by Mackenzy Fox
I turn the taps to full blast; the hot water feels good on my skin as I climb over the tub and get under the hot spray to wash the day away. I have no use for the actual tub itself since I don’t fit in it horizontally.
My mind wanders to Sienna. When I’d first seen her in action at the Stone Crow a couple of nights ago, she was completely unaware of my existence. There’s no mistaking she’s drop dead gorgeous, I had eyes. That night she’d had on a black body suit that made her tits look big, but her ass was small and petite, and didn’t every guy in that place know it. I’d certainly paid attention. She didn’t make much small talk with the punters, just did her job, kept to herself, and smiled when necessary. The tip jar, I’d noticed, was overflowing with cash.
My hand slides to my dick, imagining her and that smart little mouth, and what it would be like to be with her gets me going. I get hard just thinking about it. Shit, am I really going to jerk off to this chick? What the hell’s gotten into me?
Well, it has been a while, so who can blame me. The old has-beens around the club are getting a little tiresome, and doing club sisters ---the respectable girls of the M.C.--- is something you don’t do unless you plan on making her an ol’ lady. Plus, half the girls are either siblings of club members, daughters, wives, or just girls I don’t want to have hanging around. And I don’t do relationships. Haven’t done one in a long time. I like things uncomplicated and I like my space, and where women are concerned that means complications. You have to be careful even with sweet butts, they hang around the club primarily for sex but they are known to get too clingy given half a chance.
There’s something different about Sienna, though, and not just because she’s new in town and looks as sweet as pie. It’s true; good girls like her don’t fall for bad boys in an M.C. Not that I’d ever want that to happen, but I’d like to take her for a ride, and not on my sled. Hell, it could be quite convenient, after closing hours on the bar for example. I imagine her legs wrapped around me as I do her and she tells me she wants more... Hell fire. I have to stop thinking like this; it’s never going to happen. Especially not after she sees the counter Hutch scribbled over the original offer.
She’s probably going to throw daggers at me, literally, I guess I’ll know in about an hours’ time. My gut feeling, which is rarely ever wrong, tells me she’s going to be a bit of a spitfire, like, seriously pissed. I stop rubbing myself; this won’t do. I shut the water off abruptly before I can finish.
I glance down as I step out over the tub; Lola has made herself at home on the bathmat waiting for me. I bend and pat her head as I step over her and reach for a towel.
“Dad’s got to go out for a while,” I say. She looks up at me, then puts her head back down almost immediately. She’s used to my comings and goings; she doesn’t care as long as I come home.
I’m the Sergeant at Arms, the protector and enforcer of the club and all its members, including the girls and the lowlife prospects. I also oversee the security of “Church”, our clubhouse headquarters. There’s no room for weakness. Weakness only makes you vulnerable, and that’s something I can’t allow. So, no matter how this turns out, I have my role to play, we all do, and I know how to do it and do it well.
I get dressed swiftly in a fresh pair of jeans, my black henley, boots, and my cut. I throw on a bandana too, to keep my hair back, and slide out of my apartment in record time with my Harley keys in my hand. Lola has moved again and is already asleep on her bed on the floor next to mine, snoring. It's the last sound I hear before locking the door behind me and tucking the papers into my inside pocket. I hope that Sienna isn’t wearing anything even remotely sexy tonight, although she’d look good in a paper bag.
Thank god Gunner won’t be there. He may be horny, but he isn’t going to go against Hutch’s wishes. No woman is ever more important than the club, and even though he often acts like a fool, he knows the deal. He just enjoys the chase. I’m too old for it, or I can’t be bothered ...maybe a little of both.
Fuck. I have to stop these wayward thoughts about screwing around with her and keep my mind on the job.
Not that the job is going to take very long once she takes a look at the contract. I chuckle low to myself. I really hope she gets fucking mad. I bet she turns a beautiful shade of crimson when she’s pissed. I can see it now, and while it is a tad misogynistic, I can afford the luxury of being a complete asshole. It’s what’s expected, and it’s a role I play really well and have for years.
