Forged: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel (24 page)

Glaring at him openly Tank goes on.

“Yeah, well keep it fucking down would you? We don’t need to draw attention to ourselves, brother. This shit’s sensitive enough without you fucking it up first day out.” Nodding his apology Glock closes his mouth with an audible snap. “When I spoke to her she told me Rob would be here too. Didn’t trust him alone tonight, but promised he’d behave himself.” Staring at me he asks, “Anything you wanna share with the group, Saint?”

Shaking my head I curl my hands into fists under the table, and wonder how much Alysia already told him.

“Not fucking really. Just keep the asshole away from me, and everything will be copasetic.”

Jerking his head toward the other wall, the one the hallway is located near, Tank crosses his arms across his massive chest assessing me warily. A lesser man might spontaneously burst into flames or piss himself at the hard look on his face, but I’m used to the big man’s unnerving persona so it has little effect on me.

“Clocked him inside a minute of walking in. He’s done his level best to ignore us and I doubt he’ll approach, but if he does, whatever shit you’ve got going on needs to be locked down tight. We don’t need extra bullshit on top of the shit storm this already is, yeah?”

Nods around the table, and a few minutes later after we’ve ordered a beer each from the well passed her expiry date waitress, the house lights go down and Tank takes the opportunity to hand out our assignments. You’d think he was still in the SEALS the way he slips back into his role so easily.

“Dagger, watch the hall. You clock anyone going in or out that looks like our man you give the sign to me or Glock. I’ve got the back exit and right hand side of the stage. Glock you’re on the left side of the stage and front entry. Saint, you watch main floor and bar. Any of you see him you tell me or Glock. I don’t want anyone taking it on themselves to do anything that’ll put Alysia, or getting our hands on him in jeopardy, yeah? Alysia will let out three whistles in short succession if there’s a problem. You hear that, grab the man on your left and stay low. Do
not
pull your piece unless you absolutely have to. The only reason a woman with her kind of training would give the call is if all hell was about to break loose and we need to hit the deck.”

Waiting for our agreement, Tank sits back and chugs the rest of his beer. When he’s finished his face turns serious as he focuses solely on me.

“I know this shit is going to be hardest for you, brother, but you’ve gotta rein it in long enough for us to get the bastard in the van and locked down before you let loose. You don’t think you can do that you need to speak up now, because I’m telling you, you do anything to fuck this up for anyone at this table, and that includes Alysia or even Rob, I’ll personally hand you your ass on a silver fucking platter to match the fucked up décor of this joint.”

“I get you and I’m not going to fuck this for anyone,” I growl. “Getting our hands on this motherfucker is my only objective, so you can stop with the pep talk, big brother because I don’t fucking need one.”

Grunting his response just as the thumping beat of, Pony by Ginuwine, comes on over the sound system, Tank settles in to watch the section he’s assigned himself as do the others. Taking a quick glance out of the corner of my eye in Rob’s direction, I see him laser focused on the stage in front of him. He’s not moving a muscle, and regardless of the dim lighting inside the club I can see his body’s gone rock solid.

Taking the opportunity to swing my gaze toward the stage I can see immediately what’s got him so worked up. And I have to admit, if I wasn’t so head over heels in love with my wife I’d be trying to get a piece of the vision currently strutting her stuff in front of us.

Alysia, dressed in skyscraper heels that have to be at least six inches high, a white men’s dress shirt, a thin black tie, and fedora is twisting her body seductively around the pole like a seasoned pro. The mischievous smile on her face aimed at the crowd has the men front and center cheering and throwing bills at her before she’s removed even one single item of clothing. Sliding down the pole to her knees she begins teasing the audience, opening each button down the length of the shirt so slowly even I want to yell at her to hurry the hell up.

A flash of hot pink and a minute later, the shirt she was wearing slides down her arms, getting hooked on her elbows as she rises from the floor. Hooking her left leg around the pole again, in a move I’d assume only the most experienced strippers attempt, she shimmies up the pole while shedding the shirt, hat, and tie, all the while keeping a firm grip on the device barring all her weight.

Holy shit. The woman is fucking stacked. You’d never tell from the loose fitting T-shirt and skinny jeans she’d been wearing earlier that she was packing all that beauty beneath if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes when she removed her shirt to tend to Rob’s wrists. Not that I was checking her out or anything. I’d never do shit like that, I’m a married man after all.

