by Lowe, Aden
"Yeah, come on in." Bushmaster's Texas drawl almost sounded inviting. Out of the whole club, only he had been less than brutal with her and the other girls. He still demanded sex, but it was only sex, not some twisted torture. Men who could stick it in and get off were practically non-existent in the Saxons world, so maybe that made his words seem a little more pleasant.
Tanya opened the door and slipped inside. A gasp escaped her lips in spite of her best efforts to not show emotion of any sort.
Buffalo lay flat on his back, sprawled naked over his bed. His left thigh had swollen to tremendous size and carried an angry-looking slash from groin to knee. Black stitches held the wound closed, the swelling pulling at them, like something in a horror movie.
That part didn't faze Tanya, though. She'd seen some bad wounds when the Saxons returned from whatever kept them busy. Gunshots, burns and knife wounds were as common as hangnails were for other people. Mostly she and the other girls got left out of taking care of them, though. The bikers probably thought the girls they treated so horribly would take revenge given the chance. And they were probably right.
Buffalo's dick held her attention, swollen beyond full erection size, with dark red, purple and black bruising. But the worst part was the cut from midway down the shaft all the way to the tip. Again, stitches forced the injury closed, but were half torn out from the swelling. Pus oozed from the entire length of the injury.
A surge of satisfaction ran over her, even while her stomach rolled. Just the nature of the wound brought on sympathy in reflex, but she couldn't help the sense of justice she felt. The man's biggest weapon against her and the other girls was gone, because she couldn't imagine how it might heal correctly. If Erin aimed to cut if off, she'd come surprisingly close.
Bushmaster looked up from where he sat by the President's bed. "About time. I need a hand." He nodded toward Buffalo's groin. "He needs a catheter. All that swelling is stopping him from pissing."
Tanya shuddered a little and moved forward. "W-what do you need me to do?" She couldn't even imagine. Maybe she should have taken time to wash her hands?
"Here, put these on. Don't want to get him infected." He tossed her a pair of black latex gloves from a box on the table at his side. The box came from the tattoo kit he treated like a prized possession. Whenever a Saxon wanted ink, Bushmaster set up and gave them his version of whatever they asked for.
She followed orders despite her doubts while Bushmaster squinted past his cigarette and pulled on his own gloves. Her limited medical knowledge said the whole situation was wrong, but no one cared what she thought. Besides, Bushmaster had training. He'd been a medic in the military or something. He should know what he was doing. Still, to her, it looked as if infection was already a huge issue.
He held up a piece of clear plastic tubing, like the kind used for fish tanks, maybe a foot and a half long. "We're going to put this in his dick, right up into his bladder, so the piss can run out with no problem."
Tanya nodded, though she cringed inside. Buffalo deserved every instant of discomfort and more, but cruelty wasn't in her makeup. What Bushmaster suggested seemed horrible to her, like something she'd seen before her life ended, back in school. One of her history textbooks had pictures of a doctor in the dark ages or something, with leeches and hot bottles and other nightmare things she didn't want to think about.
The biker took a roll of first aid tape from the pocket of his cut. "First thing, we have to measure his dick so we know for sure how far to push." As if he did such things daily, he held the tubing next to the dick in question and marked the length with a piece of tape. "Okay, when the tape gets to the tip, take it off and keep going another two inches. That'll put it right in the middle of his bladder, ready to drain it. Oh yeah." He fumbled a second piece of tape from the roll. "Better seal off the end, unless you're into golden showers."
Tanya watched, astounded. She had serious doubts whether Bushmaster knew what he was doing at all. Nothing she could do about it, though, even if she wanted to save Buffalo from suffering. Any comment she might make would only get her backhanded across the room, at the very least. So she smothered her doubts and listened carefully to his instructions.
"I'll hold him, since my hands are bigger. You just put it in." He handed her the tube. "Ready?"
She stole a nervous glance at the sleeping Prez. "H-he won't feel it, right?" He deserved to feel it, but if he did, she would bear the brunt of his anger. She'd rather not get a fist to the side of her head for just following directions, even if they did seem like something a crazy person dreamed up.
