She flounces off, over the curb and through an overgrown vacant lot, takin’ a short cut so I can’t follow. Not that I would. I did what I did. I’m not sure why, but I ain’t gonna go regrettin’ it. I don’t need to be pantin’ after some barely legal pussy, and I sure as shit don’t need to be dippin’ my dick where a kid’s involved.
If I did some good runnin’ her off, make her think twice about talking to men who look like me, curlin’ up on their sofas like Goldilocks…it’s all to the good.
The rest of my day only underlines the point.
✽✽✽
As soon as I roll to the Patonquin site, shit starts. Boom found a hole cut in the chain link. We’ve had visitors, and since Garvis, our contracted security, sucks, not a single asshole on payroll can say for sure how long the breach has been there.
Some dude named Dan, the ranking Garvis guy, swears that length of fence was secure after the last shift. Asshole shows me all these initialed forms like that’s proof. I seen that shit hangin’ in restrooms before, and it’s bullshit there, and it’s bullshit now.
In fairness, though, it’s a huge site, and it’s nowhere near secure. Garvis and the MC are in a pissing contest about who’s taking lead on the perimeter alarm, so shit’s been hectic.
Don’t really matter, anyway. If someone’s pokin’ around in our shit, it’s the Rebel Raiders. We got a grudge goes back aways. Led to blood, ugly shit. Heavy’s brother Hobs losin’ a piece of his frontal lobe to a baseball bat. Worse. We’ve mostly moved past it during the day-to-day—business keeps us busy—but fuckin’ with us is still their life’s mission. And selling meth and pussy. They don’t got a lot going on.
I’m goin’ to have to go to the clubhouse, talk to Heavy. Let the prez make the call.
I need another crew of men and a workin’ perimeter alarm, and that means paying double to Garvis or pullin’ brothers from the garage, maybe tappin’ a few of the bouncers at The White Van.
Both solutions are going to cut into the bottom line. Patonquin has us stretched us thin, and Heavy’s gonna be a raging asshole until the client takes the keys. It don’t help that the client on this one is Des Wade, the white-collar mafioso motherfucker balls deep in Heavy’s sister.
My ex-fiancée.
I shake it off as I get back on my ride. “See anyone who ain’t Steel Bones, bleed ’em,” I tell Boom.
This is the best part of my job—he commute.
Since Steel Bones Construction has made itself a name now, we’re workin’ sites all up and down the interstate. Some days I get to ride an hour or two both ways, and you know I take the back roads, let the wind part my beard and bliss out.
Today though, there ain’t enough wind and sunshine to settle me. I can get free of Rebel Raiders and disloyal bitches, but…I can’t find the bliss.
I’ve got that ass in my mind, and now it’s connected to those thick thighs and delicate little feet with the bright pink toes. Who the fuck wears shorts and flip-flops in late March anyway?
Kids, that’s who. And little boy or no, Kayla ain’t grown. Just thinkin’ of her in the same room as Harper…Harper would eat her alive. Kayla got flustered by me givin’ her the once over.
Harper, though…I’ve seen Harper step over a sweetbutt getting a train run on her on the clubhouse floor without batting an eye. Woman was damn careful not to get any jizz on her high heels though.
I wait for my chest to tighten like it does whenever my mind goes down this path. Wait for the feeling that I’m lost, that everything that made sense has been torn up like a tossed room.
Harper and me was meant to be, man. The prez’s best friend and his big sister. The lawyer and the criminal. The bitch all the brothers get hard for and the brother all the bitches want to fuck.
And we were so fuckin’ good together. She liked my kind of rough; I loved her class. She didn’t give a shit about the time I spent with my brothers, and I didn’t give a shit about her workin’ all hours and the constant drama.
Bein’ with Harper was winnin’ the poor white trash lottery; she knew it, and I knew it, and I really honestly believed it didn’t matter.
But I guess it fuckin’ mattered.
My chest should be a vise, and I should be twistin’ the throttle and temptin’ fate to put me out of my misery—which is what I’ve been doin’ for goin’ on six months now—but I guess maybe there’s enough sun today and enough of a breeze to keep the worst of it at bay.
And then there’s Peaches.
