Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  “You through throwin’ your bitch fit?” I spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance—finding him standing right behind me.

  “Are you serious right now?”

  He holds his hands up and tries to fight his smile. Lifting his hip, he sits on the corner of the counter. “I’m just messin’ with you, gorgeous. I knew all that shit before you told me.”

  My eyes narrow. “How?”

  “I’m not stupid, and I sure as fuck ain’t blind.”

  “What does that even mean?” I shriek, starting to lose my temper. He wants to laugh, but doesn’t.

  “It means I pay attention to you.” The exasperation I’m feeling on the inside must reflect in my eyes, because he elaborates. “Okay, for instance, the first time I met you, you wouldn’t even say fuck.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I spit.

  “Impressive, but I wasn’t finished.”

  “Well fuck. Fuckin’ hurry up.” He covers his mouth with his hand. I know it’s because the fucker thinks he can hide his laugh. But I’m not deaf. I can hear him. Fucking … laughing. Damn. It still doesn’t feel right.

  “When I got in your car last night, it was clean. Your gas tank was nearly full. I get to your place and it’s neat. Everything in your cabinets is organized. Babe, those ugly fuckin’ pajamas even have creases.” He looks at me like I should understand what in the hell he’s talking about. I’m glaring at him for insulting my clothes.

  “Don’t talk about my pajamas. They’re awesome.”

  “Really, they’re not.”

  “Whatever. I still don’t understand how you can know about my situation based off of my organizational skills.”

  His smile is easy as he studies me a moment before he explains. “You don’t say fuck because you were raised proper. Probably grew up in a nice neighborhood with two loving parents who instilled morals and values in you at a young age. Dad makes good money, but he worked for it. Taught you to appreciate things—like the eighty-thousand-dollar car you’re driving.” I roll my eyes. I hate that he’s right.

  “You’re considerate and kind. You’re proud of what you have and you take care of it. People like that are pretty easy to figure out. Mostly because they’re conservative, which makes them almost always predictable.”

  I empty the rest of the wine in my glass, thankful that I have a few more bottles under the counter. “Well, Mr. Know-it-all, then I guess you already know my plans for Jud.”

  “The plan.” He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes on me. “Nope. I don’t think I do. But I’m dying to find out.” Smartass.

  I look at him over the top of my glass. “I’m going to fuck all his brothers.” He pretends to be shocked and impressed. But I know he thinks I’m full of shit.

  “All of them?”

  “At least five.”

  “Wow. Five. That’s a lot. But you can do it.” He winks at me.

  “Will you help me?” He laughs, it’s deep and throaty and if he weren’t laughing at me, I’d probably be turned on. Okay … so I’m still a little turned on.

  “I can’t help you fuck them, gorgeous. But I’ll be more than happy to fuck you myself anytime you want. We can even fuck in the shower.” He leans in and whispers, “Less cleanup.”

  Embarrassed, I turn on my heel in search of wine. As much as I’d love to let him take me in the shower, anytime I want, I’m determined to get back at Jud first. If it takes five brothers or fifty, then so be it. But I’m not stopping until I’m satisfied he’s as hurt or as angry as I am. Then, if Cook’s offer is still on the table, I’ll take him up on it.

  “Me and you ... that won’t work,” I mutter regretfully.

  “Because my position isn’t important enough, right?” Peaking around the cabinet door, I expect to find him wounded. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that signature smile.

  “Exactly. But you can still help me.” He shoots me an expectant look as I struggle to uncork the bottle of wine. “I mean … I know you’re just a Prospect but don’t you know everyone? And do you know their rankings? I want to make sure they’re all ranked higher than him. That will really piss him off.” He laughs again. Am I really that funny?

  “Tell you what, gorgeous,” he says, standing like he’s preparing to leave. “Thursday night is bike night at Pop’s. They’ll all be there. I’ll make sure you’re introduced to them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” My eyes zero in on his ass as he walks away. I hate I didn’t get to see it. Maybe one day. But first…

  “Do you think they’ll be interested?” I ask, wringing my hands nervously. “You know, in me?”

