Thug Page 7

  It was apparent the screaming didn’t rid me of all my anger.

  One step inside the door, Price stood, motionless. His right hand was hidden behind his back and his left dangled at his side.

  I took a step away from the bar and waited for the backlash.

  He sauntered to the bar and sat down in front of me. Methodically, he opened his wallet, removed a plastic toothpick, and commenced to pick his teeth. Once satisfied, he placed the pick in his wallet and folded it closed.

  He pushed it to the side and rested his forearms on the edge of the bar. “You didn’t ‘let me’ fuck you.” He looked me right in the eyes. “I ‘took’ that pussy.”

  “Took it?” I laughed. “I was unwilling?”

  His eyes thinned. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Unprepared?” I leaned away. “Unknowing?” I forced out another laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you convince yourself that you’re a man. Truth be known, I shamed you into fucking me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Shamed you.” I took a step toward the bar’s edge. “Tricked you. Duped you. Whatever you want to call it. I got what I wanted, that’s all that matters.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at me. “You’re saying you coerced me?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a nod. “That’s a good choice. Coerced. I like that one.”

  His gaze dropped to the bar. After a short pause, he looked up. He swept his hair away from his face with both hands, looking at me the entire while.

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “No one has ever tricked me into doing anything.”

  I expected my little episode to provoke his violent side. He was much more composed than I expected. While he sat there wearing a smug look, I realized the only thing keeping him from retaliating was his level of confidence.

  He was so damned self-confident he felt no need argue.

  With each tick of the second hand from the Budweiser clock on the wall behind me, he grew a little sexier.

  I wanted to make him mad enough to teach me a lesson. To have him bend me over his knee and spank my ass. If he fucked me senseless it would be better. I doubted I could lure him into the same trap twice, but it was worth a try.

  “No one’s ever tricked you into doing anything, huh?” I cocked my hip. “Well, I sure did.”

  “Is that standard operating procedure for you?” He gave me a quick once-over. “Tricking guys into fucking you?”

  It wasn’t, but I wanted him to think I got one over on him. “Just the easy ones,” I said. “I make the tough ones chase me.”

  He gave me a side-eyed look. “I bet your daddy’s proud of you.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked. “Not a daddy’s girl?”

  “My business is none of his,” I said.

  “You just like tricking bikers into fucking you so you can get back at him for holding you under his thumb in your youth? What, was he a preacher?”

  I sighed. “A biker.”

  He seemed surprised. “Oh, really?”

  “Really.”

  “You hate him for it?”

  I didn’t want to tell him the entire truth about my father, so I minimized it to a simple but truthful statement. “We have our differences.”

  “Don’t like the biker way of living life?”

  I took exception to his comment. I crossed my arms and gave him a look. “Actually, I love it.”

  “What do you love about it?”

  I didn’t know where to start or how much I should say. I decided to just wing it and hope that something I said impressed him. I wanted him to trust me and I knew from experience that was going to be the toughest thing to get him to do.

  “The close-knit relationships that are developed,” I said. “That it’s all for one and one for all. That there isn’t a bunch of finger-pointing and drama like there is everywhere else. That you can rest assured that no matter what kind of shit goes down, that one of your brothers isn’t going to give you up to the cops.”

  He seemed shocked at my little speech. “Why wouldn’t they give you up?”

  “Snitches get stitches,” I said.

  He blurted a laugh. “Do they?”

  “I’d rather eat crumbs with bums than have steaks with snakes,” I said, reciting one of the may phrases I’d heard my father say over the years.

  He studied me for a moment. His intensity was undeniable. With nothing more than a simple look, he could cause a woman’s panties to melt, a man to cower, or an opponent to reconsider his thoughts.

  His look softened. “Let’s call a truce.”

  “A what?”

  “A truce,” he said. “An agreement that the two of us stop—”

  I glared. “I know what a truce is.”

  “It sure didn’t sound like it.”

  I crossed my arms. “Well, I do.”

  He gestured toward my chest with a nod. “Show me your tits.”

  A random request to see my tits. I looked at him like he was crazy. “Excuse me?”

  “Your tits,” he said, meeting my gaze. “Get ‘em out.”

  It may have been out of place, and random as hell, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. “I don’t think so,” I muttered.

  He wagged his index finger at me. “Lift up your shirt.”

  I wanted to, but I needed to be in charge of such situations. “No.”

  His look hardened. He lowered himself from the barstool and walked around the edge of the bar. In three steps he was behind me, reaching for the hem of my shirt.

  I could have done a lot of things. Taken a step to the side and faced him with my arms crossed. Demanded that he return to the “customers’ side of the bar. Scream.

  Dial 9-1-1.

  Instead, I lifted my arms, making the task easier for him.

  Standing behind me, he lifted my shirt over my head. It landed on the edge of the bar. He fumbled with the clasp of my bra, but only for an instant. His fingertips traced over my shoulders and along the sides of my arms, taking the straps of my bra with them.

  Wearing nothing but sneakers and a pair of cut-off jean shorts, I felt naked and exposed.

