by Evelyn Glass
“Cobra says this is gonna be a good one,” Kitka explains. “The guy fighting for the Wilderkind is like a semi-pro or something. He fought when he wasn’t in the club for some boxing ring. But that rarely transfers to bare knuckle. The guy’s going down in two rounds, for sure.”
“Two rounds?” Mary shouts, “No way! Look at that guy—he’s a freaking beast! That’s why they call him Bear.” She points out the man leading a crowd of Wilderkind members towards the center of the drawn-up ring. He stands about three to six inches taller than the rest and is covered in black tattoos that I can make out from here. His thick, curly brown hair bounces as he moves stealthily through the crowd of men patting his back and giving him high-fives.
I scoot myself over a bit to watch him a minute more. The rest of the girls turn their attention to our fighter, a guy Cobra picked out himself to rough the guy up and bring home a victory for the Filthy Bastards. But I’m transfixed on the Wilderkind guy. I’ve seen my fair share of riders and MC members, but none like him. In my hazy, rapidly turning mind, I imagine him lifting me on his shoulders and riding off with me to some forbidden lair out in the middle of the wilderness. Standing on my knees, I take another long drink of the burning liquid. My tongue traces over the rivets of the bottle top as I try to think of what a man like that even tastes like…
And just when I think I see him turn his head toward me and smile, I get pulled back down to the group by Kitka’s claws. “What the fuck, Sunny? Are you really giving that guy your attention? You know who the hell you’re representing, right?”
I hand her back the bottle, my arm swooshing heavily and without much control towards her. “I know. I know. I was just… looking. No harm in looking at the competition.”
“That’s not the kind of looking you should be doing to a guy like that, and you know it,” Larissa adds. She always has to be a freaking square about this shit.
“Girls, girls, please. Let the lady have some fun. That guy is fine as hell, and we all know it. There is no shame in looking every now and then. And it’s not like Sunny’s got a guy claiming her. She’s a free agent,” Mary says.
All our eyes turn back to the fighter called Bear. This time, he’s clearly looking up at me. My face turns beet red, the kind of red you can’t conceal when you’ve got skin the color of milk.
“If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll close her legs and her eyes and pay attention to what’s going on,” Kitka says, with a sneer.
My haunches raise. I don’t need to be told what to do. I’m a fucking Filthy Bastards’ girl. I took my oath and my pledge to serve the club. I pay my dues and work my shifts. And just because I had a momentary eye-fling with some guy from another club, it doesn’t give her any right to badger me about my loyalty!
But, of course, Kitka’s gotta play Queen Bee and add another nail to the coffin. “Plus, there’s no way in hell that Sunny would ever land a guy like him.”
“Excuse me!” I say as I turn my head towards her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying that I’m not hot enough to bed him?”
She smiles one of those toothy grins that makes me want to punch her in the mouth and then sighs with fake concern. “No, no, Sunny. That’s not what I mean at all… I am simply saying that no guy from the Wilderkind could ever want a girl with a brand from the Filthy Bastards.”
Sure, Kitka. Sure. Every single girl knows what she meant. The Wicked Stepmother of the club clearly dissed my look and my ability to land a guy. I don’t know if it’s the drink running in me or the fact that down in that circle, a guy named Bear is still checking me out. I give him once last glance, this time fully putting on the flirty stops. My head turns towards my shoulder, my long, blonde hair flies backward, and my mouth curves. And to my surprise, the guy winks at me. He actually winks! It’s barely noticeable from where we’re sitting, but I know exactly what he just did, and it practically makes my insides squeal.
I grab the bottle of Jack back from Kitka and use a big drink of it to clear my throat. When the liquid courage is fully flowing through me, I’m ready to lay it on this arrogant little bitch.
“You want to make this interesting, Kitka? You want to actually challenge me on this?”
She laughs as she asks, “On what, Sunny?”
“On if I can get that guy to sleep with me,” I reply. Kitka pauses and looks me over. Her face transforms from that plastic fakeness to something more cold and terrifying. This was the real Kitka I knew.
“Okay, Sunny. You go ahead. Try to sleep with him. I’ll even be nice and give you twenty-four hours to lock it down. But I’m not going to take your word for it or any of these hoes. You better come back with something.”
“Like a prize!” Mary shouts as she claps her hands in excitement.
Both Kitka and I turn our heads towards her, beckoning her to shut the hell up and mind her own business.
I bite my lip and glare at Kitka again. “Oh, I’ll come back with something alright, and it won’t be just some hokey token to prove I bedded him. I’ll come home with something that’s really precious to him.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she throws back, clearly not banking on me bringing back a personal possession of Bear’s.
I take another drink, letting it wash over me. What’s done is done. And I just took on the bet of a lifetime.
“You heard me, Kitka. I’ll bring back something very precious to the guy, and then you can suck on it.”
“We’ll see,” she mutters.
“Yeah, we will. Then we’ll see who has more respect around here.” I keep glaring at her until she is forced to look away—towards where Cobra is prepping our fighter.