I leave the lights on in the workshop for later and start my engine as the roller door slides up. My sled roars to life and I rev it up, the straight pipes sending out rumbling into the night like I own the world. And I do when I’m on her, cruising to wherever it is I’m going. It’s magic time. Nothing compares to it.
I pull on my helmet, and a few moments later I rev again before roaring off into the night like a bat out of hell, leaving a trail of dust in my wake.
4
Sienna
Weekends at the Stone Crow are next level crazy. There’s live music tonight, and the bar is jam packed. I like being busy, though, so I don’t mind. It takes my mind off today’s proceedings and the way asshole club President Richie Hutchinson had just dismissed me like some dumb bimbo who was beneath him.
Women don’t make important decisions around here. Who the heck did he think he was? Like seriously. So archaic. They probably thought I’d just sign the papers then and there and scuttle out of town with my tail between my legs. Well, I didn’t come all the way to this godforsaken place to be run out of town before I’ve even sorted out any of Max’s shit.
When we’ve reached some kind of agreement and negotiation Steel will deliver the counteroffer and our terms in person. Pass me a bucket. I want to choke him with his stupid bandana.
Cocky sons of bitches.
As annoyed as I am, I keep the drinks flowing and try not to take it out on the customers. It isn’t their fault I’m pissed off. Goddamn bikers. Why was Max doing business with these guys in the first place?
It’s somewhere between that unpleasant thought and stuffing another tip into my jar that I meet eyes with someone that shouldn’t be so familiar.
No, I definitely could never mistake eyes like that, as if his towering, overbearing presence isn’t enough.
Steel.
The big, brooding man at arms or whatever he’s called is leaning against the end of the bar like he owns the joint. He’s kind of hard to miss, and he frowns when I catch his eye. I take a few moments to observe him from afar as I keep serving.
He’s huge, tall in stature and in bulk. His arms bulge as he leans against the top of the bar, and he’s wearing the same leather vest as earlier. It has dirty patches on it that are filthy and worn.
He’s a handsome devil, even I can admit that. I don’t even mind the beard; it’s short and neat. I didn’t think I even liked facial hair on a man until this very moment. His hair is long too, something I didn’t notice earlier because it was slung back in a messy kind of man-bun. The black bandana around his forehead makes him look badass. You definitely wouldn’t mess with him in a dark alley... or anywhere else for that matter.
I don’t miss the subtle chin lift he gives me when I finally work my way towards him. Ignoring him would’ve only proven futile because he has something I need, that contract.
“What’ll it be?” I say, sashaying up to him. He’d have to be a good lip reader, though, because it’s almost impossible to hear me above the pounding music. I’m only five-four, so stepping up on the bottom rail and leaning toward people so I can hear them is something I’ve perfected. I bet he’s a whiskey or Corona type of guy; you can tell.
I’m standing waiting for an answer when he beckons me with the crook of his finger. Something about the gesture lurches in my stomach, and if I’m honest… somewhere else. I have no idea what that’s all about, but it feels kind of foreign. It’s been a while since someone gave me butterflies. I roll my eyes, step up, and lean toward h
im.
Even though it smells like a brewery in here, along with the sweat of about two hundred people, I can’t mistake his aftershave. He smells freaking amazing: a mixture of cigarettes, soap, and something dark and musky. Again, I chastise myself for noticing.
“Corona,” he mouths in a gravelly voice near my ear.
I resist another eye roll. My body betrays me though, and I feel goosebumps rise on my skin at the masculine tone of his voice. Thank god I have the bar to hang on to. His voice is sexy, like him and his damn aftershave, but that’s where the niceties end.
I don’t know what I ever did to him in a former life to piss him off, but he doesn’t smile and he definitely doesn’t look impressed.
Sorry that I’m breathing the same air as you, you big ass biker. Can’t exactly help that.
