by Snow, Nicole
“You've got it somewhere. It couldn't have gotten far,” he said, striding forward. “Look we both know me and my boys are gonna find it. Only question left is – are you gonna make this scavenger hunt easy-peasy-punkin-squeezy? Or are you gonna make all our fucking ears ring while we choke it out of you?”
I didn't answer. My eyes floated above his shoulder, fixing on the man across from me, stoic green eyes.
“Well?” The older asshole was getting impatient.
Strange. If Green Eyes wasn't so busy hanging out with these creeps and taking hostages, he would've been handsome. No, downright sexy was a better word.
My weeping, broken brain was still fixed on the stupid idea when Gray Hair grunted, pulled the light out of his mouth, and reached for my throat.
II: A Day in the Life (Brass)
Hours Earlier
Fuck!
Twinkie's mouth on my dick woke me up. Didn't have a clue how long she'd been sucking, but I was ready to blow. Growling, I opened my eyes and shoved one hand behind her ass, reaching for the wet, pink silk I'd fucked and filled before I crashed out around noon.
Soon as she saw I was awake, the slut began to purr. She did this desperate, throaty thing that vibrated through her cheeks, a special twist that always sent hot pulses straight to my balls. No joke – her trademark finish was like having the world's greatest vacuum hooked to my cock.
I found her clit and pinched it 'til she moaned. Bitch never skipped a beat, furiously bobbing her head up and down.
Too much. Too goddamned early.
“You better swallow every fucking drop. Don't want none of that shit leaking where it don't belong when we're done. Ah...shit. Ah – fuck!”
Her tongue went full fan on my dick. I stuffed it as far as she could take down her throat and let loose, grinding my hand between her legs like a madman, feeling her pussy gush while my load filled her mouth.
Fuck, she was good. But not half as awesome as a hit of the shit that still filled my dreams while I was out.
It took months to get clean, get my head straight, remember there was more to being a full patch member of the Grizzlies Motorcycle Club than easy smack and endless pussy. Thank fuck for Fang and the brothers, especially Blackjack. If it wasn't for our Enforcer taking me under his wing since I got to Redding, it would've been all too easy to fall back into old habits.
My balls pulsed and shot pure sweet fire to my head. The fire lashed through me as it left my dick in waves.
Too bad my fucked up brain hadn't stopped missing the orgasm on steroids good smack used to give me. Now, this was the best I could do, fucking every pussy, ass, and mouth I could find, hoping it'd give me one one-thousandth of the ecstasy I got from pouring that crap in my veins.
“Mmmm,” Twinkie purred, wiping her mouth. “Was this the kinda wake up call you were hoping for, baby? I know what you like, old man...”
I blinked, reaching underneath the bed for my pants. “I'm not your baby, Twink, and you're sure as fuck not my old lady. Get yourself a glass of water and get the fuck out.”
She pouted. I grunted, throwing on my boxers and wriggling into my jeans as she headed for my cramped bathroom. The slut really wanted to latch herself onto somebody in the club – she'd be back between my sheets tomorrow if I wanted her.
Same old song and dance. One thing was for sure – sucking and fucking took the edge off old addictions. The girl was medicine to me, and nothing more, same as all the easy pussy who swarmed around this clubhouse like moths drawn to big, tattooed, foul mouthed flames.
If the girls realized half the world of shit this club was facing, I didn't think they'd be so bold. Shit was getting serious. I almost dreaded having to throw on my cut and get my ass out there.
Fang's iron fist clenched tighter every day. Hadn't taken me long to figure out how he'd gotten to be national Prez. Brains and brutality were the ticket, but lately, the shit he ordered was beyond the pale. I was damned lucky they'd let me take a ride to Reno a few weeks ago for my sis' wedding.
Technically, the club was on lockdown. We were at war, a savage war we were losing to the Mexican boys pouring across the border, kicking us in the nuts when we least suspected it.
Dunno how I kept it together watching Shelly tie the knot with Blaze, Prez of the Prairie Pussies up in Montana, no less. I would've loved to draw knives and have it out with those assholes. Would've loved to slice the throat of any sneak cartel fuck who came after me too. But I owed sis a hug, a kiss, and my congratulations hissed through clenched teeth.