I pull up Kayla’s round ass flouncin’ away from the spank bank, and I spend the rest of the ride picturin’ her kneelin’ on the stairs, propped on her elbows, while I thrust into her with my knee lunged on a step for leverage.
And then I mix it up and I’m sitting on the stairs, and she’s riding my cock, buckin’ like she can’t get enough, hair stuck to her face with sweat, eyes glued to mine so I can watch every feeling she has as my dick bottoms out.
Why does that picture suck me in so hard?
It does, though, cause my dirty mind spends the last ten miles just thinkin’ about her face. What she looks like scared, what she looks like belly-laughin’. What she’d look like comin’ all over my dick. Would her eyes fly open or would they scrunch shut? Would she keep those brown eyes on me and let me see or would she be too shy, tuck her head into the crook of my neck?
By the time I get to the clubhouse, I have a raging hard-on, and I’m more than a little annoyed with myself. Girl’s off limits. I saw to that myself this morning by being a total asshole. I shouldn’t have to keep remindin’ myself. She’s a kid with a kid. She’s in a bad situation, and she don’t need me addin’ to her problems. And I don’t need to be the pathetic fuck who got curbed and makes himself feel better with barely legal pussy.
Speakin’ of…Harper’s Audi is parked in the side lot. And so is Des Wade’s Maybach.
Well, my dick just got soft.
I kick down the stand and throw the keys to one of the prospects. Wash, I think. Or Bush. Four of ‘em came in at the same time, and they’re all named after presidents. Or are now since Heavy can’t be bothered to come up with no decent road names no more.
I can’t tell ’em apart, regardless. They’re scrubs, and I swear one of ‘em’s voice is still changin’.
I bet they’re Kayla’s age. Maybe even a little older. They might’ve gone to school with her.
Could be one of them knows what she looks like when she comes.
Pure break-a-face-with-my-fist adrenaline streams through my veins.
Shit. I gotta get my head straight. Focus.
How does Nickel walk around feelin’ like this twenty-four seven? It’s fuckin’ stressful.
Maybe once I’m done with business, I can get back to normal with some no strings pussy. Could be fun, especially if Harper’s still around. Maybe have Jo-Beth suck my dick. Harper fuckin’ hates Jo-Beth.
Whatever I do, I got to stop thinkin’ about the girl next door.
Can’t ride my bike with a stiffy much more without breakin’ it off.
“What up, Charge?” Pig Iron hails me from behind the bar, raising a bottle of Jack to me, half offer, half toast.
The two sweetbutts he’s got bellied up to the bar turn and giggle. They arch their backs, thrustin’ their tits out.
“Hi, Charge.” They smile wide and eager. Ever since Harper bailed, the sweetbutts have been laying it on extra heavy.
And no lie, the girls are gorgeous. Pig Iron might be half-blind from the glaucoma, but he can pick ’em. Danielle, a sweetbutt from all the way back when, and Story, a girl from The White Van. Danielle’s made it known she’d risk a throw down with Harper for a ride on my cock. Maybe now that the way is clear I’ll take her up on it.
Danielle sidles over and runs her hand down my chest, cups my jock.
“You got a little somethin’ for me?”
I brush her hand away, mouth later, and slap the bar for a beer.
“Cookin’ the books, old
man?” I bump fists with Pig when he slides me a cold one.
It’s a runnin’ joke. Pig Iron has been the club treasurer since Heavy’s dad was prez, but everyone knows it’s Pig’s old lady Deb who keeps the books. Pig Iron definitely didn’t go to school much past eighth grade.
Not many of us did from my crew, and none did back in the day when the mill was hiring at fifteen.
“Cookin’ up a little somethin’, maybe. Want a Pig Special?” He sets two cocktail glasses in front of the sweetbutts, filled with bubbly pink and blue shit, umbrellas and straws and all.
“Got a dick, Pig Iron.”
“So do I. And I’m thinking after one or two of these, my wrinkly old pecker is gonna be lookin’ mighty tasty. Right ladies?”
The girls titter.
“Ain’t going near your dick, Pig Iron.” Danielle flicks her straw wrapper at him and shoots me an appraising look. I catch what she’s laying down. She’s up for it.
“You afraid of what I’m packin’?” Pig Iron’s not givin’ up easy.
“I’m afraid of Deb.”
