I didn't know a lot about the world, but I knew one thing - we didn't like cops. My life had been overhearing nothing but bad things about them.
Did you hear those fucking pigs locked up Mick?
Don't go down on Madison, the cops are trying to snag everyone with a DUI trap.
Those fucking cops shook me down when I wasn't doing dick.
In our world, they were the bad guys, always out to get us.
Seeing the lights made my belly twist and slosh around, thinking for sure they would make me confess to playing with my father's stuff, and then put me in a cell for years.
"Yo," Dwayne called, yanking a big grate off the wall. "Get your little ass in here, and don't say shit. No matter what you see. Got it?" he asked as I flew inside, making my knees crunch into my chest painfully as Dwayne slammed the grate and moved to stand just as the cops barreled in.
"Police. Get your fucking hands up!"
My insides jumped at the sounds of their voices, loud and mean, as they pressed guns into Dwayne's temple even though he did what they said.
"Been watching you fucks for months now. Finally got you," the other one said as he started pulling the white baggies I had made out of their pockets, piling them back on the table.
I wanted to stop it. To come out and say not to punish them, that I had made the baggies.
But Dwayne's gaze went to mine for a second, and he gave me a firm look that my own father had given me countless times. It was a look that said Do what I fucking told you to, boy.
So I did what I was told to do as my father's brothers were cuffed and led out of the room with the police who had my baggies in a bigger clear bag with red tape on top.
It wasn't until much later, when my belly was growling so loud that I was sure you could hear it from miles away, when every part of my body was aching from being in the cramped position for so long that the door finally opened, and my father walked in.
He seemed to know exactly what happened, coming in and walking directly over to me, pulling off the grate, then reaching inside to drag me out.
"Just went through your first raid, huh, bud?" he asked, ruffling my hair. It was the only way he knew how to show comfort and affection.
After that, he brought me home where they had an emergency church meeting where they made me tell them what I saw.
With all their eyes on me - hard - my belly twisted back into knots, and I decided to leave out the part about the baggies I had made.
Not five hours later, though, Fast Frank and Dwayne came back through the doors to a chorus of cheers, demands for shots, and a lot of fanfare until it all died down, and the president asked what happened.
"Turns out, all the bags were full of straight fucking sugar," Dwayne said, looking pointedly over at my father.
Who in turn looked at me.
"You got something to say, boy?" he asked, clearly wanting me to be a man again, own up to what I did.
"He told me not to," I started, not wanting my father to get in trouble. "But when he left, I decided to help and fill the baggies."
"I had used all the H," Phil explained. "Brought the product to drop to Mace."
I braced myself as the president's eyes went to me, knowing he wasn't the nicest man, knowing he flew off the handle easily, beat the hell out of his men when they did something that made him angry. But I had to stand up straight, take my punishment like a man. But then he clamped a hand on my shoulder, and burst out laughing. "Guess we oughta call you Sugar now, huh?"
And so they did.
Even after that MC collapsed in on itself and Phil, Dwayne, Virgin and I took off to a new one, this time slinging cocaine, the name had stuck.
Sean was nothing but a distant memory.
Hell, not even Virgin used the name anymore.
There was one person in the world who didn't call me it.
My mother.
And while I did still see her here and there over the years, my bond had solidified. With my father. Virgin. The lifestyle.
By the time I was twelve, we were out of the cocaine MC and in a new MC. In a permanent way. Phil and Dwayne had prospected, then gone through the torment of being probates for a good two years. Virgin and I had dealt with a similar fate. We were made servants, doing the dirty work no one else wanted to do, fetching food and drinks, whatever was asked of us from the patched members.
This wasn't like the old MC that had watched us grow up, had taken an interest in us. Albeit only in passing, when it suited them. But there had been men around to teach us to play catch, to hit, to learn the names for the parts on bikes, to slip us sips of beer, to impart drunken, age-inappropriate wisdom onto us. We weren't just Phil and Dwayne's kids; we were the whole club's kids.
That wasn't true in the new MC. These enforcers that we had to learn to build bonds and trust with. If anything, we were inconveniences. Twelve-year-olds couldn't drive, buy beer, beat the shit out of grown men. We were useless except to clean the clubhouse. So we were just barely tolerated.
"Until?" Peyton prompted.
"Until we were sixteen."
By then, we had sprouted up to well over six feet, had enjoyed the muscular strength that came from working out alongside these grown men for years. We got our licenses. We became more useful.
Phil went away for a two-year stretch upstate. Dwayne was away more than he was around.
And it was around then that the president gave us the chance to prospect, a formality he insisted on even though we had been in the club for years, doing what prospects and probates did for years. We still had to go through the motions.
"What exactly did the MC enforce?" Peyton asked.
"A little bit of everything really. Someone welshed on a deal. Someone wants some other crew off their turf. We even ran private security at events if the pay was high enough."
"Is that where all these came from?" she asked, running her hand down my arm to trace over the top of my hand, stroking over the aged scars there.
"Most of 'em, yeah."
"And the others?"
My lips curved up at that. "Bar fights. Disagreements with brothers."
