Hung (Selected Sinners MC #4) (12 page)

BISCUIT

I would rather spend the rest of my life without ever being in another fight. The odds of that happening, however, were pretty damned slim. I’d been in more fights than any other man I’d ever met, and looking back on it, most had been instigated by someone who I perceived as being disrespectful. I could stand for a lot of things, but for a man to be disrespectful to me, one of my brothers, or a woman wasn’t something I was willing to ever accept.

The world seemed to be filled with people who had very little understanding of the importance of being respectful, and although I realized it was not my
responsibility
to teach them to do so, my
ability
to convince people of my beliefs on the matter made it difficult for me not to do my best to cleanse this earth of the filth which continued to fill it. The disrespectful men on this earth seemed to swim in circles like sharks, waiting for the next weak victim to expose itself, only to be savagely devoured solely for an inability to fight back.

To think for one minute I could rid this earth of every man who resembled Kyle would be foolish on my part.

But I did my God forsaken best to make certain what little portions of this world which exposed themselves to me were free of any and all men like him.

Being raised by a father who spent all of his free time drunk and beating on my mother wasn’t easy for me. When I was young, I wasn’t big enough to whip him, and although I couldn’t convince my mother to leave, convincing myself to do so was easy. At fifteen years old, I left and never looked back, moving damned near eight hundred miles away from my hometown.

Seventeen years later, accepting that I’d walked away from my mother - leaving her at the hands of that cruel prick - was impossible. I struggled with my decision on an almost daily basis, wondering if I should have just killed my old man and took her from the abusive hell she lived in. Wondering what my mother’s life had become, and knowing men like him didn’t ever change, I was forced to either accept what I had done, or live with the guilt for doing it.

The guilt suffocated me as if I were drowning, and my only way to obtain one more much needed breath was to fight my way to the surface of the water, eliminating every shark I encountered in the process.

“So I beat the brakes off this so-called Marine, tossed his ass on the couch, and bent down there and breathed into his ear.
You punk assed little bitch
, I said. And then I bit off the bottom half of his ear and spit that fucker on the floor.”

I nodded my head and reached for my bottle of beer.

Axton shook his head for a moment, eventually fixing his eyes on mine, “God damn, Biscuit. Pulled a Mike fucking Tyson on his ass, huh?”

I shrugged my shoulders, still fuming from what he had done to Kat.

“Is that it? You didn’t kill the fucker did you?” Axton shrugged.

“That ain’t all I did, but no, I didn’t kill him. I should have, but I didn’t. Put the boots to him for a bit, and told him I’d have Pete butt fuck him and cut his hands off if he ever came back. Oh, and I drug his ass down the steps, three god damned flights,” I chuckled as I lifted my bottle.

“By his fuckin’ feet. His head bounced off each god damned step, thumpity-thumping all the way down. I think he got the point,” I grinned.

“The girl alright?” Axton asked as he stood.

I pushed myself from table and took a drink of beer, “Yeah. He slapped her a few times and tried to make her suck his cock. She was pretty shook up. Too fucked up to fuck, that’s for sure. I stuck around for an hour or so and just held her ‘till she fell asleep. You know, the whole deal reminded me of my mother. I just wish…”

“Can’t change it Biscuit. We’ve talked about this a million times,” Axton sighed, “You did what you had to do. You did good by this girl. I’m pretty surprised you didn’t kill the prick, but I’m god damned pleased you aren’t in jail.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not certain of what to say. Each and every time I learned of another man abusing a woman, the sensible side of my mind went somewhere else, leaving a two hundred pound fifteen year old boy to make decisions.

“She must have been worn the fuck out,” Axton sighed, breaking the silence, “going to sleep at three in the afternoon.”

“So did you take time to talk to her about her father’s little visit?” he asked.

I shook my head and stood from my seat, “No. Kind of forgot about it at first, then when she was cryin’ and fallin’ asleep, didn’t really want to upset her.”

“You know my recommendation. Get it over with as soon as you can. That’s all I’ve got for advice. You sure you’re alright, brother?” he asked as he stood.

“I’m good. Just need to drink this beer,” I grinned.

Axton nodded his head, “Well, I’m gonna get the fuck out of here, Avery’s off early today and we’re gonna ride out to Benton to the airport.”