With the same trademark dark hair, almost black like her brothers, Alysia’s hair hangs down her back stopping below her shoulder blades straight as a pin. I know her eyes are a strange mix of violet and grey, darker at the iris, almost dark purple in fact. You mightn’t be able to see them in here, but when I’d caught sight of them earlier they’d been mesmerizing. She’s got to stand maybe five-foot-one at a push, but comes closer to five-five if not five-six, average height for a woman, with the shoes she’s sporting at the moment. And her body? Well, the only way to describe it is, in-fucking-sane.

Curves in all the right places. A set of tits that has every man, even the married ones, mouths watering. Legs that deceptively look like they go on forever, regardless of her short stature. Her body is tight, toned, and pretty much as close to perfect as you can get. Which brings me to the question of the burns she got during the accident that ended her career.

The black lace top stockings cover her from toes to just above her knees, in what I assume is her attempt to cover them up. Not that anyone would be taking notice of a few scars, no matter how bad they are with the way she’s grinding on that pole like it’s her man’s cock. I swear every bastard in here’s got to be hard at her performance, and I’m no exception. Neither is Tank if the grimace he’s trying to hide is anything to go by. I’d never act on it, Tank wouldn’t either, but there’s no harm in appreciating a beautiful woman dancing, is there?

Scanning the immediate area and then further afield, I spot the man we’ve spent the last month combing all corners of every state for. Nudging Glock, I discreetly tip my head in Demon’s direction at the same time as kicking Tank under the table to get his attention.

“Nine o’clock. Center left,” I say low enough for only the men sitting at our booth to hear.

Alysia has clocked him too, offering the new addition a seductive smile and wink. Rob’s body goes rigid at the gesture, his head whipping around to see who’s caught her eye. As soon as he spots Demon he sends him a glare that’d have other men retreating. But Demon hasn’t taken his eyes off the stage since walking in, so he doesn’t pick up on the menace being thrown in his direction as he settles into a chair at a two-top table, merely two tables back from the front of the stage.

With her song and her time on the stage winding down, all Alysia is left wearing is a hot pink thong that shows off her perfect heart shaped ass, her stockings, shoes, and nothing else. Her high, full, tits have got to be at least a DD-cup, and are topped with the perfect shade of bubblegum pink nipples, tight and hard. Rob’s stare has switched back to the stage now, and although I know he’s got an eye on the newcomer to make sure he doesn’t get close to the girl making men harder than steel on stage, his eyes are devouring all Alysia has to offer. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say there’s some unresolved shit between them that’s going to come to a head in the very near future. Works for me, because if he’s otherwise occupied with her that means he’ll stay the fuck away from my wife.

Demon’s eyes roam the beauty in front of him, but as if he senses a threat they dart nervously around the room seeking out whatever has him feeling uncomfortable. He can’t have noticed us, what with us leaving our cuts in our saddlebags and parking our bikes four blocks over. Not to mention we’re almost completely hidden by the dull lighting and obscure position we’ve picked out. But something’s got him rattled. What I don’t know, but we’ll soon see.

“I tried killing a spider with glitter body spray once.

Now it won’t stop stripping and I have to call it Cinnamon.”

-
        
Rotten eCard

Who in the hell thought this plan was a good idea? Oh, that’s right, I did. What I forgot was I fucking hate being the center of attention, and having these men stare at me like I’m a steak dinner and they haven’t eaten for a week is creeping me out. All but one of them that is.

Having Rob’s eyes track my every move is the only reason I’m still up here going through with this ridiculous charade. The heat he’s throwing in my direction is so intense I could end up with sunburn after one song. All that aside, it’s the one thing helping me to channel my inner slut, so I’ll have to make sure to thank him for the incentive later.

The moody bastard wouldn’t take no for an answer when he found out where I was going, which mind you I only told him under duress. He blocked the door refusing to let me leave unless I told him my plans for the evening, and although I did indeed cave and tell him where I was working, I didn’t tell him why and I don’t intend to regardless of his demands that I tell him when we get back to the apartment. He then proceeded to jump in my car, pout like a two-year old, and not speak to me for the ten minute drive to Jiggles. What he didn’t know was, I had no problem with his silent treatment I actually preferred it, so it was no skin off my nose if he wanted to act like an errant child.

It was hard enough psyching myself into my new role of ‘stripper extraordinaire’, without his input, hence his silence was at this time golden. Not that he’d said more than ten words to me after his muttered, ‘fucking fine by me’, nor did I expect him to, but it still rankled. Could he not see all this was for his own good and to save his proverbial bacon? Obviously fucking not, if this was how he was going to carry on. It amazed me that such a smart man could be so stupid, but I suppose there was part of me that could understand how he felt. He loves someone that doesn’t return his feelings, and that shit burns. Intensely.