We all sit in stunned silence, but this time, I look on at Bear with a new, resounding determination. Kitka has pushed my buttons one too many times, and I am going to prove to her that I am worth my membership, even if it means sleeping with the enemy.
Chapter Two
Bear
Dammit! Where the fuck is that guy with my drink?
I’ve been out here for an hour now, waiting for the match to begin, and the least that little asshole could do is get my shot of whiskey like I asked him to. He’s taking too long. Everyone’s taking too long. I have no idea what the fucking holdup is, but things better get rolling soon, or I’m gonna get real damn antsy.
I do a quick scan of the crowd. It’s definitely gotten bigger while I’ve been here. These matches are always a draw, even if you aren’t a member of the clubs dueling it out. It reminds me a little of that Gladiator movie where all the outsiders come and watch men get slaughtered by lions or one another. They get their kicks from watching men better than them rip one another apart until they’re dead or unrecognizable.
My guy Cal told me not to take on the fight. There were guys way more experienced than me willing to duke it out. But shit if I was going to miss out on an opportunity to show my worth to the club. After ten years as a junior member of the Wilderkind, I have earned the right to wear colors and make some income off of my rides. Still, that’s not enough for me. I’ve got my eyes on the throne, and the only way I’m going to move up the ranks is to take on something huge like a fist-to-fist combat bout with an asshole Filthy Bastards member.
The other guys call me a beast—partially because my name is Bear, but also because I take the savage path to everything. I’d rather rip a guy a new one than talk it out. And I don’t back down from something that will get my hands dirty or wet and red.
It’s what got me in the club in the first place. I had been out of my house for a year or so. I lived on the streets doing odd jobs under the table for a few guys that owned a shady delivery service that was more focused on picking up than dropping off. I was given a job robbing this guy named Vance. Like usual, the owners gave me no info, just an address and what I was looking for—drugs, booze, and some jewelry. Nothing too special.
Getting into Vance’s place was relatively easy for a guy like me. Back then, I was about a hundred
and fifty pounds when wet. But I was quick and agile. All my lightweight boxing training had taught me how to use my lanky but tall body to get what I want. With Vance’s place, that meant just slipping in through one of those square pane windows most old school factories have. The place was dark enough that I could just jump down to the ground without alerting security, if he had any.
However, I made the stupid fucking mistake of picking the lock of Vance’s office without checking first. See, Vance knew a thing or two about break-ins. The guy is a freaking master at them. And while he didn’t have security guards roaming the place, he did have the highest tech security system I had ever seen. Just me entering the main entryway of his business tripped a million damn alarms that silently signaled to him. Knowing I was there, he turned off the lights, grabbed a shotgun, and waited for me in his office next to his safe.
He should have shot my damn head off. But, just my dumb luck, he didn’t. While he watched me rob his joint from his office, he saw something in me. At the time, he called it potential. I called it desperation. So, instead of killing me right then and there, he offered me a job with his club. It wasn’t much, but it got me some new clothes, a place to sleep, food and beer on the table, hot women to fuck, boxing lessons to beef me up, and a few bucks to call my own. In exchange, I worked odd jobs cleaning the bikes for the riders, learned the ropes on the whole dealer management, and even rode along to see how he did deals with the business owners in our neighborhood.
And now, I’m here. I’m still not running the club, but Vance asked me to fight tonight, and I wasn’t going to disappoint him. All those years of him watching my matches were probably done to prepare me for fights like this where it was crucial we win. Each one we took home meant another piece of territory we fought back from the Filthy Bastards MC without having to spill some blood… well, other people’s blood, mine not included.
I heard some guy on the radio say that adrenaline tastes metallic to the taste buds. It’s gotta be true because my entire mouth tastes like a motorcycle revving up to go. My hands contract and relax against the tight tape around my knuckles and wrists to the beat of the loud, rock music playing over someone’s speaker set. The rest of the crowd shouts over it as they make their bets.
This would fuck with any other guy’s head, but not with me. I’ve mastered the way to tune it all out and focus on the task in front of me. I single out something away from the action and put all my efforts into it. For whatever reason, it helps me shut off my mind and drift away just long enough that I can think clearer.
Tonight, I’m eyeing off one of the Filthy Bastard chicks sitting on the gravel hill of the overpass. There are about five or six of them that I can see. Some of them lay flat on a blanket, staring at the sky. The others talk amongst the others while passing around a bottle of something hard. But in the center of them is this girl—this girl with hair like a halo and eyes that strike me even from here. She stands out not only because she’s looking straight at me, but also because she’s like a pristine piece among dirt and grime.
One of the other girls hands her the bottle, and she drinks. No, that’s not accurate—she chugs that thing. My mouth waters seeing her lips around that bottle top. Fucking hell, was she doing this on purpose? She hasn’t broken her glare in minutes now. Those eyes are, unabashedly, stuck on me. Part of me wants to go over there, pick her up, and toss her over the side of the hill, so she stops with the whole Ice Queen thing. But the other side of me wants to see how far she’ll take this.
