by Chiah Wilder
“You’ve got a point there.” Paco knew Chains was still bitter about his wife leaving him for Cross Bones. Chains’s old lady started having an affair with Cross Bones, whose old lady was Lena, the cook for the club. At first Chains hadn’t believed it when brothers started telling him that Cross Bones and Brandy were cozying up, and Paco hadn’t blamed him. Chains had thought he and Brandy were solid—Paco could relate to that. But then one night, Chains, Paco, Eagle, Army, and Sangre had come back early from a charity poker run and he’d found Brandy on all fours, her ass high in the air and Cross Bones’s cock buried deep inside her. The brothers had let him beat the hell out of Cross Bones, only interfering when the fucking betrayer took out his gun.
Lena had been devastated. She’d loved Cross Bones since she was seventeen years old. Steel threw his ass out of the club, and Chains promptly filed divorce papers, but Paco knew it’d left a real bitter taste in his mouth and a huge crack in his heart. Even though it’d been four years, he still refused to fuck anyone but a club girl.
“I could use some of the Drystar gloves too. Where’re they at?”
“At the back of the store with all the biker stuff. Jillian and I moved things around a couple of weeks ago. Grab a large pair for Eagle.”
Army came up to the counter. “Put the flag on my tab. Can you bring it to the club tonight? Eagle and I are gonna be busy for a while.”
Paco glanced over to Eagle, who had his arm around one of the women. “I’ll put the gloves on his tab and bring them to the club. You gonna party at their house?”
“Nah. The blonde who has the hots for you is married, and her cute brunette friends have boyfriends. I think we’ll get a room at the Starlight Motel. You sure you don’t want to join us?”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Your loss. I’ll let you know how it goes.” Army went over to the women, and with his arms around the blonde and her friend, they walked out.
“He’s gonna be worse than the club girls when they tell us their stories,” Chains said as he put two sets of gloves on the counter.
Paco laughed. “You good with holding down the store this weekend? Jillian will be here, and Felix said he’d close up on Friday and Saturday. We should be back from Silverado by Sunday night.”
“I’m good, though I may have to figure out where everything is since you changed it all around.”
“Jillian will help you with that. She’s the one who organized the store. I have to admit it looks better and makes more sense the way she did it.”
“Okay, that should work. I’ll see you at the clubhouse later.” Chains walked out as Paco picked up a large box and began opening it.
A few hours later, Jillian came up to him. “Should I lock the front doors? It’s past six.”
Paco glanced at the wall clock: 6:20 p.m. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve been going through inventory and the time escaped me. You should’ve come over sooner.”
“I’m good. I got caught up stocking the shelves. I’m almost done with all the new stuff. I can finish the last three boxes tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. Go on, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Are you doing anything fun tonight?” She slipped her arms through her down jacket.
“Nah, just the usual. What about you?”
Her cheeks colored red. “I’m going out with Carson Stuart. Do you know him?”
He whistled softly. “His dad owns Stuart Construction, right?” She nodded as she put on her gloves. “You’re running around with the big bucks.”
“Are you making fun of me?” She smiled.
“No, I think it’s great. Just watch yourself. I heard his old man is a dick, and sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. If he messes with you, let me know. I’ll straighten him out.”
Now her entire face was bright red. “I’ll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow,” she said as she walked out of the store.
He watched her as she went to her car parked in front, making sure she took off okay. Ever since she’d told him she’d lost her dad when she was in high school, he’d felt protective of her. Jillian didn’t have a brother, and from what she’d shared with him, it seemed like her mother had fallen apart after Jillian’s father died. Being young and on your own was something he could relate to.
Straightening up, he rubbed the back of his neck and decided to call it quits. He grabbed his jacket, locked up the store, and went out back. Soon he was riding through town on his way to the clubhouse. Most of the stores closed at six o’clock; the only businesses that stayed open were the bars, restaurants, and tattoo parlors.