"Jealous ex-boyfriends?"
"To be jealous, they'd have to see me with their women. And since I never hung around for more than one night..."
"So, what happened?"
"With what, baby?" I asked, a bit distracted by the way her fucking hair was teasing over my chest.
"To the MC. Your dad? How did you end up here?"
"It's not a pretty story," I warned her, letting my hand slide down over her bare ass, then back up, sneaking under her shirt to move up her spine, not sure why I was finding her skin so damn fascinating. Never felt something so soft before. Maybe that was it.
"I think we have established that I am a fan of not-pretty stories."
"If that ain't the truth," I agreed with a smirk.
My old man had a heart attack around the time I was twenty-four. Dwayne, Virgin's dad, caught a bullet on a job a year or so after that.
We had stayed on in the MC, of course, it being the only home we knew.
Years passed.
Then there was the rally job.
That shit was really a bit of a blur. Virgin, me, and a couple of the other guys were left behind to hold down the fort, work some of the smaller jobs. Virgin and I had been happy about it actually. Nothing sounded less interesting than a goddamn biker meet up with thousands of stringy-haired, leather-clad old dudes who were all stinking up the air with their testosterone.
We heard nothing from our men.
In fact, the first we knew that shit went down was when the hospital called.
All of us hit the road.
Answers were hard to come by.
But most of our men were dead or locked up.
The MC fell apart.
"And that was the end of that."
Or so it seemed.
Peyton didn't need to know that part though. No one did. Not until we understood it ourse
lves anyway.
"How did you end up here? If your past was drugs and enforcing?"
"My past wasn't drugs. Cut that shit. Occasionally dealt that shit. But never touched that shit myself."
"You know what I meant." I did know what she meant. But for some reason, it was important to me that she know I hadn't been a user. "That was what you knew. How did you end up thinking gun running would work for you?"
"It's not as strange a career shift as you'd think," I said, my hand moving up to start sifting through her hair. "I have had a gun in my hand since I was ten years old. Know how to avoid and deal with cops. Know about brotherhood and loyalty. This club is different, but the underlying principles and protocols are the same."
"Different how?"
"Got some morals. More like a family. It's nice here."
"There's a lot of kids here," she observed, likely having seen them around. Before. Before the partial lockdown. Before the kids became fair game to some vicious bitch of a skin trader.
"Got a lot of interesting women here," I said with a shrug, knowing no average chick had ever seemed to snag one of our guys. They each had something special, something that got hooks into the men, and pulled - whether wittingly or not - until the man finally got reeled in.
"I like Lenny," she agreed.
"Lenny is a fucking badass," I supplied. "Could probably whoop half our asses."
"That's a great image," she said, smiling. "I can totally see her doing that too."
"They all eventually get training. The girls club swoops in, drags them to various self-defense classes."
"I guess being in this lifestyle - even just being married into this lifestyle - means you want to know how to protect yourself. I always wanted to take karate as a kid."
"Yeah?" I asked, my hand moving to tuck her hair behind her head. "Why didn't you?"
"My father was a prick. Is. He's still alive. And he's still the prickiest prick around. Girls weren't allowed to do manly shit like break pieces of wood with their fist. Or, you know, have thoughts, opinions, and desires of their own."
"Well, you sure as shit showed him, didn't you?" I asked, liking that she pushed back against it, that she had a spirit that fought against that old school bullshit. "You could take classes now," I added. "Lo, Janie, and Cash, they own that gym in town. Have all kinds of classes. Edison and Cy even teach there sometimes too. That's how Edison met Lenny originally. Could be your very own badass."
"I'm already my very own badass," she corrected with a defiant lift to her chin.
"Fine. Then an ass-kicking badass."
"I like the sound of that. That place is always mobbed. You think they'll have room for me?"
"Talk to Lo."
Her brows knitted at that. "Why?"
"Just... trust me. Talk to Lo. Even if there isn't room, she'd make room."
"Is this a 'she'll let me in because I am fucking a Henchmen' thing, because I don't think I like that."
"It's a Lo thing. Hard to explain."
Actually, it was easy. She wanted to see me have my balls in some woman's grip. And she had it in her head that that woman was going to be Peyton.
At her raised brow, clearly not buying it, I added, "She likes helping women with no training. It's her thing, teaching chicks to kick ass. That's what she does. She'll make room for you."
"Okay," she said, nodding, her gaze falling for a second.
When it rose, the girl who'd been in my bed, on my chest, a bit open, a bit sweeter and less guarded, was gone.
I knew what was going to follow.
Me fucked good. Me no want to snuggle.
She was a woman who knew what she wanted - a good, solid dicking - and that was it.
Normally, that would have been the dream, right? No strings attached. No hurt feelings. No having to have that talk about how this is a casual thing.
That was what I wanted.
Always.
Why then was there a weird falling sensation in my gut as she planted her hands and pushed off me, jumping off the side of the bed and yanking down her skirt?
Fully dressed, panties aside. I had fucked her with her weird ass lady-butt shoes on still.
"This was fun," she declared, reaching up to make her hair look slightly less bed-sexy. "I gotta go."