Finishing off my dance halfway up the pole with my back arched and my head nearly touching the tips of my hooker heels as I call them, I slowly slide down the pole until I hit the ground to a round of applause. Good to know I’ve still got it I think to myself.

I didn’t take classes, nor have I done anything like this before. However, there have been a few times when I’ve been three sheets to the wind and ended up dancing on a bar or two. You can also substitute the word bar with table top, stage, back of a booth, around a chair or stool, and a microphone stand and any of them would fit. Yes, you would be right in assuming I have absolutely no inhibitions after drinking copious amounts of hard liquor. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’m a little uncontrollable when I’ve consumed my weight in tequila. Which isn’t a frequent occurrence, but is more often than Brookes, Brandt, or any of my other brothers would like.

Taking a bow and shuffling off stage, a young woman whose name I learned is Macy, quickly makes her way on stage to collect my discarded clothing and any props I’d used. When I arrived tonight, Shorty told me it’s Macy’s job to be a glorified, or not in regards to his place, goffer. She is to fetch whatever any of the dancers need, set up and remove props, collect clothing and lingerie making sure it gets back to their rightful owners, and tidy up the dressing rooms at the end of the night. The poor thing looked harried and run off her feet, and all too familiar.

I’d spent almost my entire routine, aside from the parts where I was fantasizing about doing this dance privately for Rob, trying to place where I’d seen Macy before. Leaning against the wall off in the wings of the now lit stage it hits me like a bolt of lightning. My whole body jerks upright at the realization of who she is and what she means to my family.

Macy is to Liam what Rob is to me, except more. Much more. Almost seven years ago, a one Macy Mayweather disappeared never to be seen or heard from again. It happened well after I’d graduated high school and enlisted in the Army, but I can vividly remember the articles written about her disappearance. It all but tore our home of Lancaster, just south of Dallas, Texas apart. They all but did ruin my brother, Liam.

Liam and Macy had been friends since second grade when he pushed her into a mud puddle at school and she retaliated in kind throwing a mud pie at him, hitting him square in the face. They’d both been hauled into the principal’s office, covered in mud, smiling like loons, but where Mom came to collect Liam and grounded him from riding his bike for two weeks, Macy’s step-father demanded she publically apologize and work off the value of Liam’s ruined clothes doing chores around our house. Needless to say, my mom didn’t care about the clothes, but the same couldn’t be said for Macy’s over the top step-father.

Swearing her to secrecy, mom let her off without so much as having to lift a finger and decided to take Macy under her wing. Macy’s mom had only died the year before and without any living relatives to take her in, and some that were in fact alive but not interested in a little girl cramping their lifestyles, Macy was left in the care of her step-father, Harold. The man could barely be bothered coming home at night, too wrapped up in his work to check on his seven-year old charge, let alone care for her, so Macy quickly became a permanent fixture at our house after school every day and most weekends.

Liam and Macy’s friendship was the stuff of legends are born from. They loved each other dearly, but that didn’t stop them from pulling pranks on the each other. Pranks that had me and my older brothers shuddering in disgust. Anything from worms and snails in Macy’s backpack that would have her screaming blue murder, to her hiding dead fish around Liam’s bedroom and feigning innocence when he chased her down to deliver his form of tickle torture as punishment. They bantered back and forth like an old married couple, fought more than they got on, and they loved every minute of it.

I was sixteen by the time Macy came into our lives, and even I at my young, impressionable age, could see Liam and Macy were destined for something more than mere friendship. Until she disappeared without a trace that is.

I know for a fact Liam hasn’t let a day go by without searching for her. He has used every resource available to him and EyeSee to look into her whereabouts, and until now she had never been seen again. No one knew why she left, it was all conjecture and assumptions. There was one letter left for Liam, but even that didn’t hint at where she was going and what she was going to do. Harold ticked all the boxes by filing a missing persons report, calling her friends, and trying to interrogate Liam, which we put an end to as soon as it began seeing as he was doing nothing but blame Liam for leading her astray. Not that we had any delusions that the man actually cared for his ward, he just didn’t want to come across as an even bigger asshole than he already did, hence the half-assed attempt to find her.

I had about ten seconds before she came back stage to consider my options, not a lot of time I know, but I was well-versed in making important decisions under pressure and this one was no different than the thousands before it. Macy aside, I peeked my head out from behind the curtain taking in the room, searching out the man I was here to apprehend. Sure, if I was being truthful I wasn’t actually here to apprehend him, but I doubted the MC would have an issue with me detaining him until they could get him to wherever he need to go, and do whatever they intended to do with him. And if they did care, well, stiff shit because if I saw an opportunity I was going to take it.

