Chapter 1
Make peace with your broken pieces.
-R.H. Sin
Another day, another dollar. It’s what I tell myself every single day, especially when it comes to the dancers and the shit that goes down most of the time at the notorious strip club. I’m in the back room flirting with the girls as I always do when I notice a nice ass—currently clenched. She must be new, so I welcome her as I have all the previous girls. “Hey, doll, this your first night?”
She turns toward my voice, her eyes full of nervousness. “Yeah, I’ve danced before, …but not to a crowd like this.”
I crack a grin and send her a wink, “No worries. I have just the thing to calm your nerves.” Relief shines back, and her shoulders lose a bit of their tenseness. “Ladies, let’s show the new chick how we like to warm up,” I say to the room behind me, and a few giggles follow my request. They eagerly make their way over, as new girl watches, curiosity getting the best of her. I’ve been doing this for years since the owner, and I came to a mutual agreement. You pay up, and the Royal Bastards MC has your back. In his case, we protect his club and the girls when they need us to.
Flicking my button free, I tug my zipper down and pull my fat cock out. I flash the ladies a bright smile as I dig the glass vial free from my pocket. The white powder inside is enough to entice these dancers to do whatever the fuck I’d like. In this case, it has them on their knees before me. Wearing the patch of prez offers me those pleasures as well, but I don’t throw my weight around from the club unless it’s necessary. “All right, get in line, and no pushing,” I mutter, carefully twisting the lid off. My cock’s heavy enough it damn near juts out toward the floor from my hips. The motherfucker already knows we’re headed to hell, so he’s pointing the way.
Tapping the first generous line on my cock, the eager whore falls to her knees and snorts quickly, like the feaning freeloader she is. She follows it up with a slow lick across my shaft then gets up to allow the next woman to have her turn. This goes on three more times before it’s finally the new chick’s turn. It’s her first time, so if she wants this little habit to continue, she’ll have to finish sucking me off. It’s enrapturing watching several women before me, all working on my pleasure. It’s a heady feeling.
“On your knees, dancer.” I gesture down and tip a generous amount of powder on the tip of my cock. She snorts a little into both nostrils and timidly sticks her tongue out toward my dick. A chuckle erupts from my chest and I shake my head. “Nuh-uh, you suck, and don’t stop until I tell you to.” She goes to work, and as I come, I give her the customary, “Welcome to BJ’s Dollhouse. I’m Ripper, the Royal Bastards Prez, and I’ve got plenty more soda; you hit me up to buy.”
Getting my cock sucked is a small price to pay for the MC’s protection. Being Prez means I get worshipped more than the others, even the brothers that women would refer to as better looking, like Blow or Plague. I know I’m not hard on the eyes—been told that shit my entire life. I’m also not a fuckin’ idiot and am well aware a few of my brothers beat me in that department. As long as I can still easily kick their asses, well, I ain’t worried in the slightest. Pussy is easy, and it comes to me naturally. It’s one of the things I love most about women. That new female down at the club wasn’t so bad either. She’s been on my mind ever since she swirled her tongue around the head of my cock a few nights back. I wouldn’t mind having me some more of that, maybe dip between those thick thighs if she kindly offers.
“Powerhouse!” I yell for my sergeant at arms (SAA).
“Prez?” He comes barreling into the storeroom as I’m taking inventory. The product is getting low; it’s almost time for my VP to hit up our contact and bring in some more coke. Our ganja runner should be stopping in this week as well. The club owns a storage facility to help bring in a side income. It also fronts for the more illegal businesses we take part in.
“Head down to BJ’s and pick up that new bitch. She gave some good head, and I’d like a reminder.”
“Maddy?” he asks kindly. For being a big oaf, he’s sweet on the dancers. Kind of like a puppy dog around them or some shit. Anywhere else and he’s a force to be reckoned with. I don’t mind it that he’s a softy, as long as our enemies don’t take notice. Lucky for us, we’re not buried in club wars but tend to tolerate the MCs around here, and they do the same with us.
I shrug. “Fuck if I know, brother. Never caught her name, never cared. She was new and nervous, easy on the eyes. Those types always go to their knees quickly.”
“Yeah, her name’s Madison, but the girls been callin’ her Maddy.”
“Got it,” I mutter, shifting around a few kilos. Not that I fucking care about her name, and it’d do him well to forget it as well. He’s already got a thing for one of the dancers to the point I think it’s an obsession.
“Anyone else?”
“You can see if a few of ‘em want to come back to the club and make some extra cash. I’m sure you fuckers wouldn’t mind some private dances.”
He grins. “I’ll see who’s available and be back.”
I wave him off, stuck in my head with the numbers. “Ride safe.”
We have a club brick in a lockbox in here that we use strictly for new clients to test and for when we party. Partiers have the option of buying small amounts, and it’s accessible if the brothers need to replenish their stash. We aren’t a club full of tweakers, by any means. It’s one of our more lucrative businesses, and the brothers have been made well aware it’s not an everyday thing. Blow’s the one brother with a pass to do it whenever the fuck he wants, as he’s my VP. If it gets out of hand, though, I’ll put a stop to that shit quickly. Whiskey’s the only one with a key to the box, so it allows me the chance to closely monitor the brothers’ refills and sales through our notes.
I quickly scribble down on his sheet that I took two eight balls’ worth. I transfer his latest notes onto my inventory paper and relock the box. I’ll return the key to him shortly now that I have everything I need. I’m not only a hardened biker but also a businessman, and I don’t fuck around when it comes to our product.
“Prez?” Whiskey pokes his head in the door.
“I’m here,” I rumble, making my way to him. I hand over the key.
“That was fast.”
I fold the sheet up and stick it in my wallet. It’s numbers and letters, an easy code I came up with in case I ever get searched. It’s happened in the past, so I know it’ll most likely happen again. The cops love to pull us over and pat us down whenever given a chance. “We’re low on everything, so it was easy. I’ve got deliveries already in the works. I’ve gotta get Blow to reach out to Jersey too. It’s time to take in more kilos.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
I shake my head. “Nah, he’ll be around later. I hit up Powerhouse to collect some girls; you know Blow can’t stay away when there’s pussy and cocaine nearby.”
He chuckles, running a hand over his beard peppered with gray. He’s in his early fifties, and seeing him age more these last few years has me thinking on the long-term side of things. We need to keep on the path we are now. If we stick to it, we won’t have to worry about this shit when I’m older. The brothers can be comfortable without risking their necks. The last thing I wanna do is be locked up for a chunk of my life, but I’ll peddle the drugs if it means we’ll be all right down the road.