Bushmaster laughed a little. "The fucker has enough Oxy pumping through his veins to kill an elephant. He ain't going to feel a thing."
Tanya nodded. "O-okay. Ready." The tube looked far too large to fit inside the opening of Buffalo's dick, but Bushmaster seemed certain. She waited while he took hold of the swollen thing and sort of turned it in her direction. A foul, sickly odor filled the air and she had to fight not to gag.
Her hands shook like crazy, but she managed to get the tube into the tip, barely. Immediate resistance kept her from pushing it further. "It won't go."
"That's a sphincter. Just push through."
Doubt filled her once again. She didn't want the blame for Buffalo's dick doing something crazy like falling off. He would kill her if he had permanent damage. Still, refusing to follow Bushmaster's orders would get her killed right away instead of later. A little shrug lifted her shoulder and she tried again, with more force. Finally, the catheter started to move. By the time she got it in up to the tape, the tube was filled with dark blood.
"Is it supposed to do that?"
"Yeah, that's old blood that was just sitting there. Probably what made the swelling so bad. Keep going now. We're almost there. Keep pushing."
Once more, she followed orders and shoved two more inches of the tube into Buffalo's body. It wasn't easy, and she sagged with relief when Bushmaster announced she'd gone far enough.
"Okay, now we tape this bitch into place so it don't slide out. You go get something to drain it into. Gallon jug or something like that." He unrolled more tape and secured the catheter.
Tanya hurried to follow orders and went to the bar. "I-I need a, um, gallon jug."
The woman behind the bar raised a darkly penciled brow at her. "So? I ain't your bitch." As one of the club regulars, she considered her station far above Tanya and the other girls the club owned as slaves.
Anger flushed her face, but Tanya managed to look down in proper respect—well, the respect the regulars demanded. "I-I'm sorry. I thought there might be something here. Bushmaster sent me, we need it for Buffalo's catheter."
Freak glanced up from where he wrote in his small notebook. He grabbed the bar girl's arm when she raised her hand to slap Tanya. "Don't. You're no better than her, bitch. Find her a jug." He turned back to Tanya as the scowling woman dug around under the bar. "How is he?"
Tanya shuddered, both at the near-miss and at being put on the spot. "I-it looks awful." She didn't know what else to say, and she could hardly tell him what she thought of Bushmaster's catheter. Speaking against a Saxon, even about something so serious, meant an automatic death penalty for her and the other girls.
"Yeah it does."
The bar girl gave her a nasty look as she passed a plastic water jug over the bar. "Here. And don't think I won't find you later, bitch."
Freak's face darkened with anger. "If you do, it better be to apologize. She's taking care of the Prez. She might just earn her way out with that, if he gets better. Won't be nothing to stop her from kicking your stupid ass then." He waved to Tanya. "Go on back. I'll come check in on him later."
Tanya walked fast, scarcely daring to believe her ears. Not only had Freak defended her, but if Buffalo recovered, she might be set free! She fought to control her racing pulse. Could this be some new form of torture they'd dreamed up? Tantalize her with freedom that never came? She had no doubt they were cruel enough for
that. Her hands shook even harder as she readied the plastic jug and held it steady while Bushmaster untaped the end of the catheter tube.
At first, the dark blood moved like sludge, dripping from the end. Suddenly, it came free with a rush of bright blood mixed with urine. "Good job." Once the flow stopped, Bushmaster crimped the end of the tube with a metal clip of some sort. "You can empty that now. Every couple hours, you'll open the catheter and drain him."
Tanya hurried once more to follow orders. The liquid she poured into the toilet looked like thin blood, and started her worrying all over. What if she had messed up and damaged Buffalo more than he already was? She'd be dead then, definitely not free.
Chapter Seven
Trip took the seat Maddox indicated and waited while the Rogues Prez tossed his cell phone onto the desk.