“Smart girl.” A plump lady with big silver hair stalks past and swats Story on the ass. “Drink one for me ladies.” She gives me a nod and jerks her chin toward the back. “You here for the powwow?”
“Don’t know nothin’ about that, Deb. Just some trouble at the site I need to run past Heavy.”
“You gonna have to interrupt him pouring the champagne. He’s got high class company in his office. I gotta put out the good towels.”
“He run you out?”
Deb’s prickly most days, but she can’t stand when Heavy pulls rank. She points out she changed his diaper more than once, which is true, if not pertinent. Past is past. Heavy’s the club’s future.
Even though his old man was prez back in the day, Heavy earned his patches the old-fashioned way. Paid more for it than most. He saved Steel Bones, and every day I wake up free without bill collectors nippin’ at my heels, it’s a direct result of his hard choices.
There’s no man I respect more. Even now, when I can’t hardly understand where he has us headin’ or what the fuck he’s doin’ day-to-day.
You’d think Heavy’d ease up now that we have so much work. Our legit cover projects could keep the club whole. Finish the beef with the Rebel Raiders and retire. But Heavy don’t go in a straight line. He’s always pushin’ us somewhere new, aimin’ bigger. Takin’ risks.
It’s like he wants to know how much he can get away with.
I can only guess that’s why he has the club mixed up with Des Wade.
Heavy and I don’t talk about Des and Harper. Heavy tried a few times, but whatever he’s got to say, it ain’t gonna go back in time and take that fucker’s dick out of her mouth. Not gonna change the fact that she saw his Maybach and his slick suits and decided her days slummin’ were over.
Speaking of…I guess I could wait at the bar, but I ain’t sittin’ in my own club like it’s a waiting room. I grab a beer, walk into Heavy’s office like it’s any day, and let myself go Zen.
I got a special skill with that. It’s why I always pulled the decoy jobs when I was younger. I’d get into it with some meathead civilians, throw some punches, piss on a cop car, whatever was needed to create a diversion. As soon as I was in the paddy wagon, I’d be joking with the five-oh. Representin’ my charming and remorseful ass in court was how I got tight with Harper.
My rap sheet is a few pages long, but it’d been a book if I hadn’t been the most chill motherfucker at Gracy County Courthouse—and if Judge Greta Doyle hadn’t loved my Irish eyes and pulled at least half of my cases.
PBJ wasn’t just my favorite sandwich.
Anyway, I’ve had a lot of practice, so I don’t lose my shit when I see Harper now, sitting thigh-to-thigh next to that lizard Des Wade, ice on her wrists and neck, and the red bottoms of her thousand dollar pumps flashing at me as she swings the leg she’s got crossed over her knee.
“Charge,” she purrs, her face a perfect mask: smoky eyes, bright red lips, her hair perfectly shellacked back into a fancy bun. She’s fuckin’ flawless, and she knows it, and somehow her knowing it makes her even more stunning. When we went out, even women had a hard time not staring at her. And it’s plain truth to say the females usually only have eyes for me.
“Harper.” I flash her a big ol’ smile, lettin’ my eyes linger on her tits. Give her the appreciation I know she eats up like one of those dementors from those kids’ movies.
Hope it pisses off the asshole with her.
Her new man might be rich, but I’m the kind of pretty that even men check out. She ain’t never been immune to it, and the way she straightens up says she ain’t now, neither.
“Is there a problem with my site?” Des Wade stands. No time for the pleasantries, I guess.
Heavy shoots me a guarded look. I can speak, but I gotta watch my words.
“Someone cut through the chain link last night. Nothing’s disturbed; nothing’s missing. Probably kids looking for a place to party.”
Red seeps up from Wade’s starched collar. He’s the kind of thug born to wear a suit, and you can tell he don’t like dealing with roughnecks. He’s probably wonderin’ where Becky is with his latte.
Heh. We ain’t got no Becky with a latte, but we got a Starla with crabs.
“How did this happen?”
His face shifts from concerned to righteously pissed.
I shrug. “Wire cutters. Or garden shears?”
His face goes totally red.
Heavy clears his throat and stands, emerging from behind his desk. I like this dynamic better. Heavy’s a big fucker, not fat but solid, and I ain’t a small man. Des Wade might have his finger in all the pies in Gracy County—legit and not—he might own the only building with an elevator in town, but in this room, he ain’t a big man.