Celebrating her happiness meant something – even if she found it marrying a total dick from an MC we'd been fighting with not so long ago.
“Brass!” A loud knock at the door followed the booming voice. “Better shake your ass, bro. Crack's rounding up the guys for church and he's gonna be pissed if you're late again.”
Fuck. I told Rabid I'd be out in a minute, soon as the slut was finished pissing behind the door.
Twinkie and the rest of the girls weren't just into riding dick, hoping to land an old man. A couple got caught early this year sneaking cash and valuables outta brothers' rooms. Yeah, they had their asses kicked to the curb – sometimes literally – whenever they were caught. But fuck if I was taking the chance leaving this girl alone with my meager belongings.
The little blonde came striding out a second later, straightening her thong. I scooped her clothes together and threw them at her.
“Get your shit on and hurry the fuck up. I need to get outta here, and you better be gone first. Club business.”
She nodded. I folded my arms, watching her cover up her tits and ass. My dick stirred, insatiable as ever. Must've been all this stress.
I gave her one more swat on the way out. She giggled, a high whiny sound that made me wanna swing her around, slam her on the bed, and fuck her all over again.
The clubhouse smelled like shit when I got outside, locking the door behind me. Damned prospects were slacking on the fucking job. Too damned distracted with the cartel drama, just like the rest of us. Cans and broken glass crunched underneath my feet, burned joints and bags of chips, needles and used condoms.
Pretty fucking amazing Fang got anything done at all in this dump. But the Prez barely left his office anymore. He was way too busy screaming at our boys in other states and melting down when the latest disaster came through the phone. Otherwise, he was riding our asses like a maniac, demanding results nobody could deliver.
The cartel was kicking our ass in SoCal. The Mexicans were creeping north, slowly and surely. No sooner than I got back from Reno, the place was crawling with rumors about hit men in town, gunning to cut our throats in our sleep and decapitate our whole fucking club by taking out its head.
We'd already surrendered Sacramento, home to the original mother charter. Fang had no choice but to retreat north to Redding with his crew. Regroup, scheme, and hit them back – that had to be the plan – except we hadn't quite gotten to the hitting part.
A big hand slapped my shoulder. “Looks like we're gonna beat Serial and Splitter after all. Let's leave those fucks to get the evil eye.”
I grinned at Rabid and followed him into the big meeting room. The officers were all lined up at the head of the table, and more than a dozen brothers milled around at the other end.
Crack, our VP, looked more pissed off than ever when he was sober, his dark eyes glaring in his bald head. He'd been demoted after wearing the Prez title in Redding for years. Everybody was subordinate to Fang as soon as he came up from Sacramento, including the man who's charter was unlucky enough to host the Grizzlies' biggest bear.
Then there was Blackjack, our Sergeant-at-Arms. His long gray hair sat unevenly on his shoulders, the only other man here except for me and Fang who didn't indulge in anything harder than Jack and old fashioned cigs. He looked like a mean ass wizard and occasionally pulled off black magic like one too. He'd saved my ass more times than I could count when we were outgunned.
Then t
here was Fang himself. A big, weathered badass with a square head and a drill sergeant's haircut gone gray. The front of his cut had more patches than a four star general.
Rabid and I took the last couple seats and waited for the other brothers to file in. Sure enough, the Prez beamed raw hate at the stragglers, several of our guys plus a few transplants from the defunct Sacramento charter.
Bang! The petrified bear claw he used for a gavel hit the table, putting one more dent in the old cedar wood.
“All right, you lazy fucks, listen up. I don't have the time and motivation to rip your assholes to shreds today for dragging your junkie asses in here ten minutes overdue. I'm feeling generous today. Crack and a couple brothers finally brought us some good news.”
Veep nodded. “Caught the little prick heading for the highway late last night. The sentry patrols we got circulating through town did their job. No mistaking the cartel ink on his brown skin. Can't do more than beg in English neither. We got ourselves a hummingbird from south of the border, and it's up to us to make him sing.”
