Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
The other Riders, though…they ought to be looking at me like the Bedlam Butchers did. Because Crash wasn’t in our club, but he’d been my brother in the Marines, another man I’d sworn loyalty to. And I betrayed that loyalty, that trust. A fucker who does that doesn’t deserve to wear a kutte.
The Riders are better off without me. But I need them to finish this shit. So here I fucking am.
The ranch sits about a mile off the main road. Dead grass blankets empty fields until a cluster of pines appears up ahead. The old lodge near that grove serves as the Riders’ clubhouse. A string of what used to be guest cabins were built farther back. Cherry’s stowed away in the last of them.
My gut clenches with the urge to head straight there, my cock stiffening as I imagine sinking into that hot and ready pussy. I barely touched her the other night and she got so damn wet. If it was arguing with me that had her dripping…fuck knows, I’ll push her into fighting me again.
Maybe fighting me while I’m inside her. Staring up at me with that defiant lift of her chin, rage burning in her eyes, her tits bouncing as I pound my thick cock into that drenched little slit. Fighting, her pussy tightening up with every rough stroke, until she comes and her hot little cunt sucks me off like her mouth did.
I’m about to go off right now, just picturing it. The hard spike of my erection threatens to rip through my jeans.
But business first. And paying respects that ought to be paid. Red’s buried not too far from here.
I park my ride in the clubhouse’s lot. This early on a Sunday, not too many brothers are here yet. There’s the prez’s bike and Blowback’s. I expected them. A few others who are likely sleeping off whatever they were up to last night, a couple more on watch and serving as the clubhouse’s security. Then Duke’s and Bull’s bikes—because they’re always the ones on babysitting duty, watching over whoever we’ve got in the cabins.
Usually we’re providing protection, and that’s how the club makes most of its money. We could have gone the way of other outlaw clubs, running drugs or weapons or girls, but none of us have a real high opinion of fuckers who do that. Luckily, there’s enough fuckers who do it—and enough bastards who run afoul of those fuckers and need protection from them—that we pull in a good sum. Usually the people we protect are pure garbage, but their cash smells the same as everyone else’s.
It’s not real often that we hold someone in the cabins to get information. The more expedient route is a sledgehammer.
But Cherry’ll be screaming for another reason.
I head into the clubhouse. Bottlecap’s standing at the door—prospects always get shit duties until they’re patched in as members. Duties that include fetching whatever a patchholder orders them to fetch.
I bump the fist he raises in greeting. “Did you pick up the shit I told you to get?”
“Food is in the kitchen just waiting to be warmed up, the other stuff is in a sack behind the bar,” he says. “I had to hide them, or they might not have gotten to you still in their shiny packaging.”
Because it looks like there was an orgy in here last night. Most of the owners of the bikes outside are sprawled half naked over the leather couches, legs and arms tangled up with miles of smooth skin belonging to club pussy.
Maybe celebrating the raid on the stables. Maybe just for the hell of it. Don’t fucking know, don’t fucking care.
Once upon a time, I might have been tangled up, too. Or might have responded to the texts I’ve received since I got my phone back, instead of deleting the messages and blocking the senders.
Hooking up used to be real damn easy. But I can’t stand the thought of touching anyone now. Or the thought of anyone touching me. Not when I know they wouldn’t really see what they’d be touching.
Cherry sees it.
She knows real well what’s inside me now. And what isn’t inside me now. Because she’s willing to pay for the part that she helped tear out.
But I still won’t let her touch me. Because I know what happens then. That sweetness, that softness starts filling me up. The pain starts easing.
And what would be left without the pain, the rot? Just emptiness. Just the numbness I can already feel moving in. If that fills me up, I won’t give a fuck if I ever get to Papa. Won’t give a fuck about anything.
So I’ll be touching her, fucking her. But she won’t be touching me.
I take the stairs two at a time up to the second level. The main floor is the heart of the clubhouse, but executive meetings and the prez’s office are upstairs. The door’s open. Blowback’s inside with Saxon, who’s standing at the window, looking out over the trees. Despite the chair behind his desk, Saxon doesn’t spend much time relaxing on his ass.