He stopped by Get Inked and bumped fists with Skull. “How’s business tonight?”
“Slow. Goldie and Tattoo Mike took off, so it’s just me and Jimmy.”
“Where’s Liberty?”
“She’s taking her break. What’re you up to?”
“I wanted to know if you or Goldie wanted to grab a beer at Cuervos before I headed to the club.”
“I’d go, but we like one of the brothers being here at all times. Another time.”
“That’s cool.”
“Why don’t you go over to Lust? Brutus is working tonight, and he told me they got a new dancer that’ll make you hard for a week.” He laughed.
“Maybe I’ll check it out sometime. See you.” He walked out as Liberty came in.
“Hey, how’ve you been?” she said, stopping in the doorway.
“Good. Skull said the shop’s slow.”
“It is, but it can get busy at midnight when drunk people want to do something crazy.” She laughed.
“The business can always count on that. See ya.” He went over to his Harley, made a U-turn, and rode toward the club.
The aroma of green chili, slow-cooked pork, and cilantro wafted around him when he came into the main room. A growling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning, and he walked into the kitchen. Lena stood over a large pot, stirring as steam rose above it.
“Smells good in here.”
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “With the cold weather, I thought a big pot of pork green chili would hit the spot. That’s what my mother always made in the winter or whenever one of us needed cheering up. It’s my comfort food.”
“Do you need cheering up?” Paco went over and looked down into the pot.
“No, but I’m freezing my ass off.” She picked up a bowl and ladled some chili into it. “Here. Get a couple of tortillas in the warmer. I also made chile rellenos. I know you like them.”
“My mom made them every Sunday when I was growing up. Yours rival hers.” Paco went over to the cupboard, took down a plate, and piled three crispy rellenos, a spoonful of rice, and two flour tortillas on it. Taking two beers from the fridge, he shoved them in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“I can help you bring something out,” Lena said as she watched him.
“I’m going to my room. Thanks for the chow.” He walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs.
As he ate, thoughts of Misty popped into his head. He still felt shitty that he’d missed her, and he wondered if her fucking pimp had moved her to another truck stop.
The phone ringing broke in on his musings and he picked it up. “Unknown” flashed on the screen before he brought it to his ear.
“This is a call from Canon City. The caller is Jason. Push seven to block this call or push five to accept.”
Paco pressed five, and a second later a deep voice came over the phone. “How the hell are you?”
“Doing good, Scorpio. Eating a plate of Lena’s chile rellenos. They’re fucking awesome.”
“When I get outta this shithole, I’m gonna eat Mexican every day. How’re the brothers?”
“Good.” Paco and Scorpio knew the score when speaking on the phone. They never revealed anything incriminating. Their conversations were general, bordering on insipid, but Paco knew that just connecting with a brother on the outside made the
time inside more bearable.
“You getting some good pussy? Fuck, I miss that.” Scorpio chuckled deeply.
Paco laughed. “You know it. Your cock still doing okay? I thought it would’ve shriveled up without any pussy.”
Another chuckle. “You asshole.” A brief pause. “Some dude transferred here from La Vista prison.”
Paco’s insides tightened. “Yeah. So.”
“Says he’s your dad. He latched on to me when he found out I was a Night Rebel. His name’s Frank Rollins.”
Bile rose in Paco’s throat. “The sonofabitch is my dad. He’s a lifer. I don’t know how he found out I was a patch-holder.”
“Said somethin’ ’bout seeing your picture in the paper a while back.”
That’s right. The fucking reporters put my picture in the Durango Daily. It had been about the shootout the Night Rebels and the Insurgents had with the Deadly Demons in Durango at a bike rally seven years before. A damn reporter had taken some picture of him and other members, and it landed on the front page of the paper. Since no one had talked, and no witnesses had the courage to tell the damn badges what had happened, there weren’t any arrests.