  He pauses at the door, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “Oh, gettin’ them to fuck you won’t be the problem.”

  I frown. “Well then what’s the problem?”

  “You’ll figure it out. Besides, what do I know?” Lowering his sunglasses over his eyes, he shoots me a smirk. “I’m just a Prospect.”

  Patchwhore

  “Shit!”

  My voice echoes off the walls of my apartment as I sprint to the bathroom—shedding my Waffle House uniform as I go. After getting up at five and working eight hours, I was drained. It probably had more to do with the bottle of wine I consumed last night when I finally had the chance to look up my grades without interruption. But by noon, I was feeling the effects of my 4.0 GPA, solo, celebration party. Thinking I had time for a quick nap, I’d crashed. Now, as I furiously scrub under the scalding water, I mentally kick myself for not setting an alarm.

  In record time I’m showered, dressed and in my car heading toward the bar. Worry starts to creep in on the drive. Just as it had last night. What if Cook lied? What if bike night was last night and he lied so I wouldn’t go? His only reason would be he’s jealous. The thought makes me smile. He likes me.

  I’d called Emily and told her how my weekend turned out. She shared my suspicions of Cook being into me, and although thrilled that he’d been so amazing in bed, she didn’t think any sex—no matter how great—was worth ruining “the plan.” Sadly, neither Cook nor his magnificent cock was of any use in my quest for vengeance. He was merely a Prospect. He’d said so himself.

  The idea that he might’ve lied fades as I near the parking lot. The place is packed. Bikes line up next to one another in row after row. I’m forced to park in the lot across the street and walk the rest of the way.

  Beads of sweat tickle the back of my neck. Butterflies swim in my belly. My heart hammers against my chest as I plaster a smile on my face. Pulling open the door, I prepare to make my grand entrance. But there’s not a biker in sight.

  “Well, you’re just becomin’ a regular around here, huh?” Kat greets, leaning over the bar and exposing the tops of her large breasts. And I’m sure in her position, the cheeks of her ass can be seen from beneath her skirt. I thought my low-cut top, tight jeans and heels made me sexy. But after seeing Kat, my attire feels … conservative.

  Damn Cook for putting that word in my head.

  “I heard tonight was bike night,” I say, climbing up on a barstool and looking around as if I might find a hoard of bikers gathered in a corner.

  “You heard right. But they’re in a meeting. Should be wrappin’ it up soon.”

  “Oh.” So much for my grand entrance.

  She narrows her eyes on me—smacking that gum of hers. I’m starting to notice everyone here has some kind of nervous tick. Cook and his smiles … Kat and her gum … Ronnie and his tequila. Although, that might be alcoholism.

  “What you really doin’ here? You still tryin’ to piss off Jud?” Even though a part of me wants to tell her everything, I don’t want her to be aware of my ignorance when it comes to motorcycle clubs. So I decide to refrain from telling her how I wasn’t aware that Cook’s position in the club made my interactions with him, less painful for Jud.

  “Clarissa, Jud’s new girlfriend, was more than just my friend. We were sorority sisters.”

  Ka
t laughs, giving me a sideways glance as she tosses ice in a cup. “Did you just say sorority sisters?” I nod. “Like in the movies? Like pillow fights and a shitload of chicks in one house?” she asks, sliding me the drink. I take a sip—silently thanking her for not making it very strong.

  “It’s more than that, but yes. We lived in a house together. Although, I don’t remember us ever having a pillow fight.”

  “So she was your friend and your … roommate.”

  What Kat’s seen on T.V. is likely the only knowledge she has when it comes to sororities. Much like me when it comes to MC’s. Keeping that in mind, I try to explain it to her without becoming frustrated by her stereotypical attitude.

  “I know sororities don’t have the best reputation. But there are a lot of us who really believe in the organization. We take our pledge seriously. We uphold our bi-laws. We are true sisters.”

  “Kinda like the MC, huh?” She’s nodding in understanding. Suddenly realizing how similar the two are, I agree with her.

  “Exactly. Of course, I don’t know as much about an MC, but from what I do know, the unity is the same.”

