me before I fire my fifth shot of the night. Milo turns around and cocks his fist back, nailing his restrainer square in the face. Gripping his nose, he moves towards Milo’s retreating back.
“Ah, ah, ah,” I warn him. Milo grabs his jacket and downs a random drink on the bar.
“For your troubles,” he tells the bartender, tossing a few bills to him.
“Truly sorry about the mess,” I gesture to the havoc before me. He just gives us a quick nod.
Moving towards the exit, a gruff voice stops us. “Think we won’t find you?”
I shrug. “Good luck,” I aim at his knee and fire.
“Truly sorry,” I tell the bartender again as we walk out, leaving the sounds of wailing men left in our wake.
_____________________
Cole
Summoned to the clubhouse, I pull in and back my bike against the curb. I was on my way back from my latest job when I got the call.
Bodi never calls church this early, but that’s only because he can’t drag himself out of whatever whore he’s cheating on Ma with long enough to hold it.
Rook and Gibbs are standing by the door in a heated discussion. Dismounting my bike, I grab a cig and head towards them.
“Sup?” I nod at Gibbs’ sullen expression.
“How’d it go?’ Gibbs asked.
“Clean. No trace,” I tell him about my latest job. Some drug dealer roughed up his granddaughter. “Sadi won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
I nod. “Somethin’ else happen while I was out?”
“Some of our guys got shot at Flannigan’s,” Rook says, blowing out a
deep breath.
Turning my cap backwards, I light my cig and take a deep drag. “We whole?”
“Tank and Jolk are over at county under the knife. Brass was clipped. Cops have questions which means we gotta move that shipment before they hit here.
Doc is inside fixin’ up Brass. Tank’s knee is wrecked. Won’t be ridin’ anywhere anytime soon. Jolk got one in both legs and a hole in his hand. Could be out for months. And it was done by a woman.”
I lean against the wall, surprised. “Shit. Sure it’s a woman?”
Rook nods. “Sam gave us the video footage. Called us to come get ‘em. Chick went all Ava Lord on the guys after they got into it with some dude. He fucked Jolk’s girl, and well, you know how he gets over women.”
I nod, taking one last drag and snuffing it out with my boot. “Brass okay?”
Gibbs chuckled. “More pissed that a woman got ‘im than anything."
Pushing off the wall, I turn to Rook. “Call Casey after church. She’s his favorite.”
“Keep it clean,” Doc orders Brass on his way out. I settle in my seat across from Gibbs, next to Bodi. My rightful spot as Sergeant at Arms for the Desert Angels MC. Protecting anything and everything that belonged to the club wasn’t easy.
“You alright, brother?” I tilt my head towards his wound. He nods and picks up the bottle of Jack in front of him, taking a swig.
“Yeah. Grazed. Gonna find that bitch and tie her to my bed. She’ll learn a fuckin’ lesson.”
“Any woman who takes tequila shots without makin’ a face has been sent straight from the devil to fuck you up,” Dice smirks, shaking his head at Brass. Chuckles erupt from the table before Bodi pounds the gavel.
“Alright, cut the shit. We got business aside from last night’s shootin’ to discuss. The ‘talians. Dagos are creepin’ further into our territory with their trade. Word is they are divin’ into humans. Could negotiate a slice, make enough money runnin’ for ‘em. Set us straight for a few months.
I know DAMC has never dealt in skin, but maybe it’s time? Coffers need fillin’ now that we gotta lay low. Down two brothers and facin’ pigs. Motion?” He looks around the room for someone to second his move. Brothers stare back at him, unsure. Skin trade is a hard line that we’ve played with for years.
“Fuck, money is money. I’ll do it,” Gibbs runs his hands down his tired face. The man has lived a lot for his short life and his age is starting to wear on him.
Gibbs has been around since before I was born, going way back with Bodi when they served in the same Infantry Division in the Army. They started this club when they came back, way before Ma came into the picture, in an attempt to reclaim the feeling of brotherhood they found in the Army. Dimebag, Tank and Jolk joined shortly after, self-proclaimed outcasts in society due to their inability to adjust to civilian life.
In the early years, the club needed seed money and fast. DAMC took a dive into drug running and smuggling, filling the coffers with some big bucks. Shortly after, the economy took a downturn, forcing business owners to abandon their stores and buildings. Many saw it as a devastating hit, but DAMC saw it as an opportunity and started buying up the buildings, creating the beginning of stability for the club.
Now, the club is on the path of expansion and with expansion comes territory. And with territory comes the need to defend it. We’ve all watched brothers die in the service of this club, to protect what we’ve built. And each of them are burned in our hearts and the club, leaving reminders of the brotherhood that brought us all here.
Dice, Rig, Diesel and I are second generation DAMC babies. Dice’s Ma dropped him off on Dimebag’s doorstep when he was born, claiming she couldn’t raise him anymore. Gibbs and Fiona had Rig and Diesel. They couldn’t look less alike if they tried with Diesel taking after Gibbs and Rig after Fiona.
Growing up in the club exposed us to the values of brotherhood and left us with a sense of pride and loyalty to those lucky enough to wear the patch. I think we all knew that we’d end up wearing the same patches one day, no matter how hard we fought it. It’s these things that afford us the understanding in why Gibbs would back the motion to dive the club into skin trade.
You’d do anything for your brothers.
Nodding at Gibbs, Bodi continues. “Vote. All in favor for joinin’ the skin trade, say Aye.” A chorus of reluctant Aye’s erupt around the table.