Paco cleared his throat. “I don’t wanna hear about my old man again. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. Do you ever see Diesel?” Diesel was a member of the Insurgents MC doing a stint in state prison.
“Yeah, we’re in the same cell block. We should be getting outta this fuckin’ place around the same time. I gotta go. I wanted to make sure the old man wasn’t BSing me about being your dad because if he was, I’d have to kick his ass.”
Paco clenched his jaw. “Kick his ass anyway. For me. Later, dude.”
He put his phone down and finished his beer, then gathered the plates and put them out in the hallway, texting the prospects to come pick them up.
He turned off the lights, and a sliver of moonlight spilled into the room. Going over to the window, he leaned against the sill and stared out. In the distance, the mountains were silhouetted against the deep velvety sky. His mother’s corpse jumped front and center in his mind. At first, he’d believed that the police were too lazy to find his mother’s real killer and settled on an easy target—his father. Kendra hadn’t been so quick to rule him out, but she hadn’t been as close to their dad as he had. And that was the reason the betrayal had pained him more than it had her.
As time had passed, the evidence against his dad had mounted: an addiction to strip bars, affairs with women he’d met online, taking out a million-dollar life insurance policy on his mother two months before she’d died.
How the fuck could you have done that to Mom? To us? You were married for eighteen fucking years. She trusted and loved you. We all did.
Anger burned in his veins as he picked up the desk chair and hurled it against the wall. The wood splintered and the broken chair hit the floor with a thud.
“Fuck!” He ran his hand through his hair, stiffening when he heard a knock on his door. “What?” he gritted out.
“Everything okay?” Sangre asked.
“Yeah. Just fucking pissed.”
“I hear you, bro.”
Listening to Sangre’s retreating footsteps, Paco went over and picked up the pieces of the chair. All of a sudden, the room seemed suffocating. He had to get the hell out of there. Grabbing his jacket, he scooped up his keys and dashed down the stairs.
The TV blasted as the brothers watched the boxing match televised from Mexico. He went over to Patches. “My desk chair broke. Make sure there’s a new one in my room when I get back.” Patches nodded.
“How’d your chair break?” Cueball asked as he stared at the television screen.
“I threw it against the wall.”
“That’ll do it.”
“I’m outta here. Later.”
Paco went outside. The sweet scent of the creosote bush, the eerie sounds of the screech owl blending with the yelps of the coyote, and the feel of the cool desert air beckoned him. Straddling his Harley, he sped out of the lot, steering his bike onto the back roads. He rode hard and fast until he reached that moment when everything came together. It was like his bike and he became one, a Zen-like state taking hold of him so he and the world were in total harmony. There was nothing like it. It was his addiction and his love.
And it was the only thing that kept the demons away for a while.
Chapter Six
The Silver Spur Motel was one of those seedy places where men with beer guts went to bang other men’s wives, promising them the world and giving them nothing but an hour or less of sweaty sex. A fight was going on in the room next door, and a couple more screaming matches came from the rooms down the hall.
Sitting in a straight-backed chair, Misty looked down at the parking lot where weeds grew through the cracks on the asphalt. Bobby stood there, arms crossed, talking to a guy with a moustache and huge biceps. From the look of his body, she figured the dude must be on steroids.
She was nervous. Bobby was up to something. Since they’d arrived in Colorado, he’d been stepping outside the motel room to take his calls, not wanting her to hear his conversations. The sourness in her stomach had been on overdrive, and she’d been living on antacids for the past week.
She’d googled the distance between where she was and where Paco lived—it was about seventy miles. Only seventy miles separated her from seeing him again. I should call him. Maybe he’ll come see me. Bobby’s loud voice made her heart skip a beat. She stared at him as he uncrossed his arms and waved them around while the big guy glared at him. Paco probably doesn’t even think about me. Why would he? Bobby whirled around and ran up the metal stairs. Please don’t let him take out his anger on me. She folded her legs underneath her butt and wrapped her arms around her as if trying to make herself smaller.
