by Nicole Fox
After a moment, I continued, “That idea you had … about the bribes. It was a good one. Where did you learn to be so smart?”
For a moment, it seemed she didn’t know how to answer. At last, she said, “I suppose it’s in my blood.”
Blood. There was great strength in blood. A true biker gang was joined by it, in spilling it together.
“You know,” I murmured. “You really do surprise me. A whore who knows about finances and martial arts. I had been worried that maybe your original profession would suffer, but it turned out I had nothing to worry about.”
She took the compliment with a smile, then grazed her hand over the rough hair of my chest. “Your whore …” she muttered, as if she did not want me to hear. It was hard to understand her tone. Part of it seemed like excitement, and gratefulness, while the rest …
I got the vibe that my little Princess was hiding something. Something terrible. I was about to ask her about it, and then decided, on impulse, to let it be. After her terrific performance beating up the skimmers—and then in bed—she’d certainly earned the right to a few secrets. If she wanted to tell me, she would.
After a few minutes of silence, and the lighting of another cigarette, she spoke again. “So … what can you tell me about Sam Michaels?” she asked. “I’ve heard a lot about him, but … never met the man.”
I laughed. “Well, you would have been really young when he died. Hell, I was, too, but I’ve been in the club long enough to hear a million stories about him.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
I thought a moment, then went on to explain a legend of the Devil’s Wings, when no one but Sam and his buddy had infiltrated another club’s compound, endured their capture and torture, found out some crippling evidence, and then proceeded to blackmail the club for hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was a great tale, with equal parts heroism and gritty criminality, and I saw her soaking it in with enjoyment, like a woman with a strong drink.
“What makes you so interested in all this?” I asked, curious at her smile.
She shrugged. “Biking clubs have always interested me. They walk that fine line between legendary heroes and thugs, between great men and criminals. My father said it was about respect. In a true biking club, or a crime family, respect is essential. It’s what keeps the enterprise, in some ways, noble. But without respect … well, you saw the men out there, before you stepped in.”
I paused. This was the first time either of us had mentioned me stepping in to save her. I found I had been worried about what she thought of the whole thing. Did she take it as a sign of loyalty, or (God forbid!) love? No, I realized as soon as I heard her tone. She saw it as respect. Whether for a person or for property, you should show respect.
“I’m glad I did,” I said. “I wouldn’t have wanted you hurt. You know, to the point where you couldn’t perform your job.”
She decided to take this, too, as a compliment, and rewarded me with a playful slap.
Feeling sleepy and satisfied, I glanced at the president’s gold-inlaid clock and was surprised to see that it was practically morning.
“Come on, Princess,” I said. “We should get some sleep. I’m sure after all of today’s excitement you’re pretty tired.”
She looked startled, and glanced around. “Here?” she said.
I shrugged. “Why not? Montengo is out. Hell, the only reason he’d be coming back is if the girl he’s banging asked him to.”
For some reason, this made her look troubled. She bit her lip and scowled. For a second, I worried that she might decline the offer and want to go back and sleep in her bunk.
“Princess,” I said. “I think sleeping here is the safest place for you. Now that you have been ‘broken in,’ there’s a fair chance the guys will go after you in the bunkroom.”
Her eyes widened in fear, and she nestled closer against me. “Okay,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Thank you.”
Within a minute, she was asleep.
Leaving me lying there wondering: why the hell did I just say that?
What did I care if she slept in the bunkroom? She was a whore, after all. That’s where whores belonged. Did I actually want to sleep with her? I mean, not just fuck her brains out, but actually sleep-sleep with her?
Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You’re tired after a long few days, too, and it’s nice to have some ass to grab at night.
Sure, I that’s what I told myself. It didn’t matter that I usually preferred to have the bed to myself. I hated clingy cuddlers. But with Princess? Somehow, I didn’t find her arms wrapped around my own to be annoying.
It’s only ’cause you want to fuck her in the morning, I realized. Yes! That was it. I didn’t want no idiot’s sloppy seconds when I woke up. I wanted her right there, ready to fuck with my morning wood. With most whores, I would want them to shower first, because they could feel so dirty. Not Princess, though. She was many things, including clean.
After that thought, I suddenly felt guilty for the way I had manipulated her into being afraid of the bunkroom so that she’d sleep here. She’s your fucking whore, I reminded myself. You tell her where to sleep. And yet, I had felt the need to hide what I actually wanted, and for what? What was I so afraid of?
Growling to myself, I rolled over and switched off the lamp, then nestled down close to Princess. With a smile, I closed my hand around one of her tits and fell asleep.
# # #
Several hours later, I awoke to the sound of frantic knocking on the bedroom door.
“All right! All right!” I groaned, pushing Princess’s arm off me and staggering to my feet. She, too, awoke with a yawn and sat up, blinking like an owl.
I trudged to the door, wondering who the hell would have the balls to bother me at this hour. I cracked it open and was surprised to see Joey standing there, looking terrified.
