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I want to be used in the bedroom like a cheap two-bit hooker. But I want to know the man who does so can't live without me. That he'd never dream of leaving the cash on the nightstand and walking away.
I want to be abused with consideration. Brutalized with care.
I'm fucking certifiable.
And as Digger finds his release, pulling free with a growl to paint my stomach with thick ropes of cum, I start to wonder if maybe my family were right.
Perhaps there is no hope for me.
38
TYKE
The clubhouse wasn'tmy home growing up. My father did his best to keep us kids separate from the life until we were of an age to make an informed decision of our own. Did we want in on the chaos? Could we handle the heat? I watch my daughter hand my enforcer another drink at the barbecue, a smile on her pretty face and a gentle laugh passing her lips.Did I do right by her?Could I have done things differently? Who would she be if I had?
Reality dictates there was no hope of keeping her free from club life when her mama walked out and left her crying in the yard, the picture of innocence in her pretty yellow sundress while menacing men in black swarmed around her, attempting to contain the chaos. If it weren't for the dedication of men like my brother, I may have put a bullet in Charlene's skull that day, but Digger simply pulled me inside and sat me down, forcing me to count to ten... and then one hundred when I still hadn't cooled the rage.
He deserves to find happiness. He almost had it once before he chose God and country over love and lost the only real thing he cared for. Like I'm going to deny the man twice.
"She take the news okay?” Rigs settles on the picnic table beside me, ass on the top, and boots on the seat, same as I do.
"I think so." I walked out of that office fifteen minutes ago and neither one of them have shown their face.
What does that say about how comfortable she feels?
Rigs pulls a small bag from his pocket and unravels it to reveal three blunts. He plucks one from the packet and offers it my way.
I shake my head. One bottle of whisky was enough. No need to hammer the nail in crooked for tomorrow’s hangover.
He shrugs, popping it between his lips and striking a light.
"I say I want to kill Terry," I muse aloud. "But that makes me no better than my old man."
Rigs stares at the lit smoke, a frown barely visible in the dim lights of the yard.
"What would be the point in everythin’ I've done the past ten years to distance us from his legacy if I did that?"
He releases a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke around us."You realise we'll never be squeaky clean, right?" Rigs tilts his head, peering across at me cautiously. "Even if you managed the miracle that is turnin’ this club into something legit, the skeletons are still in the closet. History ain't ever gonna change." He takes a long drag, eyes squinted a little while he holds the smoke.
"I don't want to change history, brother. I want to put enough distance between who we are now and who we were then that people's memories fade. That the local community trust us more than respect us out of fear. Fuck." I scrub a hand over my head. "I never wanted to be that guy who's only value was in keeping the fuckin' riff-raff in line. That's the fuckin’ sheriff's job."
"But the fucker's so far up Terry's ass he got a vitamin D deficiency from lack of sunlight." Rigs chuckles at his own joke. "Look, I don't want to be the guy who sounds as thoughhe doubts your abilities, boss, but I gotta ask: you got an exit strategy?"
I look around at the faces I know intimately. At the vulnerable and innocent, the people who've earned the protection of the club, and the ones who willingly give all to be that steel wall against the shit in the outside world. Do I have a plan for these people? A way for them to get free before they're involved in a goddamn turf war they never asked for? "I got ideas."
"Ideas don't get nothing done unless you got actions that'll back it up."
"Well aware of that, Rigs."
He leans back and rubs his palms down the thighs of his jeans, blunt pinched between his lips. "All I'm saying is perhaps it's time you off-loaded a little more onto us officers. Nobody's doubting your leadership; they're just asking to share the burden."
"It ain't your burden, though." I slide off the table and turn to face him. "That's why I have this," I say, slapping a palm to my President badge, "and you don't. So that I wear the worst of it. So that I'm the one who lies awake at night, not you. So that when the weight of this shit breaks the man, it's only me who goes down, not the fuckin' lot of us."
He watches me rant, lips set in a firm line and his eyes dead of any discernible emotion. It feels as though he's a parent patiently waiting on the kid’s tantrum to end.
The thought itches at my fist. But laying hands on another member without proper reason or procedure for resolving disputes is grounds for instant reprimand. Three strikes, and you're out, even if you're the fucking President. "Fuck's sake." I spin and march past the lingering revelers, unsure where I'm going, only that I need distance from people. I need time tobe alone. To decompress and ground myself before the fucking circus starts again tomorrow.
I never wanted this fucking job, but I took the title with honor and promised to do my best.
