Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  As far as I can tell, the guys who live here have the bigger rooms at the end of the hall. I take a gamble on the first door I come to. It opens no problem, and I slip inside, quickly shutting the door behind me.

  Empty. Score.

  This must be a crash pad. There’s a twin bed. Faded navy fitted sheet, nothing else. A low dresser with an old, filmy mirror. No bottles or knickknacks. An overflowing ashtray on a wooden stand like my Meemaw had. And an empty bottle of Southern Comfort on its side on the floor. I can see a toilet through an open door past the dresser.

  Dare I dream? I hustle over. There’s a shower stall! And a worn towel hanging from the rod. No soap or anything, but it’s clean enough. Oh, it’s on.

  I rip my shirt over my head as I kick off my shorts. My fingers are still a bit numb from the cold, so it takes me the longest time to untie my shitkickers.

  My panties come off last. Whew. Shameful. I rinse them in the sink, wring them out, and hang them to dry. Wet panties are gonna suck if I have to go back outside. Maybe I’ll leave ‘em here, and come back for them later tonight.

  I run the shower as hot as it’ll go, and the small room fills with steam. I hop in, and oh, the Lord loves me. Water pressure! The water drums on my back, sore from sleeping on the hard ground, and streams down my body, warming me through and turning my skin a rosy red.

  There’s even a bottle of shampoo. It’s practically empty, but I add some water and shake, and there’s more than enough to wash my skinny self and lather up my hair.

  This is amazing. My hair is long and straight—I had aspirations of growing it as long as Crystal Gale when I was a kid, but it won’t grow past the small of the back—so it doesn’t show the dirt when it’s unwashed. My scalp, though, itches like hell. I use my fingertips, scrub real hard. I love the feel of suds slipping down my bare back.

  I’m done in less than five minutes. I shower quick. I hate running out of hot water with my hair lathered up.

  I grab the towel and sniff. Could be worse. I squeeze my hair dry, wipe the steam from the mirror, and smile. Still crooked. And there’s the scar from when I tripped and busted my mouth open on a curb. It needed stitches, but Mama left it too long. The scar’s not so bad, though. Only a thin white hash mark across the corner of my lips.

  I wish I had a comb. Shit, I wish I had a toothbrush. I check the medicine cabinet. There’s an open box of condoms and floss. I grab the floss, wind it around my fingers. What the hell? It’s something.

  I should take the condoms, too.

  I’ve riffled through a half dozen purses, and I have exactly seventeen dollars hidden in the sole of my left boot. The chicks who hang with Steel Bones seem to operate purely on credit, and the brothers don’t ever leave their wallets unattended.

  A bus ticket to New York City is thirty-nine dollars. I’m not desperate enough yet, but I could make that twenty-two bucks in fifteen minutes in a dark corner. My sister Dee goes down to the truck stop sometimes, and she’ll get thirty for a blow job. I grab the box of condoms, tucking the floss inside.

  Maybe there’re warmer clothes in the dresser. Life’s got to throw me a break at some point, right?

  I step into the room, naked as a jaybird except for the towel wrapped around me, clutching a box of condoms, and my heart stops.

  Sitting on the bed, bare-chested, is a huge, red-eyed man with wild black hair halfway down his back, and a wiry black beard, almost as long. It’s the dad with the white SUV.

  He looks like the bastard child of a bassist from an 80s metal band and that god with the lightning bolts. Up close, I can tell he’s younger than I thought. He’s in his thirties. His tattoos curl around his hunched shoulders, and he’s wearin’ the most hangdog expression I’ve ever seen on a man outside of a funeral or a court date.

  He’s swigging from the bottle of Southern Comfort. Guess it wasn’t empty after all. In his other hand, he’s holding a thick flannel shirt.

  Well, let’s make lemonade. I ignore my thumping heart, smile wide, and cock a hip.

  “Hey, mister,” I say. “I’ll show you my titties for that shirt.”

  2

  DIZZY

  I wake up on the floor, in the crack between the bed and the wall.

  It’s not my bed.

  And it’s not so much waking up as coming to.