  Still nodding her head, her smile widens. “I get it. He fucked your sister. Now you’re gonna fuck his brother.”

  “Yes.” I take another sip of my drink to hide my disappointment. She’d just ruined my big reveal.

  Rubbing her hands together, Kat bounces on her toes. “Oh, this shit is gonna be epic. Girl, which one you want. I know em’ all. And ain’t none of em’ married or got a girlfriend.”

  I’m glad I can get information from Kat instead of Cook. He’s too damn distracting. And I have to stay focused if I’m going to do this. And probably drunk.

  “Do you know Jud’s rank?”

  “He’s not an officer. Just a patch holder.” Perfect.

  “Then I’ll start with the lowest ranking officer in the club.”

  “Start?” Crossing her arms, she narrows her eyes on me. “What you mean start? How many you plan on gettin’ with?”

  I smile. Her mouth forms an O of surprise even before I say the words, “Every fucking one of them.”

  In the twenty minutes it takes the club to wrap up their meeting, I’ve consumed enough alcohol to calm my nerves. I’ve also doubled the amount of water I normally drink to ensure I don’t end up face first on my bathroom floor. Again.

  I watch as they pile into the main bar—entering through a door in the back I hadn’t noticed before. And with the men, come the women. Of course Clarissa is here, looking so damn pretty it makes my stomach turn.

  “I hate her,” I mumble to myself.

  “Me too.” My eyes swing to the girl who takes a seat next to me. Her long, black hair covers more of her than her clothes. The T-shirt she wears is cut so short, the bottom of her breasts are visible. And the pockets of her cutoff shorts are longer than the shorts themselves.

  She checks me out too, then gives me a sweet smile when she finally makes it back to my face. “I’m Delilah. Can I buy you a drink?” Is she hitting on me? Just being nice? Is she an ol’ lady? Confused, I just nod my head.

  “She’s straight, D,” Kat says. “And if she changes her mind, you gotta get in line behind me.” I turn my head as I toss back the shot Kat gives me in hopes of hiding the flush I feel in my cheeks.

  “So what’s your name and why do you hate her?”

  Not giving me a chance to answer, Kat jumps in the conversation. “Her name is Carmen. And Jud is her ex. He cheated on her with Clarissa.” Kat leans over and whisper shouts in Delilah’s face. “She was her sorority sister.”

  “No shit?” Delilah shoots me a surprised look. “Like on T.V.?” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “You sure she’s straight? I heard crazy ménage shit happens in sororities.”

  “I can hear you,” I snap. Kat laughs as she walks off, leaving me alone with the horny, beautiful woman. “And I’ve never had a ménage.” She mistakes my admission as an invitation.

  “There’s a first time for everything.” Delilah drags a long, red fingernail down my arm—leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. Damn you, body.

  “Are you playing nice, Delilah?”

  My breath catches at the sound of Cook’s voice. I try to appear unaffected, but when I see his arm slip around her shoulders out of the corner of my eye, I can’t stop the urge to turn and look at him. Once again, he’s just … delicious.

  “I’m trying to get sorority sister over here to let me pop her bisexual cherry.”

  He laughs. “Well stop trying, babe. This one has other plans.” I stare at both of them—his arm still around those shoulders and smiles on both their faces as they stare back at me. “I promised you an introduction, and who better than Delilah to help?”

  He turns to look at her before going on to tell me about her. “She’s from out of town. Here only for the weekend. She’s familiar with the … Eagles.” His eyes drag back to me—sparkling with a hint of challenge. Is he trying to make me jealous? Angry? Uncomfortable? Because it’s working…

  “Good. Thank you.” My tone is clipped. This makes them both smile wider.

  “You know the MC gives names to people like you and me,” Delilah says. “They call us whores.” She picks up two shots from the bar. “Even if you change your ways, the title always stays with you. So to most of the MC, I’m a clubwhore. Can you believe they actually paid me to have sex with bikers?” She gasps dramatically. Inside, I’m doing the same. If she got paid to fuck Cook, well, lucky her…

  “Now you, my little wet dream, are in a whole other category.” Passing me the shot, she crosses her legs and leans forward. “You’re considered a patchwhore. Your form of payment comes in rank instead of money. And from what I’m hearing, your plan is to make it all the way to the top of the MC hierarchy. Right?”