“Connor! Thank God!” he exclaimed, trying to push inside. I stopped him. Princess was still naked. With a silent jerk of my head, I instructed her to get dressed. She could wear my jacket for now. The rest of her clothes lay in tatters.
“What is it, Joey?” I grumbled.
“Montengo, Connor!” he hissed, still trying to push his way in. “Montengo’s coming back!”
“What?” I exclaimed, now leaping away from the door to collect my own clothes. Joey burst inside, not caring at all about our nakedness, and continued his whisper:
“Yes! He just walked in! Him and that Michaels girl! Connor, you need to get out of here, I think he’s coming this way—”
“Hello, Joey! How are ya?”
Just then, the president burst in. He had a wide and stupid grin on his face, as if he had spent an entire night fucking, and held his arms wide to embrace the whole room. Flickering behind him, I saw the girl who had been with Princess that night at the bar. A smug and satisfied look crossed her face as she noticed Princess, now barely clothed in a skirt and my leather jacket.
The president faltered, at first more confused than angry at seeing me here, half-naked in his fucking bedroom. I froze. I did not know how he would react. As I waited, all I did was silently curse myself for sleeping there. Montengo’s presence had been so fucking spotty, and now—now!— he chose to show up?
“Connor?” he said, for all the world sounding like a disappointed father who’d caught his son with a stolen cookie. “Did you fuck this whore in my bed?”
I fidgeted, unsure how to respond. Part of me wanted to punch this guy in the face for being so fucking useless. Another wanted to shout that the Devil’s Wings money had bought this bed, therefore it belonged to all of us! And a final part recognized that, asshole or not, he was still the president of the motorcycle club, and he deserved some respect.
“Yes, sir,” I said stoically. “I’m sorry.”
“Ha, haha! Don’t be!” He walked over and slapped his arm around my shoulders, as if we were old friends. “Farrah here—” he pointed to the woman waiting just inside the doorway, “Was
telling me how special of a whore this new one was. What is it you decided to call her? Princess?”
Princess winced as if struck, her gaze flicking back and forth between the president, Farrah, and me.
“Princess? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Farrah exclaimed, leaping forward to clap her hands. “Yes, it fits her perfectly, don’t you think, Johnny?”
She patted Montengo on the arm and kissed his cheek.
“Very fitting,” Montengo agreed. He looked towards me. “And I’m glad you’re showing her the true luxury the Devil’s Wings can offer. We don’t want the Michaels disappointed!”
I blinked, allowing myself for a long second to comprehend that, first, I wasn’t about to be kicked out of the club for boning in the president’s room, and two, Montengo was happy about it.
There was just no predicting this motherfucker. I grinned and turned towards Princess, feeling like a kid who’d gotten away with something big.
Princess, however, looked upset. So upset she almost seemed ill. I wondered if it was the embarrassment of being caught here, but no. She strode forward, right up to Farrah, and said, “Miss Michaels, if I may, I would like to talk to you in private.”
She gazed at Joey, Montengo, and me, as if daring us to challenge her.
Montengo laughed uproariously. “Of course! Of course!” he thundered. “Hell, you two can talk in here! Maybe the ambiance will, ah, encourage a little fun!”
He looked from Princess to Farrah, clearly imagining the pair of them naked in his bed. I couldn’t blame him, though Farrah, to be honest, wasn’t really my type.
Farrah’s expression hardened. “All right, then,” she said. “But, sweetie, I’ll see you later?”
As she asked this, she patted his nose with the tip of her finger. I had to turn away to keep from being sick.
“Of course, baby! Ha. She’s just insatiable. But for now, I want to talk to Connor, here. I’ve heard you’ve taken care of some skimmers …”
With that, he squeezed Farrah’s hand and gestured me out the door. Still buzzing with relief that I hadn’t managed to start a biker civil war with my stupidity, I followed behind him.
As I left, I cast one last look at Princess. The expression on her face was electric, and I realized I had seen that look before, right before she beat up the skimmers.
Huh. I wonder what’s going on with her, I thought, and then shrugged it off. I had biker duties to worry about.
Chapter Seventeen
Farrah
As the door closed on Connor and Montengo, I did not know what to feel. Part of me wanted to scream and shout at Honi and maybe even attack her. Another part of me wanted to throw myself upon her in a hug. Was she responsible for much of what happened? Yes, but she was just a lowly whore. The only thing she could have done was do her best to survive—which was exactly what she’d done.
But mostly, I wanted to demand information from her, to find out what the bleeding hell was going on.
“Honi,” I said, my voice carefully level.
She grinned. “Uh-uh,” she sneered. “Here, my name is Farrah.”
That rankled. It wasn’t that she’d stolen my name. It was that I heard pleasure, not fear, in her tone.
I scowled. “Miss Michaels, then.”
“Yes, Princess?”
I had to take a deep breath to continue.