I give her a wink. Hell, I give her two winks just to be sure she sees it. Her fuchsia pink lips twitch slightly and then shoot up into a full-on smile. Her face turns the same color of the label on the bottle. A few moments later, something happens because the girls around her, they go fucking nuts. Each one of their heads turns towards her, and the one sitting next to her shifts uncomfortably in her spot. But her eyes never leave my side, even as I begin to walk towards the match ring.
“Hey, Bear!” a high-spirited voice greets me. “I brought you your shot. Aaron told me you wanted some whiskey. I made sure you had one.”
I grab the drink out of the girl’s hand. I’ve never seen this lady in my life, but she obviously knows who I am. All the Wilderkind chicks know who I am. I haven’t just built up a reputation with the men, but I’m also killing it with the girls. They all seem to want to fawn over me like I’m hot shit. But I ain’t buying it tonight.
This girl is relentless, though. She chases me down as I walk away from her towards a few of the guys I recognize as the match officials. “You haven’t heard, right? You look like you don’t know.”
“Know what?” I growl as I spin back at her. I don’t fuck around. You tell me what you want to tell me or you get the hell out of my way. Playing these games is just a bullshit waste of time that women do to get me by their side.
She cowers slightly and then fixes herself again. Her hands shift her dress neckline and smooth out the wrinkles. After a deep breath, she says, “They’re postponing it. Sounds like Vance is tied up at some business deal and can’t be here for a while. All the girls are going out to work the bar at Red’s truck. You wanna go get a drink or something?”
As soon as she explains what the hell is going on, a mass exodus towards the bikes and trucks happens. Everyone’s heading towards the free booze the clubs bring along to make this show worth the effort of attending. I mutter a “Thanks” to her under my breath and head towards the line of trucks opening up their beds to set up. The girls position themselves at the front with loads of red cups and beers in hand.
I don’t wait long before one of them approaches me. Daisy—I think it’s her name. She’s got a flower tattoo along her hips where she’s tucked a few sweating beers. “You want a drink, Bear? I’ll serve ya first since you’re getting in the ring soon.”
With a nod, I reach down towards her hips, my hands circling around her tiny waist before pulling out one of the brown bottles from her belt.
“Thanks, girl,” I say as I tip the beer towards her. She yanks out a bottle opener from her unbuttoned top and hands it to me. As I turn to crack the bottle open, I spot her. She’s even more killer than she was on the hill with that Barbie look on her. Her long, lean legs march in thick, black boots towards me, her smile cocked and loaded. I hand the beer back to Daisy and stride over to her.
We pause before each other, both taking a spot at the imaginary line that somewhat separates our clubs from mingling.
“I could use a drink, girl,” I say as I clear my throat. My low, rumbling voice must have taken her off guard because she takes a few, tiny steps backward on her heels. I’m pretty used to that reaction with women and pussy boys. They see this man about six-foot-four with muscles and tattoos running up his body and still think that I’m going to be this teddy bear of a guy. But I’m not. I’m exactly what you get from the outside looking in and in reverse.
The blonde mumbles a bit, but I make out her asking, “What’s your poison?”
“Whiskey. Beer. Bourbon. I don’t care. I’m thirsty.” She nods twice and then walks back towards where the other girls are tending to their Filthy Bastard clients. When she returns, she’s got three bottles in her hand—Jim Beam, Jack, and Bud. She holds each one up for me to choose, but I’m more interested in those perky tits she’s practically laying out on a platter for me. I can feel myself get hotter despite not having a shirt on.
“I’ll take the Jim Beam, lady,” I say as I reach over to her side of the overpass for the long, golden-colored bottle. She places the beer down and drinks straight from the Jack. Impressive. It’s not often you see a girl willing to get a little loose around the enemy.
When she’s finished, she carefully dots the drips of liquid from her lips, careful to avoid the lipstick, and says, “I’m not a ‘lady’ pal. My name is Sunny, Sunny Carter.”
“And I’m certainly not your pal.”
“No, I guess not, all things considered. You’re Bear.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “They do call me that.”
“Is it your real name or some biker name you got?”
“It’s my real name now,” I shoot back. I hate it when girls try to sneak in the personal questions. Shouldn’t she know by now that this is not how it works? Still, I’ve gotta ask her.
“Is Sunny your real name?”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” She makes a face that looks as if she’s bitten into a lemon—pouty lips and all. “My momma was a little optimistic giving it to me.”
“Well, Sunny, how long have you been with the Filthy Bastards? I’ve never seen you around these fights before.”
She shifts her weight from side to side as she looks away at the group of girls staring at her like she’s about to melt or something. “Uh, it’s been a couple of years now. They took me in when I was a teen and old enough to get out of my house. But I’ve been around. It’s a rule that we go to these things.”
I can sense the hesitation in her voice, and I want to know more. “‘These things?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re not a fan of the fighting?”