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My club.
My men.
My legacy.
That was what was important.
Not some biker president who smelled like leather and woods and fucked like a porn star.
"Munch," I called, getting off of my bike in the back lot, seeing the giant man in question bent over the red picnic table we'd put out there for smoking because I couldn't stand walking into a cloud of smoke inside, and having my hair and clothes reek of it hours later. "Do you really think this is the best place for that?" I added as he completely ignored me, burying his face in the woman's snatch, and going to town while she writhed and grabbed his head.
You'd think the sight would be shocking.
But Munch went down on women anytime and anywhere he could. Which meant I'd seen him doing so at least fifty times since I'd known him.
He'd ignored me. Which was pretty much what I expected. The man had one focus only when a woman was spread-legged in front of him.
"Don't blame me if you get picked off out here," I added as I passed.
I hadn't expected a response, but he'd lifted his head for just a moment, shooting me a smirk. "Oh, but what a way to go," he said before burying his face again.
"Alright. Well, pizza is on the way if you don't get your fill with her," I said, moving inside to the sound of Creedence coming from the speakers. It was a familiar sound, one that I'd been hearing my whole life. I felt some of the stress shrugging from my shoulders as I moved inside, hearing the familiar chords and lyrics enveloping me like a warm hug.
"Beer or vodka, boss?" Dutch called from behind the bar, swaying a bit from side to side, and inexplicably wearing his black t-shirt as a giant headband. Clearly, they'd been partying for a while already. I must have been gone longer than I'd realized.
"Let's start with a beer until the pizza comes to lay down some padding," I said, taking one from his hand when he offered it.
"Hey, Danny ordered pizza!" Dutch called to the others, most of whom were too preoccupied or too close to the speakers to hear, but I appreciated his enthusiasm nonetheless.
"You're so fucked up," I said with a smile, my first one in weeks, it seemed. "How long have you been drinking?" I asked, looking at his glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.
"Let's see," Dutch said, attempting to pull himself up onto the bar, but sliding right off again. "I'm good. I'm good," he insisted. "Didn't even spill my drink," he added, holding up his large glass of what smelled like whiskey.
"Of course you didn't," I agreed, even though the liquid was all over his hand and down the front of his shirt. "So, the answer is, for several hours," I concluded, reaching down to drag him back onto his feet.
"We're celebrating," he insisted, wobbling.
"What are we celebrating?" I asked, worrying I'd missed someone's birthday. I mean, we didn't make huge deals about those types of things, but I always made sure there was cake at least. Store-bought, but cake nonetheless.
"Hm?" Dutch asked, slow-blinking up at me.
"What are we celebrating, Dutch?" I asked, a little surprised by how fucked up he was. I'd drank with this man a dozen or more times, and he usually stopped himself before he got the stupid sort of drunk.
"Oh, ah, liquor delivery," he said, shooting me a glassy-eyed smile.
"Alright then," I said, shaking my head. "Maybe you should have a cup of coffee after this drink, yeah?"
"Coffee is for quitters," he declared, toasting me with his glass, then taking a long swig.
"Okay, well, at least some pizza then," I compromised.
"Pizza's good," he told me, taking a deep breath.
"It is," I agreed, patting his arm. "You sure you're alright?" I asked. "Want me to help you get upstairs for some sleep?"
"Sleep!" he exclaimed as if it was the craziest suggestion in the world.
"Alright, but don't blame me when you wake up with a crick in your neck from falling asleep on the floor."
"Can't sleep on the floor," Dutch said, words slow. "It's moving," he added. "Or am I moving?" he asked, looking at me for an answer.
"Here," I offered, grabbing his arm, and putting it against the wall. "See? Nothing is spinning. But I have a feeling you're about to puke," I informed him, putting an arm around his waist. "Let's get you to the men's room, so it will be less of a mess when it happens," I said, half pulling him along.
"Floor is cold," Dutch mumbled, crawling across it. "Cold is good," he added, lowering himself down on the cold tile.
I would be disgusted if I didn't know I hadn't forced one of the hangabouts to clean it with a toothbrush the afternoon before. If he wanted to prospect, I figured he needed to know what he was going to get himself into. Like cleaning up after twenty-something grown-ass men. It still reeked of bleach in there.