“Miss Michaels, you do realize the danger you are in?”
She snorted. “Please! I’ve been in danger every day of my life since I was forced into your aunt’s whorehouse. You ever come up against a man who wants to fuck when you don’t want to fuck? Or just wants to hurt you, for the fun of it? That’s my life, Princess. Being in danger now makes no difference.”
That speech quieted me. It was so hard to stay mad at her, when I knew the life she’d lived. Hell, I knew it now more than ever.
“I know it, Honi,” I said. “These past few days … I know how you feel.”
She laughed again, a sound like a cat growling. At least she didn’t protest me using her name. “A few days? A few days? Try a fucking lifetime, Princess, and then we’ll talk.”
“But, Honi—this is a different sort of danger! It’s not just men who want to fuck you. The Minghellis, Honi! I am pretty sure the Minghellis are after me!”
She looked me up and down, disgusted. “And why the hell would they be after you?” she demanded.
I sighed, unsure of what to say. Did I tell her about my secret involving Minghelli? Would that put her in more danger, or less? Maybe it would at least impress upon her how fucking serious this is, I thought sourly.
I took Honi by the arm and guided her towards the bed. “Because, Honi, I am a witness. I saw Tom Minghelli doing something terrible—”
“Oh, get over it!” she shrieked, shoving my arm away. “You saw something terrible? Come on, sweetcakes. Your life is rated fucking PG-13 compared to mine.”
“Goddammit!” I swore, throwing my arms up in frustration. “This isn’t a contest, Honi!”
“Farrah!”
“Whatever! This is not about whose life has been worse! This about life and death. Here, if it makes you feel better: your life has been worse. By a million. A million billion. I have had it extremely easy until right now, and neither of us has deserved any of it. There! Does that make you feel better?”
Honi pursed her lips, looking like a toddler. “So what exactly do you want, Farrah?” she hissed after a minute. “You want to switch back? I go can back to whoring, and you can snuggle up with Montengo and feel nice and safe?”
“But you’re not safe; don’t you get it?” I raged. “As long as people think you’re me, you’ll be hunted, Honi. Hunted!”
She scowled, then shrugged. “Maybe I think it’s worth it,” she growled.
I stamped my foot, drowning in frustration until something occurred to me. “Wait a minute,” I demanded. “How exactly is whoring any different from what you’re doing? You’re still fucking the hell out of Montengo, and for what? In exchange for safety and money?”
There was that stupid lip pursing again. “It is not the same,” she insisted. “I am willingly going into this, and, unlike whoring for your aunt, this actually has a chance at a future.”
“Yeah! My future!”
She rose from the bed, her gracefulness now restored. “Your life is over, sweetie,” she said, sashaying towards the door. “Better get used to it.”
Her talon-like red fingernails closed over the knob. With a vicious jerk, she twisted it open and left. The door slammed behind her with a sense of finality equaling her words.
I collapsed onto the bed, torn between anger, frustration, and despair.
“Why won’t she listen?” I asked the empty room. “Does she really hate me that much? Was her life really that bad?”
I thought about the situation, realizing that I was demanding of her an exact mirror of what she was demanding of me. I wanted to go into one kind of danger to leave my current danger behind. She, too, wanted the same.
“But it’s a difference of justice!” I growled aloud. “I am Farrah Michaels! It doesn’t matter if my life is different from others! It’s my life!”
For the smallest moment, I thought about just letting things be as they were. I could keep fucking Connor, and Honi would end up eating the Minghellis’ bullet for me. As soon as I thought it, however, I felt sick inside.
“No, it’s not fair to let Honi suffer for me, even if she is bringing it onto herself.”
I looked back on all the time we had spent together growing up, now framed with a new light.: Honi had been bitterly jealous. I thought of all those times I returned bragging of my good grades and fancy school, and how Honi had always listened, biting her lips, waiting for me to turn the conversation to make up, or our own town. You know, something she possibly had a chance of relating to.
“It’s my fault, Honi,” I mumbled, suddenly overcome with sadness. “All of this hate she has for me … It’s my fault, for showing of
f all those years, and rubbing her nose in my life. And I never listened to her. Not once.”
I resolved then and there to do my best to make sure Honi made it out of this okay. I would not, no matter what, lead her back to whoring. I would find a way to save us both.
On that note, I stood up, and noticed a master bathroom attached to the president’s gaudy bedroom. “Figures,” I thought. Then, assuming that he wouldn’t mind if I used it—or perhaps it was just that I was too tired to care—I shrugged off Connor’s jacket, took off the remainder of my clothes, and stepped inside.
My poor body, I thought in surprise, noticing for the first time just how many cuts and bruises were all over me. The handprints on my forearms from people grabbing me at the start. The bruise on my hip from climbing in and out of the window. The marks on my shins and wrists from clinging to the bed frame, out of Leo’s reach. Even my knees were battered, from doing martial arts on a cold and gritty barroom floor.