His eyes don’t leave me, though, as I turn to the cooler and grab a Corona by the neck, knock the lid off noisily, grab the metal tongs, and shove a wedge of lemon down into the bottle with force, making a big song and dance about the whole production. I slide it on the bar, and it skids across towards him. Not my finest hour, but I’m annoyed by him and his stupid club.
He shoves five dollars at me, sits down on a stool, and tells me to keep the change. Big spender. Then he takes a long swig with his eyes still on me. He looks a little dangerous, in fact, I think he hates me.
I serve a few more people, but since it’s almost 10pm and I haven’t had my break yet, I ask Leroy, one of the regular bartenders, if I can step out for a dinner break. I need to get this over with. I make my way back down toward Steel. He takes brooding biker to a whole new level.
“Do you have the papers?” I yell over the music. My hands automatically rest on my hips.
His eyes make their way slowly, very deliberately, down my body as I stand in front of him, and they stop at my hips where my hands are planted. It’s hard to understand if he likes what he sees because he clearly gives nothing away. Then again, why would I care?
His chin lifts once, like that’s an answer, then he nods his head behind him. I assume that’s caveman talk for “this way.”
I lift the side latch on the bar and move into the patrons’ side, a very scary place to be on a packed Saturday night, and an even scarier place to be when I crane my neck to look up at him. I lead the way through the crowd to the adjoining restaurant; they aren’t serving food anymore, but the waitresses are still cleaning up. We can talk in private here without having to bellow.
I slide into one of the booths, and he scoots into the seat opposite me.
Jesus Christ, he’s cute up close, and very large; he barely fits onto the seat and doesn’t look comfortable. If your face met with his fist, I know without a doubt you’d be dead. I notice chunky metal rings on most of his fingers, which also have tattoos on them. He’s still holding the beer bottle as he reaches his other hand into the pocket inside his jacket.
My eyes drift south; he’s wearing a chain around his neck with some embellishment, but it’s tucked into his shirt. His henley hugs every muscle on his very fine body; that’s a sight to behold. I curse myself for being attracted to him. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but he’s making me equally aroused and nervous all at the same time. I blame the close proximity and the fact that he’s a biker and this is a little thrilling, the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in months.
Not. Going. To. Happen. Ever.
I need to keep telling myself that. Maybe I’ve finally lost my marbles? Yes, that definitely explains it.
I’ve been nothing but perfectly polite to him, yet he continues to act like I’ve done him a disservice by even existing. Like don’t smile or anything, it may kill you.
“So?” I blurt out, impatiently rapping my nails on the table. It feels like he might even be enjoying dragging this out. He’s the club’s “enforcer,” right? So he obviously likes punishment. He probably gets off on it.
We glare at each other as he shifts in his seat. He takes another long sip of his beer, as if he has all the time in the world, which just makes me all the more furious.
“So?” He hits back, mocking me. He's got a death grip on the papers, so there’s no way I’m going to wrestle him for them.
I nod to his hand and lean forward. “What you got for me?”
He cocks an eyebrow, and I can’t control feeling it somewhere I shouldn’t. The man is the epitome of gorgeous, but he’s dangerous. I just can’t help the fact that my pulse is racing, betraying me. His eyes look green now, instead of the gray from earlier, which is not something I should be noticing. It’s flat out wrong.
A biker, I remind myself. A dirty, lowdown biker. He’s probably a criminal.
I let out a slow breath, hoping counting to ten will keep me from flipping out. I’m not exactly known for my patience, but in this moment, he’s becoming quite intimidating, even though he’s just sitting there holding the papers and saying nothing. He’s probably enjoying this, the sadistic son of a bitch.
“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t lean forward like that.” His voice is deep and gravely. It’s the first time I’ve heard him address me properly, you know, like a human being, and it’s a proper sentence, so he isn’t a mute like I first thought.
There I go again. I’m like a freaking White Snake song on repeat.