  His hands cupped by breasts.

  I closed my eyes.

  His warm breath bombarded the side of my neck. I twisted and turned my hips in response, aching for him to continue. He granted my wish by rolling my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers while eagerly caressing the flesh of my breasts with his palms.

  His stiff cock grazed against my ass. He squeezed my breasts firmly and grinded himself against me. I welcomed the ache of the sexual agony, writhing in perfect timing to the movement of his hips.

  Although there were countless reasons for me not to, I wanted him desperately. I ached for him since the night he first fucked me.

  I could feel my heart beating between my legs. On the verge of a carnal meltdown, I lowered my hands and unbuttoned my shorts. I had to feel him inside me again. Have him pound his pain, his frustrations, and his confidence into me one inch at a time, until I collapsed at his feet.

  He released my breasts and took a step back.

  I drew a choppy breath, opened my eyes, and turned around.

  Much to my surprise. Price McNealy was taking long strides toward the door.

  “Where…” I swallowed heavily. “Where are you going?”

  He paused and faced me. “There’s one person in charge here,” he said. “I’ve got news for you, Gray. It isn’t you.”

  With aching nipples, a throbbing pussy, and a mind I doubted would ever stop desiring him, I watched as he disappeared through the front door and into the night.

  8

  Price

  For several years, the club had less than ten members. I doubted that we’d ever grow large enough to become noticed in the world of one-percenters. Then, without an identifiable reason, we surged to more than thirty members and continued to grow at a
record pace.

  I’d never cared much for speaking to anyone, let alone large groups. Despite my shortcomings, I had to address the entire club once a week. If I failed to do so—and do it well—the men wouldn’t respect me.

  I didn’t care if they liked me. For the club to succeed, however, they had to respect me.

  While I finished my speech, Panzer was telling his prospect a story. I drew a breath of frustration and cleared my throat. “So,” I said, twice as loud as I needed to. “Lackey and I will be gone from Sunday until Thursday night, late. I think the plane gets in at eleven o’ clock.”

  “11:12,” Lackey said.

  “This ongoing tension with the Angels has been a thorn in our sides way too long,” I said. “Hopefully the Bandidos will back us if it becomes an issue. They’re about as fond of the red and white as we are.”

  I scanned the crowd. Panzer was still talking. I glanced at my watch, taking enough of a pause that every man in attendance noticed what I was doing. I counted off five seconds and then looked up.

  I shot Panzer a glare. “If you’re talking in that prospect’s ear while I’m trying to speak, how in the fuck is he supposed to hear what I’m saying?”

  “I was just telling him about the Stallions,” Panzer said. “I’m done. Continue.”

  Our club meetings were what I liked to call “stand up meetings”. I stood by the center overhead door and spoke to the group. Facing me, the men stood and listened. Many offered insight, and we often voted on matters that required the club’s endorsement. I believed a man who was standing listened much better than one who was sitting. Unless, of course, someone else was talking to him while I was speaking.

  “I don’t need to continue. I just finished what I was talking about.” I lifted my chin slightly. “What’s your name, prospect?”

  Thirty feet from me in the far-left corner of the garage, the prospect cleared his throat. “Jordan. My name’s Jordan.”

  “Your road name, prospect.” I pulled my hair away from my face and took a few steps in his direction. “I don’t give a damn what your given name is. What’s your fucking road name?”

  “Jordan,” he responded.

  It wasn’t much of a road name. His given name must have been something like Flash, Butterbean, or Zero. Although I didn’t give a fuck ten seconds earlier, my curiosity was killing me.

  “What’s your given name?” I shouted.

  “Peter.”

  Both names were awful. I laughed to myself as I continued to thread my way through the crowd. “Who the fuck named you Jordan?”

  “Lackey and me,” Panzer said. “Thought it was funny.”

  “What’s funny about it?

  “His girlfriend’s name’s Jordan. Sounded like a dude’s name to me, so I decided to name him Jordan. Pisses him off when we call him that, so it’s perfect if you ask me.”

  I paused when I was within arm’s reach of the two men. I gave Panzer a nod of approval. “Agreed.” I looked at the prospect. “What did I just say, prospect?”

  “Who the fuck named you Jordan?” he asked sheepishly.

  “Before that,” I said. “When Panzer was nibbling on your ear.”

  “You said Lackey complained that we were short on dues, and dues are supposed to be paid quarterly, no later than the first Friday of the month, which is tonight. The dates are posted on the garage wall.” He gestured behind him. “Over there.”

  “After that,” I said. “What did I say after that?”

  He stared blankly.

  “You didn’t hear what I said after that, did you?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “I’m not a sir, Prospect. My name’s Price. Not Prez, not Mister President, and definitely not Sir.”

  He nodded. “Okay, Price.”

  “Do you know why you have no idea what I said after I discussed paying dues?”

  A look of embarrassment washed over him. “Because I was listening to Panzer?”

  It wasn’t my sole intention to make him look like a fool, or to embarrass him. I hoped to stress the importance of paying attention, recognizing the club’s pecking order, and, of being respectful. Panzer was typically very considerate. Like everyone, at some point in time he needed a friendly reminder. The prospect, however, needed to be taught the basics of being respectful.

