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“Why not?”
“I don’t bring anyone home.” He leaned closer. “You know that.”
“But...”
His jaw tightened, and he pinned her with his stare. “No.”
He pulled away, forcing her to release her hold, and walked around her. He had made it clear to every woman in the club. He was only interested in a good time. He wasn’t looking to take on an old lady. He’d tried once before, and it had been an epic fail. He still saw rage whenever he envisioned his wife bent over their couch with some guy from work fucking her. Fucking cunt had been cheating on him as he made his way into the club. She’d begged him to forgive her, promised it would never happen again. He revenge fucked half the club whores before Ariel was able to work her way back into bed. Their whole marriage and relationship had been a sham, but he’d been too young and blind to see it at the time. Then he got locked up. It wasn’t until after he was released that he smartened up.
He’d been a fool when it came to Ariel. He wouldn’t make the same mistake ever again.
He was almost to the bar when she appeared in front of him, glaring. She folded her arms, and he could see her anger building. What the hell did she expect? Did she really think giving him head when he was mourning the loss of Mick would get her into his bed? He snorted and drew in a breath. Yeah, that’s exactly what she thought.
“You’re an asshole and….” She shouted loud enough to gain some attention from those around them, pissing him off. Who the hell did she think she was? This was his fucking club, and he was not about to take any shit from her, especially tonight.
He grabbed her wrist and held it tightly in his grip. Hard enough to get his point across, but not enough to hurt her. She obviously hadn’t understood when he’d told her he wasn’t looking for anything more than a good time. But he’d make it clear right now.
“Yeah, I’m an asshole. You knew it before you dropped to your knees, ya knew it while swallowing my cock, and you know it now. You knew exactly what was gonna happen because it’s the same fucking thing that happens every time we fuck or you suck me off.” He stepped closer and growled, causing a slight hitch in her breath. “But you coming at me like this, especially today? I don’t need you feeding me some bullshit line about me being alone and pretending you give a shit about me. I’m about as special to you as the last brother ya banged a few hours ago.” Trax paused, eyeing her carefully. “You want old lady status? You look somewhere else ’cause it ain’t happening with me. And just so we’re clear. You working whatever angle you can to get in my bed for your own fucking agenda? That makes you an asshole, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks turned a dark shade of pink. She pulled her hand away and righted her shirt, covering up her tits. She turned quickly, not saying a word, and sauntered over to Gage. He walked to the bar and took the empty stool to the right of Rourke. His brother glanced up, shaking his head.
“The bitch ain’t worth the trouble. Don’t know why you mess with her. She’s a pain in the ass.”
“She’s Gage’s problem now,” Trax smirked, slapping his friend on the back. “Gotta give her credit, she knows how to suck dick.”
“So do the rest of the slits in here.”
He had a point. The girls who hung around the club knew the score, and they knew what was expected of them. It was their choice to be there. He glanced around the smoky, dimly lit room. Most of the girls who hung around were there for a good time. He actually enjoyed the company of quite a few even beyond the sex. But then there were a few like Val. He’d chalk the latest experience to a lesson learned.
He’d been ready to go even before he’d walked through the door. He wasn’t feeling the celebration, didn’t sit right with him, though it was what Mick would have wanted. He knew his longtime mentor and friend would slice off his balls if he could see him now, wallowing in the loss. He turned to Rourke and got up from his stool, not even bothering to touch the beer placed in front of him.
“Heading out.” He slapped Rourke on the back.
“Home?”
Trax took another glance around the room. He wanted to celebrate Mick, but not this way. “Nah, think I’ll take a ride.”
Rourke lifted his chin and then his drink, finishing it off before pushing off the stool to face Trax. “Need to take a piss. I’ll meet ya outside.”
He walked through the throngs of people. It was always amusing to watch Rourke walk through a crowd. They split in two groups as if he parted the Red fucking Sea. For a man like him, no words were necessary. People just got the hell out of the way.
Trax headed toward the back of the club. He was just beyond the threshold of the hall when he felt someone behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Gage in step with him. Just a look was all he needed to know Gage was ditching the party to celebrate and honor Mick with him, Rourke, and a ride for their fallen brother.
He pushed open the door and caught their vice president rolling up and parking near the back. Trax made his way down the stairs with Gage following close behind.
Saint removed his helmet, draping it over his handlebar, but remained seated as they headed his way.
“Didn’t think you were coming?” Gage said with a tease in his tone. “You here for the beer and BJs?”
Saint was notorious for ditching most club parties. Even when he did make a rare appearance, he never participated in the girl action, much to the dismay of the women. His life was a lot different than most men in the club. He had a few tattoo shops he owned, a bunch of lucrative side gigs, and a young kid. Trax often wondered why he never gave up the club but was thankful he didn’t. His disposition was eerily opposite of Kase. While Kase ruled with fear and his mouth, Saint was quiet and cunning. They were the perfect set to run the club.
Saint stared back at him, not acknowledging Gage’s question. Trax wasn’t surprised. Saint was a man of very few words, but when he did speak, everyone listened. Mick once told Trax that Saint was the smartest man he’d ever met, and the deadliest.
Trax mounted his bike parked next to Saint’s and glanced over. “Taking a ride, heading up through the valley, maybe out to Ghosttown.”
Saint nodded, and the corner of his mouth curved. “Mick’s ride.”
Ghosttown had been the original home to the Ghosttown Riders. Years later, when Kase took over as president, he’d moved the clubhouse to Blacksburg. But nothing could tear Mick away from Ghosttown. It was aptly named as there were only a handful of residents to the small town.