"Hate those damn things, but life is almost impossible without them these days." He opened a humidor and took out a sweet-smelling cigar. "Have one? Not Cubans, but still good."
"I heard that. I'm tempted to shoot my phone every time it makes a sound." Trip took a cigar, clipped the end and lit it after Maddox did his.
With pale hair below his shoulders and icy blue eyes, Maddox was often underestimated by rival clubs. They seemed to think he was too pretty to be a threat.
Trip didn't make that mistake. The bastard was cold as ice and would kill at the drop of a hat. The Hell Raiders had history with the River Rogues and the two clubs routinely engaged in business dealings. They had also allied against common foes in the past. Several years back, they joined up against a national club that wanted both their territories, and won.
The two exchanged small talk for several minutes, catching up on news and gossip. They knew many of the same people, and info was always a valuable commodity in their world. Plus, they both found it amusing as fuck to discuss a guy brought down when a bitch wired up because he'd fucked her friend.
Finally, Maddox seemed ready for business. "What brings you, Trip?" The chair creaked threateningly as he leaned back and crossed his long legs.
Trip exhaled and went over the details of the protection run. A clear cut deal felt good after the bullshit with the Saxons. It would take some time to get over that one. Tanya came to mind again and he had to work to focus on the deal instead of on how he might go back and steal her away.
"Of course." Maddox named the terms, the same as they usually agreed upon, and within minutes, the deal reached a successful conclusion. "You came up from Saxons territory?"
Trip's heart dropped to his feet. "Yeah?" The bastards probably put a hit on him, hoping to get a better cut of the protection deal. That was their style.
"You hear anything odd about their Prez?" The icy blue stare pinned him.
"Odd? How so?" Trip debated how much to tell the other President. The information could have value in the right hands. Maddox was a close ally though, and they tended to share info freely.
Seeming restless, Maddox picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. "He missed a meet with his parole officer and the excuse was that he's sick in bed. Makes me wonder if he didn't skip out. He's got a heavy stretch hanging over his head."
Trip snorted with laughter. "Yeah, sick in bed is one way to put it, I guess." He described Buffalo's injury. "My guess is he won't be out of bed any time soon, if ever. He didn't run, but he'll want to, if he ever wakes up to get a good look of the mess that's left of his dick."
Maddox winced at the details. "Shit. What'd he do to the chick?"
The question sobered Trip. "He raped her in the club room, like it was nothing more than a peck on the cheek." The memory pissed him off all over again. Why the fuck hadn't he stopped it? "It was bad, Maddox. We see a lot of bad shit in this world, but that was just about as nasty as it gets."
Pale eyebrows rose. "Fuck! Well, good for her then. We ain't all angels, but that kind of thing ain't good for a club. Sends the wrong message and next thing you know, some prospect is sticking it to an underage girl and getting hell rained down on everyone."
Trip nodded agreement. "You ever been to their compound?"
"Briefly, a few years ago. Why?" The other biker's sharp gaze missed nothing.
"This stays here, yeah?"
"Of course."
Trip took a deep breath and described what he'd seen at the Saxons compound, carefully watching the other man's expression all the while. Talking about it was a calculated risk. If the River Rogues President knew about, and didn't mind, whatever the Saxons did, he could alienate a powerful ally. Still, the chance for more information outweighed the risk.
Maddox's face hardened. "Slaves?"
"That's what she said." He watched carefully for any indication of the other man's thoughts. "And from what I saw, I don't doubt it. Something ain't right in that house, brother."
Maddox nodded. "That explains a few things. Over the last couple of years, I've heard rumors of girls disappearing who shouldn't have. You know, the kind with no risk factors. A few months ago, one of my boys came in talking about a new human trafficking operation he thought we should get into. I refused to even put it to a vote. Pussy trade is one thing, but that's a different critter."
Trip couldn't agree more. They talked a little more without finding a brilliant solution to the issue. Interfering with another club's business when it didn't cut into your own was frowned upon, for good reason. Motorcycle clubs were independent organizations by nature, no one seeking to thrust their version of morality on another.