I raised the bottle and grinned.

Axton said as he turned toward the door, “Lock up when you leave.”

“Always do, Boss,” I nodded.

He stopped at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder, “Remember what I said. I don’t want that fucking cop back over here looking for you any time soon.”

“Gotcha,” I said as I tilted my beer bottle toward him.

“And don’t toss that fucking bottle in my trash,” he grunted as he walked down the hallway.

After I heard him ride away, I sat in the office and thought about everything that had happened. Kat was no different than any other girl I’d ever fucked, but something about her made her more attractive to me. Unable to pinpoint exactly what it was, I wondered if her father’s insistence of my leaving her was what made her more appealing.

The forbidden fruit.

After finishing my beer, I decided that wasn’t the case, as I seemed to have a fondness for her long before her father showed up at the shop. After struggling with my decision for some time, eventually I decided it was in my best interest to step aside for at least a few days, and see if she made contact with me. The time away would let me make a decision without a brain manipulated by the power of pussy.

I walked into the shop, glanced down at my swollen knuckles, and tossed the empty beer bottle in the trash. As I gazed across the shop at my bike, I decided more than anything I needed to clear my mind. The only way I had found to truly rid my mind of what was bothering me was to ride, and ride hard. After pushing the bike into the parking lot and setting the alarm, I fired the engine and let it warm to operating temperature.

As I reached for the hand controls and pulled in the clutch, the iPod switched songs, shuffling randomly to the next tune it selected from my 4,000 song playlist. Strangely, The National’s
I Need My Girl
blared out of the speakers and filled the parking lot with snippets of wisdom about a man in need of his girl.

For some reason, no differently than the man in the song, I felt smaller and smaller as each moment passed. After the song stopped playing, I pressed the
back
button and repeated it. Half way through it, I pulled the clutch lever, shifted into gear, and released the clutch. As the bike slowly rolled down the street, the song ended and Cypress Hill’s
How I Could Just
Kill a Man
began playing.

I reached for the iPod, turned the volume to maximum, and rolled back the throttle. As the bike sped through the intersection and down the street, I tilted my head back, rested my feet on the floorboards, and grinned. The random cars parked at the side of the street rushed past me like fence posts on the highway.

That’s more like it.

I rounded the corner onto the highway 30 miles per hour faster than the speed limit - dragging the floorboards as I did so - sparks flying behind me until I straightened the bike up after the curve. There was no doubt the forty mile ride to Wichita would clear my mind. To me, riding my bike was like a shot of heroine to a junkie.

There was nothing in the world that could ever replace it.

Or make the itch go away.

Nothing at all.

KAT

I hadn’t heard from Biscuit in four days, and as much as I didn’t want to let it bother me, it did. Most would probably believe all we shared was sex, and that I was a typical clingy female for feeling the way I felt, but to me although our
relationship
wasn’t much more than sex, my
feelings
were based on how intrigued I was by him, my physical attraction to his handsome looks, and his ability to make me laugh on command. Lastly, I felt like when no one else ever attempted to or was able, Biscuit had saved me from the sickening piece of human garbage who continued to resurface in my life, Kyle.

Maybe to Biscuit I was nothing more than a piece of ass, and although that was what I agreed to be, my mind struggled with accepting him as no more than a cock. His love for music, lack of desire to have a television or computer, and passion for the open road made him a far more appealing man to me than almost anyone I could ever remember meeting. There was no doubt he was a tough and capable biker, he’d proven that – but there seemed to be so much more to him. He possessed a certain kindness even when we were having sex, never giving me more than I was able to handle, but making sure I got everything I needed and deserved. As demanding as he was sexually and as naturally dominant as he seemed to be, it didn’t overshadow his natural kindness. The nights we sat in his living room naked, listening to music for hours after we’d had me hoping that even if it was happening slowly, he was becoming attracted to having me in his life beyond sex.

How he held me after dragging Kyle from my home wasn’t something he
had
to do. He did it because he
wanted
to. And, in the end, he didn’t even try to have sex with me. He held me until I fell asleep, tucked me into my bed, and kissed me on the forehead before he left.

I wondered if he realized I knew he kissed me.

I hoped he didn’t.