  I meet Cook’s daring blue eyes before giving Delilah a nod. “Right.”

  She clinks her glass with mine and winks. “Well, then drink up sugar. You have some boys to fuck.”

  It Begins

  I follow behind Delilah as she weaves through the crowd toward the back of the bar. Standing on her toes, she waves to someone. I’m trying to keep up—still reeling from her very brazen description of her and Cook’s relationship. “When he was in town, I’d suck his dick.” It took a lot of willpower not to brag about what we’d done. For some reason, it made me feel like I had one up on her.

  “Drake, this is Carmen. Carmen, this is Drake.” The moment she’s finished with the introductions she disappears back into the crowd. I start to follow her when he speaks.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  I look up at the tall, lanky, unattractive guy with a gap between his two front teeth—so wide you could drive a school bus through it. I’m unimpressed, despite his feeble attempt at trying to woo me. But, I smile anyway and offer him a simple, “Hi.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Please,” I blurt, looking nervously over my shoulder hoping Delilah will reappear, laugh and say she’s just playing. That the real Drake is attractive and doesn’t have a funky odor.

  “Prospect!” I jump at the sound and he smirks. I’m expecting Cook to show up, but an older man appears. He’s a lot easier on the eyes than Drake, and smells better too. “Carmen needs a drink, and I’ll take another beer.”

  “Sure thing, patch holder.” The man turns to me, a solemn look on his face. “Eagles Prospect Brett, Lake Charles.” Holding his hand out, I take it, and offer him a kind smile. “What would you like, ma’am?”

  “A margarita, please. But I can get it.” It feels wrong asking this man to “fetch” my drink. When clearly it should be Drake.

  He seems to relax a little. “I don’t mind, Ma’am. It’s an honor.” Honor? Ma’am?

  “Does he do everything you tell him to?” I ask Drake when Brett is out of hearing range.

  “If he wants a patch, he does what he’s told. We all have to do it. When the club decides he’s ready, he’ll be a full patch
holder.” Turning, Drake motions to the big patch that’s centered on his back. Not surprisingly, it’s an eagle.

  “You’re a patch holder?”

  “I’m an officer. Road Captain.” Captain. I like it.

  He leans against the pool table—crossing his arms over his chest. Unashamed, he drags his eyes down my body and licks his lips. It’s disgusting. A lot different than delicious. I look over his shoulder, hoping to get a glimpse of Cook. Instead, I find Jud glaring at Drake’s back.

  Smiling, I focus my attention back on the captain. “So what does a Road Captain do?”

  “When we ride, I lead the pack. If someone’s bike ain’t runnin’ right, I don’t let them ride. I’ll even cut a bad tire if I see one. It’s for the safety of the club. Not just the rider, but the ones around him. I don’t wanna ride next to a man whose rubber is about to blow.”

  I frown. “That doesn’t make them angry? You cutting their tires?”

  He shakes his head and gives me a cocky grin. “They can’t do shit about it. I’m in charge.” His grin fades when Brett appears, handing us our drinks. “That’s all,” Drake says, dismissing Brett with the wave of his hand.

  “If you need anything, let me know.”

  Drake grabs his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. There’s a hardness in the captain’s eyes that makes me uncomfortable. “Anything?” Brett nods, and his reaction has an evil smile spreading across Drake’s lips. “I want fifty thousand dollars, a brand new car and…” His gaze moves to me. He studies me a moment with lust filled eyes. “Since I already have a brunette, I want a redhead and a blonde to take home.”

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that I, am most definitely not his. And to avoid his molesting stare, I glance at Brett. He’s white as a ghost. His forehead is dotted in perspiration, and I’m pretty sure he’s not breathing. I chance a look back at Drake, and he’s still watching me.

  “You have an hour, Prospect. If you don’t deliver, some other motherfucker will be wearing your patch.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brett leave quickly. I sip my drink, somewhat impressed by Drake.