  “You are correct,” I said. “You were listening to Panzer, which made listening to me a difficult—if even possible—task.”

  I wagged my index finger between Panzer and me. “If the two of us are speaking during a club meeting, which one of us do you think you should listen to?”

  He was a lanky kid with a mess of curly brown hair and a farmer’s tan. Despite being roughly twenty years old, the skin on the back of his neck was wrinkled from working in the sun. Based on tan and his muscle structure, I guessed he worked on a concrete crew.

  I locked eyes with him and waited for him to respond.

  His Adam’s apple rose and then fell. “I should listen to you, Price.”

  “When we’re out on a ride or in the bar, listen to whoever the fuck you want. In here, I strongly suggest you listen to me,” I said. “If you want to become patched, that is.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m just like you, prospect,” I said, softening my look a little. “I don’t like being here. It’s Friday night, for fuck’s sake. I don’t like it any more than anyone else that we meet on Fridays. So, I try to keep the meetings short, and to the point. When you’re listening to Panzer instead of listening to me, I’ve got to repeat myself. Repeating myself takes twice as long as saying what I had to say the first time around. Make sense?”

  He nodded. “It does.”

  “Lastly, and most importantly, carrying on a conversation while I’m talking is disrespectful. To me, and to the other men who are trying to pay attention. To be respected, you must give respect. Understood?”

  “Yes, si—” he caught himself before he said it. “Understood, Price.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “What was the club’s income last year, Lackey?”

  I knew the answer, but I wanted to make sure the prospect understood how much it irritated me when people didn’t care to listen when I was speaking.

  “$214,000,” Lackey responded. “And a few cents.”

  “Two hundred and fourteen grand.” I faced the prospect. “If you divide $214,000 by 52, that’ll tell you how much we make a week.” I raised my brows. “Care to guess?”

  He swallowed hard. “Around four grand?”

  “$4,115, to be exact,” I said. “Now, if we divide that by five workdays in a week, that gives us about $823 a day in income, or about $103 an hour for an eight-hour work day.” I glanced at my watch. “By my watch, you’ve fucked around and wasted twelve minutes of the club’s time. Simple math tells me that’s twenty bucks.” I held out my hand. “You and your mentor owe me ten bucks a piece.”

  Panzer nudged the prospect. “Give him the twenty, I’ll get you back.”

  The prospect reached for his wallet.

  “No.” I shifted my eyes to Panzer. “You’re each going to pay ten bucks. You were each equally disrespectful to me and to the men of this club. Grab your wallet Panzer.”

  His jaw tightened. He exhaled a long breath through his nose. He wanted to speak, but he knew better. He was a damn good man. He’d been in the club for nearly ten years, and we were as close as any friends could be. Embarrassing him in front of the group wasn’t rewarding, but it was necessary. Regardless of my theatrics, it had nothing to do with money or my time. It had everything to do with respect. If I let him get away with it and punished the prospect, it wouldn’t be fair.

  I had no doubt that it would be the last time either of them chose to speak when I was speaking.

  “All I’ve got is a twenty,” Panzer said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure Lackey gets you your change.”

  With a sour look on his face
, Panzer pressed the twenty-dollar bill into my palm. The prospect did the same.

  “Ten bucks in change to each of them, Lackey,” I shouted.

  “Ten bucks to Panzer and ten to Jordan,” Lackey said from the other side of the garage. “Got it.”

  I reached for my wallet. My empty pocket reminded me that I’d left it in Gray’s bar. I shoved the money in my front pocket and looked at Panzer. “After the meeting, bring the prospect up to speed on what I said while you were talking.”

  “Will do,” he muttered.

  I walked to the center overhead door and turned to face the men. “One last thing. The bar we went to last week? Maggie’s Place? That’ll be our bar of choice until further notice. Don’t hesitate to stop in there for a beer. After I ran the Rebels out of there, she needs the business. Starting next week, we’ll have our non-mandatory weekly meeting in there. That’s all I’ve got.” I scanned the group. “Any questions?”

  The men knew I liked answering questions about as much as having a prostate exam. After a few seconds of silence, I stomped my foot down on the concrete slab. “Meeting adjourned.”

  Relieved the meeting was over, some of the men stood and talked of their night’s plans, while others got on their bikes and rode away. After scanning the crowd to make certain no one needed anything from me in a one-on-one, I turned toward my office.

  The first thing I saw was Brisco crashing his way through the crowd on my right. Like a lifeguard trampling his way through the sightseers at a beach, he pushed and shoved the men to each side, acting as though he was on his way to save a drowning child.

  Breathless, he stumbled to a stop right in front of me, nearly teetering over in the process. He bent at the waist and rested his hands against his thighs. With his eyes fixed on the floor and his lungs gasping for air, it appeared he was close to puking on the toes of my boots.

  I took a few steps away from him. “Slow down, big boy,” I said. “You’re going to have a coronary if you don’t settle down.”