When I open my mouth to respond, his eyes drop to my lips, and even though his expression doesn’t change, something in his eyes does. As I try to figure that out for a moment, I have a realization that he might be right; I suddenly glance down at myself and realize what he’s referring to. My v neck tank top is gaping open at the front, and he’s getting a good ol’ eyeful of my cleavage. Well, good for him. I hope he has a good memory because a glimpse is all he’ll ever be getting.
“Dinner and a show,” he smirks as the corners of his lips turn up slightly like he’s fighting a smile, obviously enjoying my discomfort a little too much. Asshole.
Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction of being embarrassed. I grasp the fabric of my shirt, shove it to my chest, and sit back in my seat, heat rising in my face.
“Nice of you to notice,” I shoot back. “Can I have the counteroffer please? This isn’t an all-night break. I have to get back to work.”
I have to hand it to him, he has it under control. I imagine he's the type to interrogate someone just using the right stare, frightening them into submission without any words needed, but I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I’m in a public place and I have every right to tell him to go shove it up his ass or anywhere else for that matter.
“Is this a Sergeant at Arms thing?” I snort, remembering his “title” just as he’s about to flip me the papers. A puzzled look comes over his face as he leans closer to me across the table. His forearms bulge, and I instinctively move back further, even though I have nowhere to go.
“Is what a Sergeant at Arms thing?” He replies in a low voice.
I whirl my hand around in front of me, gesturing between us. “The death glare, three-word answers, and keeping me in suspense this whole time when you could just tell me what’s going on and put me out of my misery.”
He grunts. Great, he’s a caveman too. “Yeah, Sweetheart, you have me all figured out.”
The way “Sweetheart” rolls off his tongue shouldn’t sound that good.
No. It. Should. Not.
Even though I know he said it with complete sarcasm, I’m now thinking about his mouth again. I’m obviously deprived; there’s no other explanation for it. It's been a year since I’ve been with anybody, but I’ve never been the type of girl to do hook-ups. After my last asshole boyfriend, I sort of swore off men forever. I don’t know why this hairy, hot biker is doing things to me, because that isn’t normal.
“Whatever,” I huff. Then he lets go of the papers, and I swiftly grab them, flipping the pages till I get to the dotted line where the offer is neatly typed, or should I say was. It’s now crossed out with an angry slash and a new figure is scribbled over i
t.
I glance at it, blink, then bring the papers closer to my eyes like I’m perhaps seeing things... or rather, not seeing things.
“There seem to be some zeros missing off this,” I say unsteadily. My eyes slide to Steel’s, then back to the paper in front of me, then back to Steel’s again. My confusion and impending mood swing to violence isn’t just palpable; it's volcanic. “I mean, this is some kind of joke, isn’t it?”
He sits back, his hands clasped together now on the table.
“I’m just the messenger,” he informs me, ever so coolly. “Just doin’ my job.”
I make a loud scoffing noise in the back of my throat.
“Right. The beef, the muscle, the brawn, right? That’s why he sent you. To intimidate me. Is this how your club normally does things?” I can’t hold back the snark in my tone. “I’m surprised you haven’t come to give me my last rites if I don’t comply. Is that what you bikers get off on? Scaring people?”
He gives me a long, cold glare. “Do you find me intimidating?” He replies eventually, one eyebrow raised.
I feel the pounding of blood in my ears, and that isn’t good. “Not at all, actually.” I lie.
He grunts again.
“So, this really isn’t a joke?” I stammer, just to clarify. “You actually expect me to sign this?”
He takes another long swig of beer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Sweetheart, we both know I didn’t come all the way here tonight for a joke. I’m sensing from your response that you’re not happy with the counter?”
He’s gonna get a flipping response alright, when I beat him over the head with the contract and anything else I can use as a weapon.
He steadies me with a level gaze.
I gape at him, realizing this is not a sick joke after all; it’s all very real. “You’re all completely out of your minds if you think I’m agreeing to this ridiculous, no, downright insulting, lousy, lame ass offer!”
He doesn’t seem shocked by my outburst, far from it. But who am I kidding? He’s heard way worse than my ridiculous taunts. He might even be enjoying my outrage. Some guys like that kind of thing.