FILTHY SINS_Sons of Wolves MC

by Nicole Fox

  “What did you just say?” Dad whispers, his tone leaden with disbelief so that he has to drag each word out.

  “I think you know what I just said.” The man steps forward. “I think you heard me clearly. I reckon there’s a pretty big chance the only reason you’re askin’ me what I said is ’cause you think I’m gonna change it. So I’ll say it again. Show your daughter some goddamn respect.”

  “You think I’m about to take advice from a pretty boy mechanic?” Dad snarls.

  I almost laugh. Maybe I would laugh if things weren’t so tense. Whatever this man is, he’s not a pretty boy. His blond hair is jagged, his muscles wild and strong. He looks more dangerous than pretty.

  “I don’t care how you make yourself okay with it. But I’ve been listening to you rant and rave at this woman for twenty minutes now and it’s starting to piss me the hell off. I don’t know what sort of father you call yourself. Maybe you’re like every other bullshit father but you didn’t have the decency to run out.” He pauses here, and I intuit that he’s talking about his own father. The pain flits across his face like an impossibly quick eclipse. Then the light returns. “I don’t know if it makes you feel big and strong, or what. But I’m getting damn tired of listening to you go at her for no reason at all.”

  The atmosphere immediately turns potent; any moment, words could turn to violence. I look at the man and I look at Dad and I know it’d be no contest. The mechanic would devastate him, but Dad doesn’t know that. I can see it in his face: the confidence of a drunken tyrant.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “My name is Fink Foster,” Fink says, standing up straight. “I can give you my address, too. And yes, I know who you are. And yeah, I know you have powerful friends. I know about every little thing you’re gonna threaten me with. But you ought to keep something in mind.” His voice becomes emotionless. It’s scary, and yet I’m not scared of it. There’s something . . . not sexy about it. But there’s something there. “You’re not the only dangerous man in this town.”

  “Fink Foster,” Dad murmurs. “I admire your grit, boy, so I’ll give you this chance to get the fuck out of my face.”

  “I don’t need it,” he says. “I’m fine right where I am.”

  They are about five feet from each other, but I’m in between them. I step forward, planting myself firmly in Fink’s way. “I need to talk with you,” I say, pleading silently with my eyes.

  He gets the message; I see it register. He clicks his neck from side to side, looking over my head at Dad. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. We can talk near the junker.”

  Dad bristles at the word junker, but doesn’t follow when Fink and I move into the garage area. When we’re out of view he turns to me with a smirk on his face, leaning against the wall so that his immense muscles relax. “What is it, pretty lady?”

  “What is it?” I sigh.

  We’re reflected in Sal’s office window. I’m twenty-three but I still look like a teenager sometimes, and I’m not happy about it like some people might be. Young and naïve-looking, with chestnut-brown hair I pull into a ponytail to try and seem more business-like. It’s straight and sleek and soft and accompanied by my large, squirrel-like brown eyes, I look hopelessly girl-next-door. I turn from the reflection to Fink. “It’s dozens of things,” I go on. “But the most important is that I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “You father to get hurt, you mean,” he says.

  “Of course that’s what I mean!”

  He leans closer to me. His scent is sweat and oil. It’s a scent that shouldn’t appeal to me, but I can’t help it. It fills my nostrils and works its way into my mouth. I keep glancing at his bare torso without meaning to. It’s impossible to ignore. I imagine biting down on his chest, biting to feel the firmness of it. I try to empty my mind of the thoughts, worried he might be able to read them on my face.

  “It’s not my business to tell you what is and isn’t okay,” he says. “I get that, all right? But what do you expect me to do? I can’t just sit out here and listen to him talk to you like that, treating you like dirt and me just sittin’ out here listening and not doing a damn thing. Is that any way to let a lady get talked to?”

  “So you’re my knight in shining armor?” I ask. I mean it to be scathing and sarcastic, but it comes out more as hopeful. I usually have a reasonable amount of control over what I say, and how I say things, but with Fink it’s like I can’t focus. I don’t see myself as so easily swayed that a sweaty muscular body can do that to me, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not as strong as I thought.

  “What’s wrong with that?” He leans forward again. We’re around the corner, out of view of the waiting room. Right now it feels like we’re in a secret world, especially with Sal’s office curtains drawn.

  “I’ve never needed a knight in shining armor and I don’t need one now. That’s one problem. Another is that this can only end in violence and I don’t think violence is a good route to take, generally speaking.”