  I clamber upright and stumble around to sink onto the bed. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like tire, and last night is a blank. But there is a bottle of SoCo on the floor.

  I fold at the waist and reach to scoop it up, every muscle and joint protesting.

  I’m too old for this shit.

  I swirl the bottle. Sweet. There’s a quarter left. Hair of the dog has never done me wrong. I take a swig.

  What fuckin’ day is it? It ain’t Friday. I get the boys on Friday. Goddamn, it’s bright in here. And there’s someone in the bathroom.

  Did I get laid?

  I got morning wood despite my condition. That don’t tell me shit. I always wake up hard.

  My head pounds. I chug, trying to work up the energy to stand again. Get moving.

  And then the prettiest little thing, naked and wrapped in a towel, sashays into the room, stops dead in her tracks, and does a double take.

  What’s that she’s holdin’? A box of condoms?

  She smiles. It’s wonky, lop-sided, and sweet as hell. My cock jerks and chafes against my jeans. Well, hallelujah. I got pants on.

  “Hey, mister,” she purrs and winks. “I’ll show you my titties for that shirt.”

  I ain’t wearin’ a shirt.

  She nods at my hand. I’m holdin’ a flannel. Oh. There’s my shirt.

  She raises an eyebrow. Big brown eyes full of mischief. Jet black hair drippin’ on the carpet. She ain’t got much meat on her. Firm little titties under that towel, though.

  Fuck.

  “How old are you, girl?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay. Twenty.”

  “Where’s your ID?”

  “What? Are you the bouncer? Wanna see my titties or not?”

  I do. She’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years. Her smile kind of quirks at the corners. Like the Joker, but not insane.

  “Why do you want my shirt?”

  “I’m into grunge. Why the fuck you care?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  I don’t like this sweet girl talkin’ like she’s hard. She’s curlin’ her bare toes, squirmin’, goosebumps all up and down her arms. I set the bottle on the floor.

  I never seen her around before. Could be a new sweetbutt. I don’t pay much attention. Even after the divorce, I’m more into bikes than chasing pussy.

  Shit. This girl might be with one of the younger brothers.

  “You property?”

  She shakes her head. “Are you?”

  “Nope.” Not since Sharon bailed. “Why you want my shirt?”

  “I’m cold.” She bites her bottom lip, blinks at me from under thick black lashes, and my abs tighten. My cock wants out. In. Whatever it can get.

  “It’s my favorite shirt.”

  “I have amazing tits.”

  I shrug a shoulder. Ain’t no arguing with that. “Okay.”

  “No touching.”

  “I’m familiar with the rules of the champagne room.” Steel Bones owns a club. The White Van. I do security there on occasion when they need a shift covered. So, yeah. Guess I am the bouncer.

  She narrows her eyes, shoots me a look. I keep real still. I’m totally invested in this now. My head don’t hurt anymore, and the fog’s clearing. I’m harder than I’ve been in a long time. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I ain’t ever looked a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Okay.” She exhales, drops the box of condoms, and tugs the towel loose, letting it fall. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her nose wrinkles like a rabbit.

  Her tits are gorgeous, small, no bigger than those apples you buy in bulk. She’s
got puffy nipples that peak like sugar cones. Perfect. I bet I could fit a whole tit in my mouth.

  She pops her eyes open. Her shoulders relax when she sees I’m still sitting on the bed.

  “You’re gonna stay right there?”

  “I’m gonna do whatever you want.”

  She narrows her eyes, weighin’ me up, and then she seems to make a decision and her lips curve. She’s gettin’ a little confident, arching her back, and resting a hand on her hip. She’s slim, but her waist nips in, and she’s got that womanly figure.

  “Like what you see?” she asks.

  “Hell yes.”

  There’s a bush between her thighs, as dark as the hair on her head, beaded with droplets from her shower. Haven’t seen that in a long time. Sharon and the dancers at the club keep it waxed. Reminds me of the chicks in the porno mags the old-timers keep in a crate by the jukebox. I like it.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” She tries a new pose, sticking her ass out.