Heavy raises his eyebrows. He’s askin’ was it Rebel Raiders. I give a slight nod.
“Where was Garvis?” Heavy asks.
Good question. Walkin’ just far and fast enough for eight bucks an hour is my guess. Garvis, Inc. is chickshit. It’s one of Wade’s outfits, so that ain’t surprising or anything.
“On a half-hour rotation. The intruders got in through the fence at the tree line. We’ve got our guys posted to the east and west where there’s road access.”
“How did this happen, Heavy? I was assured that security would be airtight.”
Wade is all CEO now. He stalks to a window and leans, looking out. Probably checking his Maybach, making sure no one’s white trash ass brushes too close. How does Harper tolerate this prick?
She’s standing now, resting a perfectly manicured hand on his forearm. “Steel Bones is the best. This can happen on any site. You know that.”
“This can’t happen again. Not after the foundation is laid. I’m paying for discretion. If you can’t deliver…”
“Understood.” Heavy’s lookin’ the way he did before we jumped Alonso Arrington in the seventh grade. He wants to punch this motherfucker as bad as I do, but I guess there’s more money ridin’ on this deal than I thought.
“Add bodies?” Heavy asks, doesn’t tell.
Wade’s face hardens. He doesn’t like that the hired help gets to make a call.
Good. Pissing Wade off almost feels as good as breaking my knuckles on his face. Almost.
I nod. “Either Garvis or our own guys. My preference is our own.”
“You should call my man Dan. At Garvis,” Wade interrupts. We ignore him.
“How long would it take to gather some brothers?” Heavy asks.
“I can muster them now. Cost is the question.”
“I’m not paying more for what you assured me you had handled when we signed the contract.” Wade jerks down his jacket.
It’s beyond me why Heavy lets this fucker talk. He’s got to be workin’ an angle. Heavy leads more with his mind than his fists, but he ain’t averse to using the latter. And he ain’t in the habit of letting civil
ians talk to him like he’s a bitch. ‘Specially not in his own clubhouse.
Heavy smiles, though. “Of course Steel Bones will absorb the cost. Security is our responsibility. We’ll handle it.” He opens the door, smooth as shit, ushering Wade through. “We’ll discuss it. Call you with the plan.”
He walks Wade out, and Harper lingers behind. I knew she would. Bitch is a succubus. She can’t resist the opportunity to feed off drama. I guess after years of writing it off each time she fucked with the sweetbutts and the dumber brothers, it’s karma that I get to deal with her now.
“How you doin’, Charge?”
Her voice is all fake concern. She stops in front of me, looks up from under her thick black lashes. I wouldn’t know they were fake if I hadn’t watched her glue those caterpillars on for the past seven years.
“Good, babe. You?” I give her my laziest smile. She don’t need to know that until recently, I haven’t even been able to rub one out cause I couldn’t stay stiff from thinkin’ about what a pathetic fuck I am.
I’d thought I was a man. I provided for my woman, satisfied her in bed, had other brothers lookin’ up at me for gettin’ my ass out of a shithole on the wrong side of the tracks and into a fuckin’ two-story colonial with a three-car garage.
And then she fucks me like a cowgirl, and after, when I’m strokin’ her hair, thinkin’ I’m the shit, she tells me we need to talk. She just can’t do this no more.
The worst is when she looks at me, I can tell she’s gettin’ off on it. She knows me well enough that she can read me, and she loves seein’ the damage she’s done.
“I been missin’ you.” She makes her eyes all wide and blinks. “You gotta come around sometime. See Georgie.”
Yeah, she named our dog “Georgie.” I wanted a Great Dane named Killer, and I got a Corgi named Georgie.
“Seems like you got enough to keep you busy.” I nod after Wade’s retreating back.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. We go way back, Charge.”
That we do. She was Heavy’s hot older sister when I was a scrub with a voice like a strangled duck. Shit, I can still remember the first time I sunk into her perfect pussy. She’d been wearin’ a black suit, fuck-me heels, and she’d just gotten me off on a bullshit assault charge. I’d backed her against a wall in a courthouse bathroom, and she’d dug her nails so deep in my back she left scratches in my leather cut.
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 4