I suspected most people who didn’t actually know me would perceive me as an immature 22 year old woman, concerned with nothing more than having a man who I could cling to, screw, and pilfer money from. Truthfully, I believed myself to be very mature, and longed for someone who was kind, funny, very masculine, simplistic in his needs, and willing as well as able to satisfy me sexually. My previous relationships, even eliminating Kyle, had been filled with sex, and excluded much reciprocating emotion. It seemed I used sex as a way to get back at my overbearing father, thinking if I fucked the men he despised; it would cause him to feel the same level of pain he imposed on me as I grew up under his oversized thumb he always pressed down upon me.

In reality, something within me directed me toward the bad boys of this earth; and a kind, calm, cute office manager with a Mercedes-Benz and an unlimited bank account wasn’t attractive to me. Right or wrong, I wanted an alpha male who wasn’t afraid to put me in my place when I needed it, but take care of me and cherish me along the way. I had always told myself if that person was ever to be found, I would cling to him like gum to a shoe.

In all reality, my desire was Biscuit.

But he didn’t want a conventional relationship. And I gave my word I wouldn’t press the issue, and assured him I could be satisfied with a sexual relationship.

NSA.

No. Strings. Attached.

Many people did it. I had no idea how many actually
succeeded
at it, but I really didn’t care. If I had to, at least for now, I’d do it unsuccessfully, hiding my true feelings until I was either able to be honest, or got disgusted with the lack of returned emotion.

I needed to step up my game. The next time I saw him, I wasn’t going to let him fuck me.

I had made up my mind.

It wasn’t going to happen.

I was going to turn the tables.

It was high time Kat step up to her A-game.

He
wasn’t going to fuck me next time;
I
was going to fuck
him
.

BISCUIT

I stood back and admired the new
Sandstone Beige
paint. The room looked significantly larger in the light beige tone than it did in the
Chelsea Red
. I turned slowly and studied all of the trim along the floor, making certain there were no spots in need of touch-up before I took the drop cloths from the floor.

Everything looked perfect.

After a satisfactory nod, I reached for the can of paint, pressed the lid onto the top, and carried everything to the garage. As I placed the can on the workbench I wondered how much I’d spent on paint over the years. It really didn’t matter, a bright well-painted room was something I truly enjoyed, and if it took me three dozen attempts to get it right, I could rest easily knowing I was giving it my best effort.

As I glanced around the garage at the various half-empty cans of paint, I heard a car in the drive.

Perfect timing.

I walked to the edge of the garage, pressed the button, and opened the door. Cassie’s car was parked in the front of the drive, and she was walking up the sidewalk as the door opened.

“Just come through here,” I shouted.

“Oh, okay,” she responded.

I hadn’t seen her since the day we fucked on my back deck by the pool, but considering how long she took to prepare, and what she looked like as she stood in front of me, I wondered if I’d seen her the first time through an overly aggressive pair of beer goggles. She was far from cute, sloppily dressed, had unhealthy looking hair, and was more than likely four foot ten in height.

I glanced down. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of three inch heels. I shifted my eyes upward. The scarring on her face from what I expected was a lifetime of acne caused her to look like someone had lit her face on fire and then put it out with a fork. I shifted my eyes downward slightly.

She had no tits.

I shrugged my shoulders and reached for the door leading into the house.

“Come on in,” I said as I opened the door.

“It’s really cool to get to see you again,” she said cheerily as she skipped toward the door.

Wish I could say the same.

“You fully understand why you’re here, right?” I asked.

“Uhhm, yeah. You wanted to see me?” she shrugged.

I shook my head, allowed my mouth to curl into a shitty little smirk, and chuckled, “No. I’m going to fuck you. You came here to fuck me. That’s the
only
reason you’re here.”

She shrugged her shoulders again and grinned, “Oh, yeah. Okay.”

She obviously lost her self-esteem at the same time she lost her face cleanser. I fought the urge to tell her to leave, and decided to do the complete opposite.

I pointed toward the wide open garage door and waved my hand her direction, “Shut the door and get undressed.”

She lowered her shoulder, dropped her purse, and reached for the door. As she pulled the door closed behind her, I stared blankly at her, hoping she’d change.

She didn’t.

She turned around and stared, seemingly confused on what
get undressed
meant. As she stood on one side of the island, and me on the other, I continued to glare at her in a combination of disgust and regret.