  My cock begs to be touched. What I’d give for her to come over here and go to her knees, suck me with that sassy mouth. But she’s skittish. I don’t want to scare her off.

  “Show me more, baby.”

  Her forehead furrows. Her arms fall to her sides. She’s at a loss.

  Yeah, she’s bold, but I don’t think she does this on the regular.

  “Turn around.”

  She raises an eyebrow. I raise one back. She stiffens her spine and turns.

  She’s got a juicy, heart-shaped ass. My mouth waters. I want to take a bite. I’ve always been an ass man, and hers is exquisite. Enough heft so it’ll jiggle when you slap it, but firm. Taut. Perfect handfuls.

  “Go to that bureau. Bend over it.” My breath is coming quick. My forehead’s broken out in sweat.

  “You got a jacket?” Her chin lifts.

  “A jacket?”

  “You want me to bend over, that’ll cost a jacket.”

  “Yeah. I got one around here somewhere.” She wants a coat? I’ll buy her a coat. Fur. Leather. Whatever. I want to see that ass spread wide. Damn, it’s been so long since I wanted anything but a fuckin’ nap.

  Her gaze darts around the room. “You sure?”

  “Yes, baby. Go bend over that bureau.”

  She gnaws the inside of her cheek, staring past me at the wall. She’s thinkin’. Please Lord don’t let her think better of this.

  Finally, she seems to come to decision and flashes me another adorably askew grin.

  “Like this?” She pads over to the bureau, folds at the waist, and looks at me over her shoulder, tossin’ her wet hair so droplets splatter on the wood.

  I can see her sweet titties dangle in the dull mirror. Oh, yeah. Blood’s pulsing to my cock. My body primes. It takes every inch of my self-control to stay where I am, hands at my side.

  “Widen your stance.”

  She carefully lowers to her forearms and inches her legs apart.

  “Arch your back.”

  There it is. I groan. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

  Her pussy lips spread, and I can see her slick, pink folds. She’s creamed herself, and her clit has popped from its hood. Her shoulders are rising and falling, but not so quickly as mine.

  “You’ve got such a pretty pussy.”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her lips turn up in a small, wary smile. “I do?”

  She cranes her neck to try and see. I can’t help chuckling.

  “What makes it pretty?” she demands.

  Ain’t that a hell of a question.

  “Look how wet and slippery it is for me. Touch it, baby.”

  She shifts her hips and pushes up on her arms, nervous. I love watching her face. She’s sneaking peeks at me in the mirror. My face. My chest. The tent in my jeans. I like her eyes on me.

  She’s waiting for something.

  Maybe for me to go first.

  I unzip my pants. My cock springs free. She smothers a gasp. Yeah. I’m one that’s big all over.

  “We really doing this?” she pants, breathless.

  “We’re really doing this.” I stroke my cock. It can’t get no harder, though.

  She works her hand between her legs. Her delicate fingers slip-slide through her juices. She keeps darting shy glances at me in the mirror.

  “Show me how you like it.” I don’t know where this bossy shit is coming from. It ain’t my usual style. She’s seems down with it, though. “Show me what you do when you’re alone.”

  Her face is flushing, her expression dazed. She finds her clit, circling the nub with her middle finger. She neglects her slit, shiny with cream. I want to fill her. I want to slam my aching cock into that tight hole. She’s so hot, her eyes now glued on my cock as I work myself hard, smearing precum root to tip.

  “Does that feel good?” I ask.

  She mumbles.

  “Squeeze that titty. Pinch the nipple. Hard.”

  She has to push up to do what I say, and she readjusts her stance, tilting her hips higher until I can see deep in her sweet, dewy pussy.

  She’s fuckin’ beautiful.

  “Now show me. Show me those puffy nipples.” She half rises, cupping herself, offering herself to me in the mirror. She’s into it, biting her lower lip in concentration, bright red from her chest to her cheeks.

  My lower spine’s tingling, and my balls are getting tight. Would she let me cum on those sweet tits, rub my cum in those rosy, raw nipples?

  This is a dream—the best dream. I don’t even want to cum, not before she does.