“And I wanna hear him all the way back here before you snap his fucking neck,” Fang growled. “This could be the break this club needs. The cartel's been shitting down our throats for months because we got rats on our ship who'll sell out their brothers for a few fuckin' pesos.”
Rats. Hearing it sent an icy chill up my spine and everybody else's in the room. Nothing worse than treason in any MC – especially this one.
I'd fallen in with a group of rogues back in Montana a few months ago. The Prez defied a direct order to head south and leave everything past Idaho to the Prairie Pussies. I'd almost fucked my club without knowing it before I turned on their asses for screwing with Shelly and me. The motherfuckers killed our disabled Ma too. She'd been an overbearing bitch to me since I was a kid, but nobody deserved to die like that.
My teeth pinched together, hard enough to break when I thought about it. Ma's death must've gotten back to Fang, same as me turning on the rogues. Only fucking reason he'd spared my ass while locking the rest of the traitors in an old building and burning them alive.
I still heard their screams in my dreams. Always woke my ass up with a smile on my face.
“Brass.” Blackjack said my name, pointing a finger at me.
Shit, what the fuck did I miss? I was about to jump outta my chair when he moved to Rabid next, speaking his name, before moving on to Serial and Splitter.
“Excellent choice, Prez. These boys are good for interrogation duty,” Blackjack said. “Blood on their hands won't sour their guts when we need to get down and dirty. You can count on 'em.”
Fang nodded, looking right at me. Two dozen more pairs of eyes were on us too. Half were jealous, and the rest were just glad they weren't in the spotlight with such an important job.
I stiffened. Couldn't let Blackjack down. He'd helped me get clean since I came south, and I owed the old man big.
Torture was the one thing I hated the most. Didn't have a lotta experience with it either. Most of the time I took my bike and rode with the crew, quick hit and runs, protecting our shipments flowing south from cartel raiders.
Man up and get used to it, a rough voice growled in my head. This shit with the cartel's just getting started. It only gets uglier from here.
“We'll do whatever it takes, Prez,” Serial said, flexing his muscles.
His eyes were hungrier than usual, peering out between the barbed wire inked across his face. I tried to keep my distance from his twisted ass. Yeah, he was a brother like any other, but his bloodlust never sat right with me. The giddy spark that lit him up whenever he got orders like this turned him into a total pitbull.
“Well?” Fang said, clenching his bear claw. “What're you fuckers waiting for? You don't need to sit through the rest of this shit. I'm not calling any votes today.”
Me, Rabid, Serial, and Splitter were on our feet before he could rap at the wood, right behind Blackjack.
Five minutes later, we were on our bikes, riding out to the old warehouse where they had the Mexican.
“Mercy...mercy...please...”
I couldn't remember the last time I felt sick. Something about staring at the bloodied man standing over the shallow pit got to me.
Maybe the fact that he shouldn't have been standing at all. Not after the way Serial and Splitter whaled on his knees, making his legs crack, the same damned thing they'd done to his arms before. Thank fuck Blackjack didn't give Rabid and I any shit about keeping our distance.
We played watchmen by the door, making sure nobody pulled up in the empty parking lot next to our bikes. Took over an hour for the kid to crack – poor bastard held up surprisingly well while the boys stubbed their smokes out all over his bare skin. Burned away the screaming eagles or hawks or whatever the fuck cartel assholes worshiped that was inked on his chest.
When Serial took the cinder block to his left hand, turning it into a broken mess, he started to talk. Rabid and I just looked at each other. Blackjack was the only brother with us who really listened – good fucking thing he was along to take charge because none of us knew shit for Spanish.
The Mexican spilled his guts for ten or twenty minutes. Whatever the fucker said, it was enough to make Blackjack nod, motioning for us to come over. I carried the old shovel, pushing it into Jose's hands before we led him out back to the old courtyard.
Nobody said shit while he dug like a good boy. Quite a challenge with his busted hands and beat up body. Something else must've broke once he'd gotten a foot or two into the earth. Bastard started to beg, whining the same shit over and over again.