“Cassie, right?” I asked.

She smiled and bobbed her head eagerly, “Yeah, you remembered.”

“Get.”

“Undressed,” I sighed.

She glanced around the kitchen, “Here?”

“No, in the fuckin’ street,” I responded in a sarcastic tone.

She gazed at me with deer in the headlight eyes.

I shook my head and sighed heavily, “Yes,
here
. You’ll need to do it so we can fuck. Remember? We’re fuckin’, it’s why you’re here.”

“I just. I wondered if you meant
here
,” she said as pointed toward the floor.

“We’re currently in my kitchen. I’m going to fuck you, here in the kitchen. I really don’t know why, but I like fuckin’ in the kitchen. For me to fuck you, Cassie, I need your clothes in a pile on the floor. Most of them, anyway. So, take off your little shorts, those shoes, and if you think it’s necessary, yank off the top. When you’re done, we’re gonna fuck. Understand?”

“Yes Sir,” she responded sheepishly.

Sir?

“What’s with the authority?” I shrugged.

“Huh?” she said as she pulled off her shoes.

Standing a mere six feet from me, it was easy for me to be critical of everything about her which I disliked. I gazed at her as if disgusted, and to be honest, I was pretty close. After an exhausting three or four second glare, I expanded my question to hopefully allow her to comprehend my curiosity.

“I asked if you understood, and you said
yes Sir
. Why’d you say
Sir
?” I asked.

She shifted her eyes to the floor and held her gaze.

“I just read a book about a guy who was dominant and he taught a girl how to be submissive. I was just trying to please you,” she sighed.

Perfect.

Another one of those.

The world needs one more confused twenty-something year old who thinks she wants to be submissive.

I tilted my head to the side and reached for my beard, “You wanna make
me
happy?”

She glanced up and nodded her head eagerly, “Uh huh.”

“Get un-fuckin’ dressed,” I snapped.

I would have guessed, and I suspected pretty accurately so, there weren’t too many men who enjoyed a rough sexual tumble with a woman much more than me. Slapping a woman’s ass, pulling her hair, and fucking her as long and hard as I was able was roughly the extent of my sexual desire. The much wider offerings of the BDSM spectrum were left to the professionals and the kinksters, they weren’t for me.

There was something about using the zit-faced girl with dirty hair as my willing sex toy for the next hour or so that had me feeling pretty good about my decision to ask her to come over. As she removed her shirt and tossed it on the floor, she glared at me as if confused.

“Uhhm, you’re still dressed,” she shrugged as she did her best to cover her non-existent tits.

I sighed and pointed to the island in front of me, “I’m well fuckin’ aware…”

“Come over here and bend over,” I said as I slapped my hand against the counter.

Although she seemed somewhat reluctant, she walked around the island and promptly stopped in front of me, smiled, and turned around. There was no way her short little legs were going to allow her to bend over the counter. One of the things that originally her attracted to me, and now came to mind, was her long torso. The fact she was less than five feet tall – and had a long torso – left very little to make up her bottom half.

In short, her legs were all of two feet long.

Leaning onto the countertop naked, she turned and peered over her right shoulder.

“What now?” she asked.

“Hold on a minute,” I said as I raised my index finger in the air.

I walked out to the garage, grabbed a step stool, and promptly returned. After carrying it to the side of the island she was standing on, I tossed it onto the floor beside her, kicked it closer with my feet, and told her to step on top of it.

“Hop on top of that, it’ll make this a little fuckin’ easier,” I said.

“Okay,” she responded.

After a quick survey of the situation, she stepped onto the stool. Her ass was now at the proper height for me to fuck her, but I had almost no desire to do so. I leaned forward and studied her face.

Correction.

I had
no
desire.

‘You gonna do whatever the fuck I tell you, you submissive little bitch?” I asked in my best imitation of what I expected to be a Dom voice.

“Yes Sir,” she responded.

“No matter what it is, you better fuckin’ do it, understand?” I barked.

“Yes Sir,” she snapped.

Jesus. This is all too easy.

“You’re going to fuck one of my biker buddies, understand?”

“Okay,” she sighed.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and called the only person I knew would come on a moment’s notice.

Corn Dog.