  “But we’re not speaking generally, pretty lady. What?” He looks closely at me. “You don’t like it when I call you pretty lady? Or maybe you like it too much and that’s why you look so scared when I say it?”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I retort, when in reality he’s eerily correct. “I just don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “I never want anybody to get hurt, either,” he says. “But sometimes it’s necessary.”

  “He used to be the sheriff,” I whisper. “He still has cop friends. They’re dangerous, Fink.” Using his name comes naturally. It’s as though I’ve used it a thousand times before. “They don’t mess around.”

  “Do I look like I mess around?” he counters.

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what else I can say, except this: I don’t want your help.”

  “If that was true,” Fink says, “I would back off. But looking at you, I know it’s not true. You do want my help. I reckon you want somethin’ else from me as well, and if I wasn’t such a gentleman, maybe I’d oblige you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I hope I sound confused, or disbelieving, or skeptical. I hope I don’t sound how I feel, which is like I want to hike up my dress and pull down my tights and … I kill the thought. It’s so inappropriate, I can’t believe I have it in the first place.

  He just smiles. “We both know what I’m talking about. How about we make a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?”

  Everything about him is captivating, but his eyes most of all. They roam over me and I find I’m not offended or uncomfortable with their roaming. I welcome it, in fact. Part of me wants to arch my back to push my breasts up, to reach forward and press my hand against his jeans, jeans which hang just below his waist.

  “You want me to back off,” he says. “I don’t think that’s a good attitude to have when it comes to this situation, but there it is. So, fine.” He spreads his hands, standing so close to me now that all I’d have to do is move a few inches and my cheek would be pressed against his chest. “I’ll back off, but only for a kiss. That’s my price.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to seem outraged or bored or apathetic. But I can’t stop my cheeks from firing red. I can’t stop my lips from tingling and getting warm just at the prospect of it.

  “You’re joking,” I say. My voice is hoarse and raspy when I need it to be unwavering and firm.

  “I never joke when kissing a pretty lady is concerned.”

  “You can’t expect me to just kiss you!” I protest.

  “Why not? You want to. I want to.”

  “Who said I want to?”

  “Only every single thing about the way you look right now. Other than that, nothing.”

  “Maybe you’re misreading me,” I say.

  “Maybe. It could be that. But I doubt it.”

  “Maybe I think you’re a disgusting brute. A pig for asking me for a kiss.”

  He just smiles again, watc
hing me, never taking his eyes off me. I feel slightly tipsy from the attention. There’s no arrogance about him, or bullying, or desperation like other men. He wants to kiss me but he won’t grovel. He won’t stoop. He won’t humiliate himself. And the more he looks at me like that, with complete confidence, the more I want to kiss him. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know I might regret it later on, without the hormones running through my body. I know my coworkers, if they ever found out, would judge me for it. But . . . life is for living, isn’t it? Life is precisely for moments like these, stepping over the edge when it seems terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

  I bite my lip. “A quick kiss,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Whatever you want.” He tips an imaginary hat. “I am a gentleman, after all.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I tilt my head up at him, suddenly nervous. “Will you lean in, or me, or . . .”

  He leans down, our lips touch for the briefest instant—brief, but beautiful, sparks buzzing between us, the kiss holding me prisoner for a tenth of a second—and then Dad comes charging out of the waiting area.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he roars.

  I step back, already astonished with myself for what I was about to do. Fink steps back, too, but not out of surprise or fear. He steps back like a boxer getting ready for a bout. He keeps his eyes locked on my dad at all times.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Dad repeats, ignoring me and standing opposite Fink.

  “Dad . . .”

  “Don’t Dad me!” he hisses without turning his head. “This is between me and this Fink character!”

  Sal’s door opens. He looks beleaguered, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “You can’t fight here,” he says.

  “Then tell your little shit of an employee to show some fucking respect! He was about to force himself on my daughter!”

  “That’s a serious accusation,” Fink says. “Are you sure you really wanna make it?”

  “Shut the fuck up, you rapist fuck!”

  “Dad!” I gasp. “I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. He isn’t a—what a horrible thing to say!”

  “Stay out of this!”

  “Please,” Sal mutters. “You can’t fight in here. This is my place of business.”

  “You think you’re something really fucking special, don’t you, boy?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say really special.” Fink smiles openly at my dad. “Just pretty special.”

  “Oh, ha, ha.” Dad lowers his head like a bull and charges, fists swinging blindly.

  Fink doesn’t look in the least scared. He dodges three punches lazily and then dances back. “One chance,” he says. “I’ll give you one chance to walk away. That’s it. One more swing and we’re done.”

  “You think you tell me—” Dad charges again.