  “Flick that clit. Come on, now. You’re close, aren’t you?”

  She nods, gasping, holding onto me with those big brown eyes. Her knees are wobbling now.

  “Cum for me, baby. Let me see you cum.”

  She moans out loud, and my pants vibrate.

  A country twang singing “Forever and Ever, Amen” comes muffled from my pocket.

  Fuck.

  Sharon.

  Not now.

  I groan.

  “One minute, okay? Stay right there.” I hold up a finger as I stand, jerkin’ my pants to my waist. “I gotta take this. It could be an emergency. But you stay right there. I’ll be right back. You’re gonna stay right there for me, aren’t you, baby?”

  I’m aware I’m begging, but I’m past pride. The hazy look is gone from my girl’s eyes, and she’s straightening up. She won’t meet my eye.

  Goddamn. “Just one minute. I’ll be right back.”

  The phone keeps singin’, so I tap to answer as I cram my dick back in my jeans and step into the hall. I need to change that ringtone. Sharon put it on my phone for our anniversary. Seven or eight years ago.

  “Sharon? What’s up?”

  My heart was already pounding, and now it’s stuck in my throat. Ever since we split, whenever she calls, my first thought is, Are the boys okay?

  Ain’t gonna lie. They’re wild. Carson in particular is accident-prone. We got three broken bones between the two of them at this point, and four concussions.

  “Dwayne!”

  There’s an unholy ruckus at the end of the line. TV blaring. Dogs barking. Carson’s hollering. He don’t sound hurt.

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “You need to take the boys tonight.”

  “All right.” I force myself to swallow what I really want to say, and I head further down the hall. “When?”

  The judge gave me every other weekend and a few hours on Wednesday nights. When we went to court, Sharon pulled some shit about how I’m never around and painted me as a degenerate ‘cause I’m in an MC. She tried to get full custody, which is a joke ‘cause she’s always asking me to take the boys early or keep ‘em late. I don’t mind. I’ll take ‘em whenever. They’re my kids. I miss ‘em.

  Still. I was the one who had to assure the judge I was gonna put the boys first before he gave me four fuckin’ days a month.

  “Carson, handle it yourself! I’m on the phone with your father!” she shouts. �
��Can you pick them up from Steve’s after school?”

  Steve’s the dude she was fuckin’ when we split. He was her boss at the real estate agency then, but he’s her bitch now.

  “I can get ‘em from school. No problem.”

  “No. I’m picking them up. Just come get them from Steve’s. Four or five. I need you to get them by six, though. I have reservations. It’s a business thing.”

  Sharon’s got a lot of “business” things after hours these days. Steve better keep an eye out.

  “Okay. I’ll pick ‘em up from school.”

  “No. That’s already on my schedule. Just get them from the house.”

  Sharon don’t like me showing up at the school, lookin’ like I do. A few years back, when she got her real estate license, she started takin’ issue with my tattoos and my clothes. When we were in high school, my long hair revved her engines. Made her cry when I had to cut it for basic.

  People change. Sharon’s become a person I don’t even recognize. I deal with her like I deal with a shitty customer. They want to act the boss, but that don’t mean they know shit about engines. I make it quick, and I move on with my day.

  What is it they say? If you argue with a dumbass, you’re the dumbass.

  It’s getting louder in the background. Parker’s shoutin’ at his brother now about some video game controller. Jesus. Pain spears my temples. I need an ibuprofen.

  “And can you just keep them through the weekend? I’ll get them Sunday. Or you could drop them here. Yeah, that’s easier. Let’s do that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t forget Carson’s inhaler.”

  “I told you I got one at the house.”

  “Okay. Six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  She hangs up first.

  I scrub my neck. I ain’t gone grocery shopping. I’ve been crashing at the clubhouse, eating here. The house is a wreck. I never got around to cleaning up after the last weekend with the kids. Ah, hell.

  But all that can wait.

  The throb in my head eases, and my limp cock twitches, rising to attention. There’s a sweet piece of ass waitin’ for me, legs spread, right down the hall.