Huffing out a breath, I ordered, “Get on your knees, get your tits out, and suck my dick.”
“Thought you might want to take this somewhere private?”
The instant the words slipped from her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake. She kept pulling this shit. Trying to take things to another level, which was never going to fucking happen. She was a clubwhore. Nothing more, nothing less. Without another word, without my even having to cock a brow, she slid to her knees and unfastened the bralette she wore. As her tits spilled free, I turned my attention to Steel who I knew was eying up Cammie. She wasn’t mine, but every brother knew to back the fuck off her. I didn’t share. And I expected no one to watch if I pulled a move like this out in public.
“You want to watch the show or something?” I growled.
“You’re at the bar. Free country, ain’t it?”
My brow puckered at that, and a memory prodded into being thanks to those two words—free country. “Ain’t seen Mav around.”
“He’s in his room.”
“Was hoping he’d get some pussy tonight. He was as integral to tonight’s celebration as any of us.”
Steel shrugged. “You know he won’t come down.”
Yeah, I’d known, but Haune was one of the worst fuckers we’d targeted, and Mav, more than anyone, knew what the bastard had done. We didn’t just slaughter these cunts willy-fucking-nilly. There was research. We made sure they deserved the punishment, and that involved Mav having to do some shit I’d never be able to thank him enough for.
See, if they came out of prison rehabilitated, we left them alone. Mav monitored some of them, had watches on the agencies that were keeping their eyes on the sex offenders’ list. But the ones who were released and went straight back to their vile ways? Well, we showed them the true definition of vile.
If anyone deserved a bottle of tequila and a blowjob tonight, it wasn’t me, it was Mav, but he, of course, was too fucked in the head from his own wounds to even enjoy the celebrations of one less sick fuck roaming the streets.
My mind veered off course when Cammie’s hand began to roll down my zipper, but just as she slipped her fingers inside my fly, headlights flashed into the window of the bar. I grabbed her hand, well aware that all the brothers were in here tonight, partying.
Which meant anyone who came to the gate wasn’t welcome.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Shoving her hand away, I almost walked into Cammie in my haste to figure out what was going on, then realizing she was there, I grabbed her and set her on her feet. She tottered around a bit, wobbling on the too high heels all the whores wore and couldn’t walk in, and I left her to Steel’s care. Not that he’d touch her, but entertaining these bitches was just as much of a drag as it was when fucking an ordinary woman.
The compound was right on the outskirts of West Orange, situated smack in the middle of a triangle that had three swanky country clubs at each point. We were the mother chapter of four other MC chapters around the States, and I knew the Originals—one of whom was Rex’s dad, Bear—had set up shop here simply to piss off the locals.
Close to Caldwell, we were in the middle of money. Money talked, but we had more than even the richest country clubber, and the sheriff and his deputies were all in our pockets. Regardless, we had to be vigilant.
We never stored drugs at the compound. Ever. That was our main source of income, that as well as a protection racket that defended some local storefronts from the fucking Bratva who were trying to elbow into our turf, and the transporting we did for a couple of Families in New York. So the money we earned was never kept here either.
I knew we were safe if the sheriff came armed with a search warrant, because one of the local rich fucks decided to get his panties in a twist over having scum too close to his eight-door garage loaded with classic cars, but just because there was no risk to us didn’t mean I appreciated the inconvenience, especially when they fucking destroyed everything during the raid. Tearing up our beds and other soft furnishings, dragging everything out front on the hunt for our hiding places…
Because, yup, apparently we looked so fucking stupid that we’d keep shit stored in our fucking sofa cushions.
Dumb fucks. And they said we were the rednecks because none of us had more than a high school diploma among us—yeah. Right.
For all we were close to the ritzy areas in town, we had about three acres, and the building was a purpose built clubhouse, complete with bedrooms for the council, some for the whores, and a few others for families who, for whatever reason, couldn’t afford to live off site. There were kitchens, living spaces, a dining area, and more offices than the local council probably had in their town hall.
Our MC was big business, and that was why it took a lot to protect our home. It was also why I was vigilant at all times, especially on nights like tonight where my family had gone to bat for me in a big way. I showed my appreciation by making sure that no one fucked with us.
It was my job, but it was my honor too. Nothing and no one meant more to me than these bastards, and I showed that by keeping them all safe.
As I pushed between brothers, who hadn’t realized our security might have been breached, I forcefully shoved my way through the crowd. Bros wanted to congratulate me, and I just smirked at them and slapped them on the back, because it was quicker than explaining why I was in a rush.
When I finally made it to the front door, out through the wood paneled hall, it opened wide, and Jaxson, the Prospect I’d put on the gate tonight, was there, ready to step in.
“Just coming for you, Boss.”
My road name was Nyx, but to the guys on security, they all called me Boss. I guessed it was a badge of honor. Only Rex had a different ‘label,’ and he was the fucking Prez.
“What’s going on? Who’s at the gates?”
Jaxson pulled a face as he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. I’d known him since he was a kid. Had watched him grow up around the place. His dad, a loyal brother to the end, had died in a stupid bar brawl in a honky-tonk on Route 66 of all fucking places.
I’d been there when the bastard had bled out, and with his last, dying breath, he’d made me promise to watch over his kid.
Trouble was, watching over Jaxson meant trying to protect him from club life, and there was no way I could do that. Ironically enough, Hills wouldn’t have wanted me to keep his kid from club life either, so it was a pointless deathbed promise. But I figured a man who died a violent death was allowed to talk pointless shit in the vain hope that his son wouldn’t have a similar end.
Because I knew Jaxson well, I saw his discomfort. He was about eight or so months away from earning his patch, and he was good on security. Good enough that I’d be keeping him with me once he got his cut.
“Remember Lizzie Fontaine?”
The name had me narrowing my eyes as I released a whistle. “Fuck. Haven’t heard that name in a long time. Don’t let Dog hear you mention it. He’s still bitter as fuck—”
“She’s dead,” Jaxson blurted out.
It took a lot to surprise me, but his declaration did. “She is? That’s a fucking shame.” Lizzie wasn’t the slut Dog painted her as. If anything, she’d been good people, and this fucked-up shitter of a world was a worse place for her not being in it. Although… “How do you know that?” I inquired warily. Lizzie had left when Jaxson was around fourteen. No way he’d know something like that when he probably didn’t remember her all that well, so where this conversation was coming from, I didn’t know.