The door burst open. Bobby’s face was mottled in anger as he paced back and forth, his eyes darting everywhere but on her. She knew better than to speak to him when he was like that, so she sat still, wishing she could disappear.
Abruptly he stopped. “We gotta get going. You’ve got a private party tonight. The guy giving the party wants you to be especially good to his friends.”
Fear twisted her insides. “What does that mean?”
Glaring at her, he said, “It means you do what the fuck they want and act like you enjoy it. Anything goes tonight.”
“Are Crystal and Amber Jade gonna be there too?” Placing her fingers against her lips, she tried to stop them from trembling.
“You’re flying solo tonight. That’s the way he wants it, and the customer always gets what he wants.”
“Where’s the party?”
“His house. From the way I heard it, he lives in a mansion. You’re moving up, slut.” He laughed as he went over to the dresser and opened the top drawer, taking out a baggie filled with white powder. As he set up his snorting station, she looked back at the parking lot. What does he mean ‘anything goes’? Images of handcuffs and whips swirled in her head, and she gripped the windowsill to steady herself.
“You better go in the shower and get ready. I gotta drop you off in a couple of hours. You’ll want to look your prettiest.” He bent his head down and snorted the white powder with a rolled-up dollar bill.
Numb, she walked to the bathroom. For the past eight years she’d been someone’s property. Bobby was her second owner. Her body belonged to him, not to her. He rented her out so men could do anything they wanted to her. For the allotted time, they took temporary custody of her body.
After turning on the water, she stepped into the tub and unpeeled the bar soap, wishing Bobby had bought her some shower gel when they’d gone to the store the other day. He told her it was too expensive, but she knew he was just being mean. Sometimes he acted like he was her boyfriend and he loved her, but other times he was cruel and demeaning and made her feel insecure.
She let the hot water roll off her back, pretending she was getting ready for a date like a normal woman. Sometimes, if she co
ncentrated real hard on what she wished her life was, she could forget what she was doing with different men, and then it wasn’t so bad.
Squeezing out some shampoo, she closed her eyes as she brought her hands to her hair.
* * *
Lying on the cold floor, bruised, naked, and bound, Misty tried to moisten her cracked lips but her mouth was dry. The ball gag she’d had on for what seemed like hours had split the sides of her mouth, leaving them sore. Her arms burned and throbbed from being suspended by a rope from the ceiling. She stiffened when she heard hinges creak, a metal door click shut, and then heavy footfalls on the stairs leading to the dungeon. The footsteps stopped, and the scent of mahogany, lavender, and musk wafted in the room, and she knew he was there, watching her.
She’d learned the owner of the house was the mustached and muscular man Bobby had been talking with in the parking lot earlier that day. She’d heard a few of the men call him Victor, but he’d told her to call him Sir. He’d been brutal, and she hoped he wasn’t coming in for another round. It seemed like the rest of the men had all left; it’d just been him and her for the past two hours.
“You did good, fucktoy.” His words felt like slime on her skin. She lay there silently, knowing better than to answer without permission to speak. Heels clacking on the concrete floor, the odor of his cologne grew stronger as he came closer. The sensitive skin on her lower back itched when his wool pants rubbed against it. Leaning over, he trapped her nipples between his fingers and rolled them back and forth then pinched and pulled them roughly. Her body tried to resist the flurry of pain, and she twisted and squirmed in her bondage, trying to keep from crying out. Muffled squeaks erupted from her clenched teeth, and he laughed while he palmed her breasts with his smooth hands. Feeling his weight as he pressed against her, she scooted away but his arm yanked her back. “I didn’t give you permission to move, slut,” he snarled, freezing her in place. Silence weighed down on her and her nerve endings snapped in feared anticipation of what he was going to do. Bending down, he licked her behind her ear. “Now that’s a good fucktoy,” he whispered. Then he ran his fingers up her arms, her skin pebbling from his touch. “You like that? You may answer, slut.”