Maddox finally stood, indicating the meeting was over, and Trip said his goodbyes and headed back downstairs to meet up with Stella so they could get back on the road.
***
The Death's Knights MC seemed like a throwback to the seventies. A small and deadly club, they used an actual house for the clubhouse. The rambling old Victorian had seen far better days, but it housed all the members and whichever females they chose to share their beds with. A dozen bikes sat on the rough lawn, along with one car.
Trip and Stella parked where they could get back on the road fast if the need arose, and walked up on the porch where another bike sat, the engine torn apart and tools strewn beside it. A woman answered their knock, signaling them to be quiet.
"Hanger around?" Trip let his gaze travel over the woman.
Maybe in her mid-twenties, she was a dead ringer for Cher back in the day. "Who's askin'?"
"None of your business. If he's up, he's expecting me. My Prez has been in touch." Some house bitch had no reason to ask his name. The urge to put her more firmly in her place hit hard, but Trip resisted. For all he knew, she could be someone important.
The woman smiled and long, straight black hair swung as she turned. "Hey, daddy, those boys you were expecting are here." She turned back to face them. "Come on in. He's in the kitchen." She walked away, hips swinging in a way that threatened to burn the place down and made his dick pay close attention.
Trip exchanged a glance with Stella, who shrugged, then followed her. Good thing he'd shut down the impulse to remind her whose world the MC was. Probably not a good idea to alienate the daughter of an allied Prez. Also probably not a great idea to ask if she belonged to anyone, or try to get in her pants. Still, he could look.
Inside, the Knights' house seemed mostly clean, although a layer of black grime surrounded the door the woman disappeared through. Decades of dirty greasy-covered hands touching the wall as they passed it had ground the filth in deep. The furnishings probably came from a second-hand place, but they weren't terrible.
Trip followed the dark hair and tempting hips through a narrow passage and into a big kitchen. Maybe tapping that would get the thoughts of Tanya out of his head, but he couldn't get up a lot of interest. Too much risk if her daddy didn't want his little girl playing with bikers.
The smell of cooking food permeated the room and the woman went immediately to the stove. She hummed a soft tune and returned to her cooking as if she had never been interrupted, acting oblivious to everythin
g around her.
Hanger, the man he'd come to see, sat at a scarred wooden table rolling smoke. "Trip, long time, man." His dark beard nearly hid the welcoming grin as he returned to shredding his weed.
"Yeah it has been." Since the other man made no move to rise, Trip dropped into a chair across from him and watched the woman as she went about cooking. "Kellen tell you I was coming?"
"Yeah, man, said you needed to touch base on a protection run." He shook his head a little. "I told him no need, but he said it wouldn't be right unless it was all official like."
Trip grinned. "Kellen's like that, wants all his Is dotted and Ts crossed."
The older man shook his head again, then licked the edge of the rolling paper and closed the ends off. "This new generation, man, I don't get it. Running MCs like a damn business. If I wanted to do shit that way, man, I'd get a fucking job." He turned to rolling another smoke.
Over his head, the woman glanced at Trip and gave her head a slight shake. In other words, humor him?
He could do that, he supposed. "Yeah, I know. All the clubs are into making money these days. Not like it used to be."
"Don't make no sense to me, man." Seeming satisfied with his work, Hanger offered a joint to Trip. "This is good shit, man, go ahead and light up."
Trip considered a moment. Maybe a good smoke would get the bullshit from the Saxons and Buffalo out of his damn head. And Tanya. He lit up, took a deep drag of the acrid smoke and held it, passing the joint over to Stella.
The weed's pleasant calm washed over him and he relaxed back in his chair. Hanger chatted on about how times had changed, nostalgic for the good ol' days when outlaw MC was all about fucking, fighting and drugs. At the moment, Trip didn't give a fuck. Nothing mattered but getting rid of the tension from the fucked up shit with Tanya and the Saxons. Gradually, the buzz pushed it away.