"'Course you do," I said, rolling up to sit off the end of the bed, reaching for my jeans, pulling them on my legs.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Doesn't mean shit," I said, standing, jumping up my pants, fastening them, and reaching for a shirt.
"What is the pissy mood about then?" she asked, chin jerking up defiantly.
"Not in a pissy mood," I said, reaching for her chin. "Just an observation."
"What observation is that? We agreed to casual."
If you fall in love with me, I'm gone.
"I know that," I agreed, reaching up under her mesh shirt and yanking her hot pink bra band thing more into place.
"Then why are you being weird?"
"Why are you trying to analyze me?" I shot back, head dipping down. "If this is so casual, you shouldn't give a shit about my mood."
"I don't," she insisted, quickly. Too damn quickly.
"Then good. Let's walk you to your fuckin' hearse," I said, moving across the small space to open the door.
Then that was what I did.
"Tomorrow night," I said as I held open her door, watching her grab her giant blood-spattered purse from the passenger side floor, then digging through it for her keys. Guess she figured there was no need to lock it behind gates with armed guards.
"What about tomorrow night?" she asked, half-distracted as she had to upturn her purse on the seat, making a pile of books, makeup, perfume, nail polish, files, tampons, and gum packs fall everywhere.
"You. Riding me. Your place," I specified, making her turn her head over her shoulder at me.
"I get off at nine. But won't be home until nine-thirty."
"See you at ten then," I told her, slamming the door, and walking away as she finally located her keys, and turned the car over.
Inside, I closed the main door, exhaling a deep breath, resting my forehead against the steel.
"Yer ass is so fucked," Adler declared from behind me.
And, well, I had a feeling he was right.
Shit.
ELEVEN
Peyton
Jamie wasn't taking a hint.
Or, likely more accurately, Jamie was pretending that she couldn't take a hint. Usually, all I would have to do was cast a look in her direction, and she understood perfectly whatever I was trying to relay. So this... this refusal to get off of my couch and head out for a few hours, yeah, that was on purpose.
She was being a nosey ass.
Which, to be honest, was not like her.
Yes, she could be a bit of a mama hen, always making sure her girls checked in after dates or nights out, making sure we were all happy and taking care of ourselves. But it ended there. She didn't judge; she didn't give unwanted opinions, and she damn sure never insisted on meeting my fuck buddies.
I didn't have time to worry about that though as I ran into the bathroom to do a quick whore's bath in the sink and shave my legs that I had neglected that morning because I was finishing up a good book. Sometimes scratchy legs took the backseat to a serial killer scaring the bejesus out of a sleepy Maine town.
Then, well, I decided my makeup needed to be redone.
Which, again, was not like me.
I didn't normally care if my fuck buddy was on his way over and I had raccoon eyes, shadow in the creases, and dry as paper lips from the matte lipstick I was obsessed with.
As I cold-creamed my face off, then carefully slipped out my contacts to clean them, I pretended it was for me. I didn't wear makeup to please anyone else. I always did it because I liked it, because it was my war paint, because I felt more confident going out in the world with it on.
But then there was a knock, just as I was raising a m
ascara wand to my face.
"I got it!" Jamie called, making my stomach plummet at the idea of me being in the bathroom while she gave Sugar the third degree.
So, wand still in hand, I ran out.
And there he was.
It was stupid even to think it, but, god, that man could knock your breath out like a fall onto your stomach from a swing.
Oh, good freaking god.
I needed to get a grip.
"Your friend--" Jamie started.
"The fuck is up with your eyes?" Sugar asked, cutting off Jamie, his gaze on me, brows drawn together.
"I know. I haven't gotten my face on yet," I said self-consciously, resisting the urge to look down at the floor. Not many men could claim to have seen me without me having beaten my mug first. Off the top of my head, I could only think of my father and Eli who had seen it since he stayed over a lot when he and Autumn were first dating.
"Not the makeup," he said, shaking his head. "Your eyes, Peyt. Since the fuck when are they blue?"
Oh, crap.
Yeah.
"Well, since birth," I admitted since it was the truth.
"Who the fuck wears contacts to cover up a blue like that?"
"Ah, me," I said, raising my hand.
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"This fucking woman," Sugar said, speaking this time to Jamie, shaking his head as though I was exasperating.
"Right?" Jamie agreed, sending me a smile I didn't quite know how to interpret.
"Well, go cover up all that natural hotness if you want, then meet me back out here."
There was a gooey feeling inside at the idea that he was okay with me fresh-faced, even if I had no intention of being so in front of him.
"Ah, why?" I asked, head ducked to the side.
"Had a lot of shit going on today. Didn't get a chance to eat. We'll go grab something then come back."
A date?
Was that asking me on a date?
Or was he genuinely just too hungry to fuck me?
I mean, I got that.
I once pushed a guy off me mid-fuck because I couldn't take the rumbling in my stomach any longer. I was a prime example of a woman who didn't get hungry, she got hangry.
And I swear on all that is holy - and unholy - I don't know where the hell my next sentence came from.
Sugar (The Henchmen MC Book 12) Page 14