“Mercy...mercy...”
Probably the extent of his English vocabulary.
Serial and Splitter barked in his face. Rabid was getting pissed too, and punched the fucker in the back. I could tell by the look on his face that he just wanted this asshole to shut up like I did.
“Come on, you sonofabitch! Just a few more feet and it's done.” Serial rolled his shoulders, ready to lay into him with his fists.
I hated the cartel fucks just as much as anybody, but fuck, breaking his ribs wouldn't make him dig the grave faster. I stepped up, ready to pull the weird hothead off the Mexican, but Blackjack got between us first.
“Don't be a jackass, Serial. Get the fuck back there with the rest,” he growled, pointing to Rabid and me.
I froze mid-step, slowly ambling back over to where Rabid was standing before the freak joined us.
Serial sulked over to our place against the wall, lighting a smoke. When he was gone, Blackjack leaned into the man, whispering just loud enough for us to hear.
“You're dead, son. There's no getting around that. Your grave was dug the minute you ended up on the wrong side of Redding after making your delivery. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. Just finish up and I promise I'll make it quick.”
Jose stumbled a couple steps backwards, tears in his eyes. Blackjack's gaze was colder than Serial's had been, nothing but ice. He was offering him the only mercy we were allowed to give.
Finally, the dude looked down, shuffling his feet. He grabbed the shovel and started to dig, this time without any complaints. Later, I gave him a hand and a cig while he went down in the pit, lowering a light for him. His eyes were pitch black, understanding, the kinda look an animal gives a hunter before he pulls the trigger.
I stood over the grave for a few more minutes. When the Mexican stumbled, collapsing into the small pile next to him, I waved for Blackjack.
“Get back, son,” he told me, drawing his nine millimeter. “He held up his end. I'm gonna hold up mine.”
The gunshot echoed through the empty courtyard, even with the silencer on the barrel.
I reached into the pit for the shovel, and then went to work, throwing dirt over the dead body as quickly as I could. The four brothers joined me, covering up his carcass, first with dirt and then using a pile of heavy cinder blocks stacked over the smooth earth.
Nobody suspected
shit out here. If this place ever got bought and re-developed, they'd probably find a few more bodies deep in the ground besides the ones the club dumped off.
We were heading for our bikes, eager to hit the road and get the fuck back to the clubhouse, when Blackjack caught up to us. He walked up and put his hand on my bars before I could think about starting up the engine.
“We're not done yet,” he said, scanning his eyes at the other brothers. “1212 Hawkeye Street. That's where we'll find the one and a half mil the cartel dropped for a dead guy.”
“What the fuck?” I couldn't stop it from flying outta my mouth.
Whatever we'd forced outta Jose, I never expected it to be that.
Blackjack smiled. “Prez is wrong about one thing: the biggest swamp rats aren't in this club. Doesn't matter how much money you pay pigs to keep their mouth shut and look the other way – they always flip and sell your ass out when they get desperate enough.”
“So, this is a repo job?” Rabid asked.
Blackjack laughed. “If you wanna put it that way...Charlie Thomas got at least a good half mill from our crew over the years before cancer kicked him off the force. Bastard probably flipped and sold our intel to the cartel to leave a few crumbs for his family. Shame the fucking turncoat knew so much. Hell, his job was blacking out what was already on the books – and now those books with all our dirty secrets, slip ups, and weaknesses are in the Mexican hands.”
“Shit!” Splitter spat, pounding his bike.
“Whining about it won't do any good, brother.” Blackjack lit a smoke, finally moving away toward his own Harley. “Best we can do now is take that fucking money and use it to pad our asses against the hard fuck that's coming.”
We hit the road and ripped through town. My rage was extra hot, a wicked contrast against the cool wind whipping me in the face.
Blackjack's talk just confirmed what I already knew deep in my guts: shit was about to get a whole lot worse. No, the king rat wasn't in our club, but it wasn't gonna work any miracles on Fang's paranoia. Burying Jose was the first real shot fired in Redding, but the cartel war had been going on for months.