  Fink dodges, and then swings. The punch connects with Dad’s cheek, sending him toppling to the floor. Fink looks down at him and then turns away and strides from the garage, snatching his leather and T-shirt from the chair.

  I watch him go, something urging me to follow him instead of remaining here with Dad. But then he’s gone, his motorcycle growling into the distance, and I kneel down beside Dad.

  He half-opens his eyes, groggy. “Cheap shot,” he mumbles. “That’s all it was, a cheap fucking shot!”

  “Can you help me?” I ask Sal. “I need to get him back to his apartment.”

  “Sure,” Sal says, sighing heavily. “I think that’d be for the best.”

  Chapter Three

  Nancy

  Bill O’Neill knows how to rave. It’s his specialty.

  He raves as I help him into his apartment, a messy place with dirty plates piled in the sink and clothes strewn across the floor, beer cans stacked like pebbles in some areas of the room and takeout containers with flies buzzing around them in others. It’s a pitiful place which I clean for him every so often, and which inevitably gets dirty again. It’s two thirty and summer sun slants through the window, but not even that can make this place appealing. It’s a sty.

  “You think that was a fair fight?” he groans as I bring an icepack to his face, which is already ballooning up. “Is that what you think, Nancy? If so, you’ve never seen a fair fight before. In a fair fight, men act like men, not like little boys with sneaky little punches like that. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a fair fight . . .”

  “Hold this.” I push the icepack into his face, a little harder than necessary, if I’m being honest.

  He winces, and holds it. “A fair fight . . .”

  I go into the kitchen and return with some sleeping pills. “Take these.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to sleep. You haven’t slept all night. You’re still drunk.”

  “Still drunk,” he repeats, and then coughs out a laugh. “Still drunk! Let me tell you something around drinking—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you just took these pills.”

  “I saved you,” he says, snatching the pills. “And you talk to me like dirt.”

  “One, I didn’t need saving. Two, I’m not talking to you like dirt.”

  “You didn’t need saving?” He squints at me. “That means you were really going to kiss that asshole.”

  “And what if I was?” I pace into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. A band of tension stretches across my forehead, tight and difficult to ignore. It feels like my brain is pressing against my skull. I take two aspirin and return to the living room.

  “What did you mean by that?” Dad asks. “What if I was . . . that’s a problem, Nancy.”

  “I’m twenty-three years old,” I say. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “You have no idea who that man is, do you?” Dad places the pills on the table and folds him arms. “You think he’s just some boyband pretty boy—what, why are you laughing?”

  It’s true. I can’t stop myself. “He wasn’t a boyband pretty boy. I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

  “With his dyed hair . . . How’s that not a pretty boy thing to do?”

  “He wasn’t a pretty boy,” I say. “But whatever. Think what you want.”

  “You don’t even know who he is! I do. I was the sheriff. I know you like to forget that. I know your mother likes to forget that, too. But I was the sheriff for a long time and I know what goes on in Salem. That man was a member of the Sons of Wolves, a biker club. A nasty biker club. A violent biker club. Ah! You didn’t know that, did you? I can’t tell you the number of times we had to bust this bar, The Mermaid, where these assholes hung out. They’re criminals, Nancy. You, a lawyer, a sheriff’s daughter—you were going to kiss a criminal! I’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

  “Don’t call me pathetic.” I rub my forehead, trying to get rid of some of the tension. “I mean it. I’m not in the mood.”

  “But kissing some stranger who just happens to be a criminal is perfectly okay?”

  “Why do you hate me so much?” I ask, my voice breaking a little but not completely. “I’m really curious. What did I do to make you hate me so much? Was it something that happened when I was a baby? Did I crap my diapers too much, Dad? What is it? Because sometimes it seems like you wish I was dead.”

  “I don’t wish you were dead,” Dad scoffs, mouth hanging open as though he hasn’t been berating me for hours.

  He’ll always do this: berate me and then act surprised when I get upset. Somehow it’s my fault for getting upset. I’m oversensitive and can’t take a joke. I need to lighten up. It’s never that Dad should try and be a better person. No, that’s never the issue. Dad’s an excellent person and he’ll prove that by screaming and shouting about it.

  “Nancy?”

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I wasn’t listening.” I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.

  “I know you weren’t listening.” He follows me, leaning over th
e kitchen partition, knocking over the plastic container of sugar. Sugar spills everywhere, white snow cascading onto the counter and trickling onto the floor. Dad glances at it, shrugs, and then looks up. “I asked you if you think contacting your mother is a good idea when she fled to California—”

  “Stop,” I say, voice ice-cold. “Stop right there, okay? That’s enough. I won’t listen to this.”