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I sit, and Doc takes a look at my eyebrow.
“Yeah, well, that fun is gonna get you four stitches,” he tells me.
“Do your worst,” I reply.
When he opens his medical bag and tries to stick a local anesthetic into the area surrounding the wound, I stop him. “No drugs,” I remind him.
Doc shakes his head. “You know this is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”
“I said… no drugs.”
Truth is, I like the pain. Call me a psycho, call me what you will, but I am what I am, and I like a little physical pain.
Across the room, neither Jack nor Paw are surprised.
“Crazy sonofabitch,” Jack mutters with a shake of his head.
Jack is President of the Kings of Mayhem Motorcycle Club, Tennessee Chapter.
Four years ago, he found me at The House of Sin during one of my benders. I was high and drunk on just about everything, and by the time Jack roared in on his Harley, I had been through one girl after the other, sometimes two or three in a night.
But Antoinette, the owner of the House of Sin, was getting worried about my lack of interest in leaving and was worried I might become a problem. She asked Jack to swing by the brothel to show me who I would be dealing with if I started any trouble. Not that she had anything to worry about. I was only there to blow off some steam and work out my next move. Since leaving the De Kysa, I had no direction, no place to be. I didn’t belong anywhere. To cope, I indulged in a lot of fucking, drinking, and doing blow.
But I was never a threat to them.
When Jack was there, a wild storm hit, and we were all trapped for two days, which if I’m real honest, there are worse places to be stuck than a brothel with a lot of beautiful women during bad weather.
Jack and I bonded over a chess board as lightning lit up the room and thunder rumbled in the sky, and the next day he invited me to join the Kings of Mayhem.
Figuring I had nothing else, I bought myself a Harley, threw the bag containing all of my belongings over my shoulder, and joined the club.
Now, they’re my family.
“Never met anyone with such a hard-on for pain,” Paw says. “Not sure if I should high-five you or call a psychiatrist.”
And Paw, I guess you can call him my best friend—he’s a smart motherfucker. He jokes that I’m the brawn and he’s the brains in our friendship, but he’s right. His real name is Malcolm, but we call him Paw because of the deep claw marks on the side of his face. In his previous life, he used to be in the FBI. One day he was attacked by a mountain lion when he was on a case, which left him badly scarred. If the scars bother him, he doesn’t let it show. Now he takes care of our club’s security and all the technology we use daily. He still has contacts in the FBI which has gotten our balls out of the frying pan more than once.
“Some people have a higher threshold to pain than others,” Doc says, sewing my eyebrow back together.
“While some just like it,” I declare.
Paw pulls a face. “You mean that needle ain’t making your insides roll? Because just watching it is making me queasy as hell.”
They think I don’t feel because I’m quiet and silent, and barely react to things that most men would look away from.
But they’re wrong.
I feel fucking everything.
“Who’s coming over to Aces?” Paw asks.
After every fight, we head across the road to a bar called Aces High.
It’s owned by Oscar, who runs the underground fights at his gym. He’ll slide an envelope of cash across the table and buy us a drink. Afterward, my brothers and I will shoot some pool, then we’ll head back to the clubhouse, where I’ll retreat to my room alone, jerk off to drain any residual energy coursing through my veins, and start praying that insomnia doesn’t set in.
“I have to sit this one out,” Jack says.
His wife is heavily pregnant with their second baby, and he wants to spend more time at home.