Waiting for Macy to finish up, we walked side-by-side back to my dressing room, coming face-to-face with the one and only, Elias ‘Demon’ Walker in the process. In his early sixties the man was still a force to be reckoned with. None of his bulk had turned into the paunch that a lot of older men carried, and he still looked as fit as he would have been in his forties.

Feeling Macy shiver beside me I push her gently behind my body, effectively cutting her off from his view and whisper,

“Hey, Racy Macy,” I say calling her by the nickname Liam used for her in order to calm her down. “Take a deep breath, then slowly and carefully reach behind you into my purse hanging on the back of my chair, and feel around for my gun, okay?”

I shuffle us backwards a few steps until I know she’s as close to the chair where my purse is hanging as we’re going to get without being detected. I can only hope that she’s got it together enough now to follow my directions. Murmuring her agreement, I turn and see her giving me a slight smile while I also notice her hand moving awkwardly behind her. Tilting my head back slightly and dropping my voice again, so that only she can hear, I say,

“When you’ve got it tuck it in the back of my thong, and while you’re at it hand me that shirt you’re holding would you?” It wouldn’t do to have my thong playing peek-a-boo for the world to see when it pulls tight as my gun is stuffed in it now would it?

I turn back and focus my attention on the man that’s top of the MC’s ‘to be killed’ list and ask as sweetly as I can.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

The dark gleam in his eye tells me there is indeed something I can do for him, and I’m not going to like it. Not one little bit. Taking the white business shirt from Macy’s outstretched hand, I slip it on only having time to fasten three of the eight buttons before he replies.

“Yeah, slut, there’s something you can do for me alright. Ditch the bitch and you can dance for me private like. I wanna see what else you’re hiding under that tiny, pink, pussy patch you’ve got on.”

Macy gasps behind me trembling in fear, and I can tell I’ve only got minutes to diffuse, disarm, and detain the big asshole before she completely loses her shit, or we’ll be even more fucked than we appear to be right now. Guys like this get off on control and power. They don’t care how they get it as long as they get it in spades, and by the looks of this one particular asshole he’s worse than most. I don’t need to know his background to assess his character. He’s broadcasting it via his body language and evil smirk loud and clear.

Squeezing Macy’s hand in what I hope is a reassuring gesture, I reply,

“Unfortunately it’s my first night here, sir, so I don’t do private dances yet. I can find out who’s available to give you one if you’d like, or you can come back next week after I’ve learned the ropes better and I’d be happy to perform one for you then,” I offer.

Taking advantage of my excellent peripheral vision, I scan the room trying to determine which exit point is the most accessible. The entry, Demon is blocking. The connecting door to the larger dressing room is blocked by a stack of boxes four high, two deep, and three wide. And the only other access is a back door which appears to be locked and dead bolted by a lever mechanism at the top that I’ve got no hope in hell of reaching. Neither does Macy even if I could create a big enough diversion. Oh well, through him instead of around it is then.

This isn’t my first rodeo and I doubt it’s his either. We’re both sizing each other up checking for weaknesses. Deciding to slide off my shoes, which may give me height but detract from my agility and speed, I keep my focus on his movements only to see him draw his own weapon and level it on a spot just below my right shoulder. If he fires it’s not a kill shot, but it is center mass and it’s going to hurt like a sonofabitch. I’ve been shot before and it’s not my favorite thing in the world to do on a rainy day, but they say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and I can only pray in this case that holds true.

I’m giving it five minutes, if I can distract him for that long, for the five men, Rob being the fifth, to play conquering hero before I kick Demon’s ass myself. My feet are killing me, my ass is cold being left out in the breeze without the proper protection of panties that are bigger than dental floss, and I’m freaking starving. I mean, what does a woman have to do to get a cheese burger and fries after a workout like that?

“I don’t give a fuck if you started working here ten minutes ago, you know your way round a pole, so how bout you come back with me and show me what you can do with the pole in my pants that’s wanting your attention,” he sneers.

How original I muse. Seriously, I’m not kidding when I say, I’d laugh out loud at how fucking stupid that sounded if I didn’t have a big ass hand cannon pointed at my chest. I mean, can men get any more disgusting? In his case, probably not.

This is one of the times like I mentioned before when you need to make important decisions at the drop of a hat. You take in all the available information, review the facts you’ve been given prior to engaging the target, and assess the best course of action with the least impact on human life and the greatest chance of success. What that really means is, you decide which option is less likely to get you killed and go with that one. In this case, taking him out before he can do me the privilege of blowing a hole in my chest the size of the Grand Canyon is looking like my best bet.