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Once he’s got his hand on his new bottle, Deadbolt flashes us all a wide grin. “So, then, still wearing her fuckin’ tiara, this bitch gets on her knees…”
I tune him out, already tired of his obviously overinflated stories. This one is about some rich debutante type who took one look at him and couldn’t wait to get him into bed. It’s like some shit out of a bad soap opera. Deadbolt’s in his forties. He’s got salt and pepper-colored hair that’s thinning up top. But he’s grown to the middle of his back—obviously overcompensating for what he’s lacking on top of his head. He’s lean with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His cheeks are pocked, he’s got a thick, scraggly beard, and eyes that look permanently watery and bloodshot and are ringed with dark circles.
I wouldn’t say he’s a bad-looking guy, I guess. But he’s definitely worn and has some hard edges to him. Life has obviously taken a bit of a toll on him, leaving him looking a little road weary. Suffice it to say, no underwear company is going to be knocking on his door, asking him to model for them anytime soon. And I would bet every last dime I have the closest he’s ever gotten to nailing a teenage debutante is jerking off to debutante porn online.
“You are so full of shit,” Hogwild cracks, making me glad I’m not the only one who thinks he’s lying.
“Hand to God,” Deadbolt insists, holding his hand up.
“You are gonna get your ass struck by lightning,” Jammer adds.
“Why do you do this?” Hogwild asks. “Why do you make up these bullshit stories? I mean, you know we all think you’re full of shit, right?”
“Y’all can go fuck yourselves. I’m tellin’ the God’s honest truth,” he says, pouting.
“Yeah, sure you are,” Jammer mocks.
It’s been a couple of hours since the incident in the kitchen, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about her. The feel of her skin beneath my touch, so soft and smooth, still sends ripples of pleasure through me. That look of innocence in her eyes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the flush of her cheeks, the red really standing out against the porcelain color of her skin, all combine to stir something inside of me. They set a fire going in my gut that quickly moves to other parts of me.
I know how stupid it is to be talking to her. By all rights, I should be staying as far away from her as I can. If I were smart, I wouldn’t have taken a room here and would have just stayed in the hotel. But I really do need to work with Hammerhead to get him back on track and see if this partnership can be salvaged. I could do it from the hotel and just ride over every day. Which is probably what I should have done. But I’m clearly not a smart man, because I saw it as an opportunity to get closer to Molly and I took it with barely a thought.
At least until now. Deadbolt, the surly prick that he is, has been razzing me about helping Molly since I walked back into the main room. I just know he’s already going to tell Hammerhead that I’d been in the kitchen with Molly—alone. And even though I barely know the guy, he seems like somebody who’s an absolute ass-kisser. He’s going to do what he can to plant suggestive ideas in Hammerhead’s skull. He’s going to look to make it worse and blow it all out of proportion. I know guys like him. Guys who will do anything to improve their own position in the club, even if that means they’re standing on the body of somebody else to get there.
I can see in Deadbolt’s eyes that he’s looking to start some trouble between me and Hammerhead. For what reason, I don’t know. But he is clearly somebody who wants to be in his President’s good graces and will lie, cheat, and steal whatever he has to in order to make sure he stays there. I haven’t liked the dude from the moment I was introduced to him and my opinion of him is only sinking lower the more I hear him talk.
“What do you think, Hawk?”
I look up, Hogwild’s voice having pulled me out of my head and back to the present. “What do I think about what?”
“Deadbolt’s story. He bang some nineteen-year-old debutante after her coming out party or what?” he presses.
“I thought they only had coming-out parties for debutantes in the South,” I shrug.
“Apparently not,” Jammer jumps in. “Unless he’s lyin’ about that too.”
“Fuck you,” Deadbolt growls.
“C’mon. Let’s hear what you think,” Hogwild presses.
I shrug. “Don’t know. I’ve got no opinion on the matter.”
Hogwild laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “See? He just don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Nah. It’s because he doesn’t want to make you two look like idiots,” Deadbolt defends himself. “He knows the truth when he hears it.”
See, Deadbolt should have quit while he was ahead. But guys like him just can’t ever seem to leave well enough alone. If he’d just left it at that, things would have been fine. But now it feels like he’s backed me into a corner because both Hogwild and Jammer are looking at me for confirmation. Normally, I’d just shrug and leave it alone. Because I dislike him as much as I do though, the last thing I want anybody to think is that we’re aligned when we’re most definitely not on the same page. About anything.
“No, it’s because I tuned you out almost immediately after you started talking,” I correct him. “I couldn’t stand to have that much bullshit poured into my ear.”
Hogwild and Jammer explode in laughter while Deadbolt glowers at me. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, and he looks like he wants to rip my head off my shoulders. I mean, he can try, but he’s going to end up spitting up blood and teeth instead. It takes a couple of minutes, but the other guys finally settle down, their raucous laughter fading to softer chuckles of amusement. Deadbolt is still glowering, though. He hasn’t softened a bit. He’s still looking at me like he’s considering pulling his gun.
That thought gets a laugh out of me. The guy is so fucking incompetent, if he tried to pull his gun, he’d probably shoot his own dick off. I want to tell him he shouldn’t be carrying it behind his belt buckle but I’m kind of amused by the thought of him gunning himself down, so I don’t say anything.
The laughter fades and the air in the clubhouse suddenly goes thick with tension. Deadbolt’s anger rolls in like a storm front. His face is dark, his features twisted into a snarl. He obviously can’t take a joke. Not that I care.
“Oh, you think that’s bullshit, do you?” Deadbolt finally manages to say to me.
Hogwild and Jammer fall silent, both of them watching us with anticipation in their eyes. They seem to sense things might turn violent and are keeping a close eye on things. Whether that’s because they want to see the bloodshed of a nasty fight, or because they’d step in to quash it, I’m not sure. I’m kind of betting on the former, to be honest. The Howlers don’t seem to have that bond of brotherhood the Kings have. They’re not a tight, cohesive club.