Bodi nods and continues, “Good. Gibbs will set up a meetin’ with ‘em soon. Next set of business is Syn. They invited us to their table tomorrow. Want to discuss an opportunity. If the dagos refuse to meet, and Syn is offerin’ somethin’ lucrative, we should use Syn.”
“The way I see it, we either start a war with the mafia or risk the wrath of an empire,” Gibbs decides to be the voice of reason.
“We can take the ‘talians, no problem,” Rook states. “But we won’t recover from a hit from Syn. We don’t know how much manpower they have, assumin’ they have enough to crush us. We can’t match that.”
“Assumin’ Syn’s offer is lucrative, we could work with ‘em. We know there has always been tension between the Irish and the ‘talians. Maybe we could pit them against each other? Make Syn take out the dagos, and we pick up routes from their supplier,” I propose. “It’d make sense. Work with Syn, kill the dagos, and steal their pipeline. Someone’s gotta pick it up. Why not us?”
“That could work. It’ll take a hell of a lot of plannin’,” Gibbs agreed, stroking his long white beard.
Bodi looks around the room before posing the question. “Motion?”
“Yeah.” Brass’ attention never wavers from the bottle in front of him. For someone who wasn’t born into the club, he acts like it’s in his blood. Like it’s the only life and family he’s ever known.
“Someone’s at the fuckin’ door,” Dice says, kicking the chair out from under my leg. Jolting awake, I scramble to draw my gun and stumble after him.
Approaching the door cautiously, he looks through the peephole. “Fuck, it’s some dude,” he tells me.
“Who is it?”
“Only dead people ask that,” a somber voice answered from the other side. I could feel the brokenness wafting off of him, reminding me my own. Something told me to open the door if he knocked again and I did.
The slouch in his shoulders told a tired tale and the guarded look in his eyes promised unbreakable loyalty.
“Go home,” I wave him off. “Don’t you know who we are?”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stays rooted to his spot. “I know who you are.”
“Then you know you need to leave. Go home to your family.”
Fury flares in his eyes and a grimace contorts his face. “I don’t have any family. That’s why I’m here.”
I never understood why he sought us out that day. Not until he told me about his girl and their kid. He had a purpose, but he needed a promise. A promise of revenge. A promise of family. He got both when he found us.
The man backing me no longer resembles the scrawny boy that stood on our doorstep in the rain, asking - no, demanding - acceptance. Brass tosses a look my way and I nod, thanking him.
“Let’s vote.”
The table erupted in Aye’s again.
“Settled. Meet with Syn first. If our interests align, we figure somethin’ out. Gibbs, Rook, Dice, Brass and Ace,” Bodi levels a look at me. “You are comin’ with me to Syn’s tomorrow. We’ll get all the details later. Brass, Ace - find out who’s supplyin’ those dagos.”
“On it,” I tell him.
“Final order. Flannigan’s shootin’. What the fuck happened, Brass?”
“Fucked by a girl!” Everyone jeered at him.
“Bastards!” He yells back, smiling. “I was in the liquor closet with this fine piece of ass when the fight broke out. Goin’ right at it and she wanted to go see what all the noise was.”
“Tell ‘em the whole thing,” Rook gestured for him to continue, making a ball cradling motion.
“
Last time I tell you shit, motherfucker,” Brass levels a middle finger at him.
“I had just ripped her fuckin’ shirt open to these immaculate tits, real tits,” Brass stops when Rook groans and bangs his fist on the table. “When the fight broke out. She grabbed my balls and squeezed ‘em, takin’ me down. I cou-,” he was interrupted by the raucous laughter from the table. “Fuck you guys,” he growled.
“After that?” Bodi asked when the laughter died down.
“Don’t know. I was down for a bit. When I got back up - ready to kill the bitch - I walked out and she shot me.”
“Video?” Bodi asked Rook.
“Yeah, let me rewind real quick,” Rook leans back in his chair and messes with the VCR at the end of the room. “Here.” He presses play and we watch just as the fight breaks out between Jolk and the guy that fucked his woman.
“That’s her,” Rook points at the dark-haired woman emerging from the closet, her black shirt ripped open.
Tits spill over her cherry red bra, her body is all dips and curves as she moves to stand on the bar. She sits and watches the fight until Tank grabs the guy and holds him for Jolk.
“Too bad you didn’t get to tap that,” Rook jeers at Brass as we watch her fire her gun.
“Fuck off, asshole,” he throws back, not taking his attention from the TV.
The bar is empty except Tank holding the guy and Jolk saying something to her. With precision, she hits him three times, stepping over him as she aims at my brother.
We watch as she shoots Brass with the gun she grabbed from her back. The quality of the video is grainy, but there’s no mistaking her jiggling tits when she fires.
“God damn,” I wince, rubbing my knee when she shoots Tank after he let the guy go.
Rook pauses the video on her face. “The quality is shit, so I can’t do a facial enhance. Can’t even zoom in on the tattoo on her hand. Sam needs to upgrade his shit,” Rook lifts his hands in defeat. Nothing bothers him more than people using outdated technical equipment.
Rook was recruited when Bodi found out he was good at tech shit and could help us upgrade our surveillance equipment. He started prospecting and proved to be invaluable when he hacked into the mainframe to change a charge on Gibbs’ criminal record, saving him from doing time. That earned him respect, his patch, and his spot at the table.