Hung (Selected Sinners MC #4) (5 page)

BISCUIT

I carefully pulled the brush along the edge of the wooden door trim, being cautious not to touch the wood with the bristles of the brush, but taking time to ensure the
Revere Pewter
paint underneath the new coat of
Chelsea Red
was covered completely. After I reached the bottom of the trim I took a few steps back and admired the room.

The red paint was a refreshing change. The pewter color had only been on the walls for roughly four weeks, but the red really set the room off and made everything pop. Masking off the trim was always an option - but I took pride in doing everything by hand - a steady hand and a little caution provided me with tremendous satisfaction. My nostrils flared as I took a long deep breath and gazed around the room blankly.

The smell of success.

After carrying the paint, drop cloths, and brushes to the garage I went into the kitchen and washed my hands. Alt-J’s
Left Hand Free
played from my iPod, providing further proof that the art of creating good music had not been lost in the modern age.

Music was my only outlet, my only escape. I hadn’t had a television in my house for almost fifteen years. Although I’d watched television at some of the Sinners homes, and when we were on the road I often watched it in the hotel, I viewed my life as much more simple if I didn’t have access to a television or watch the news.

As a teen I decided to stop, and I never regretted my decision since making it - when so many of my brothers were depressed about world events I was none the wiser. Often, subjects being discussed were several months or even a year old before I learned they had even happened. I lived with much less grief and seemed to have a fairly steady emotional state as a result.

As I dried my hands I heard my phone beep. Modern technology was without a doubt the downfall of society, but having a telephone was mandatory for a Sinner, and I accepted it as a useful tool.

I scrolled through the text message from Otis and typed my response.

Be there in fifteen, Brother.

I slipped the phone into the front pocket of my jeans, unplugged my iPod, grabbed my keys, and walked out to the garage. After plugging my iPod into the pigtail on the stereo of my bike, I fired it up and opened the garage door.

As the Black Key’s
Sinister Kid
blared from my saddlebag mounted speakers, I pulled out of the garage and onto the street. My neighbors had come to accept the fact I was a biker and rode a loud as fuck Harley, but they’d never quite understood my need to play the music I did as loud as I chose to. As the thumping bass shook the handlebars slightly, I rolled back the throttle and leaned into the first curve leading out of my neighborhood.

Riding a Harley wasn’t something I chose to do because I thought it was cool, or because I felt a need to be surrounded by others who supported me. It became a way of life from the first time I rode a bike at eighteen years of age. From that very first day, I had ridden every day possible. To me, riding cleansed my soul. A thirty minute ride alone could take me from the foulest of moods and insert me in my own star-filled heaven. Whatever it might have been that had me upset quickly vanished – and never returned – after a full-throttle ride down the highway.

Riding and music, my two much needed outlets.

As I pulled into the parking lot I noticed Otis hadn’t arrived yet. I parked the bike on the sidewalk, kicked the kickstand down, and let Jimi Hendrix’s
Red House
finish playing before I turned off the key. Jimi’s music provided a constant reminder of the talent that was lost – never to be replaced – as a result of drug use. The talented musicians who had died as a result of drug overdoses over the years sickened me.

Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Nick Drake, Sid Vicious, John Bonham, Shannon Hoon, and Amy Winehouse, all dead for no good reason other than the fact they didn’t know when to stop using drugs and start living life.

Me?

Never used the stuff and never planned on starting.

As the music stopped and the next song began, I turned the key and stepped over the seat. After reaching over and locking the bike, I walked into the empty bar. After a quick study, it seemed four people would be joining Otis and me, none of which provided me a feeling of threat or a sexual interest. I walked to the bar, sat down, and ordered a drink.

“Double vodka and a can of Red Bull when ya get a minute,” I said as I sat down on the bar stool.

“Be just a second,” the bartender said over her shoulder.

Turn around so I can get a good look at ya.

No more than a thirty second wait later, and she slid a can of Red Bull and a glass of vodka in front of me. Half zoned-out and listening to Peter Gabriel’s
Solsbury Hill
, I glanced up and blinked as my eyes attempted to come into focus.

God damn....

Cute as absolute fuck, probably tipping the scales at a hundred and ten pounds, and all of five foot three, the bartender had perfect complexion, smooth skin, beautiful green eyes, and fire engine red hair with two purple stripes – in the front. A definitive line across the center of her head from left to right separated the back half of her hair, which was brown. The entire multi-color scheme of unnatural hair colors repulsed me.

I puckered my face like I’d just bit into a lemon and turned away.

God damned waste of a fine lookin’ girl if you ask me.

I reached over my shoulder, fumbled for my glass of vodka, and sighed as I finally felt the cool glass in my hand. As I took a drink and tried to wash the sight of her from my mind, Otis stepped into the bar.

Otis was a strange man. Satisfied by simply living life, he wasn’t a typical biker, nor was he a typical man. He didn’t have an Ol’ Lady, only had a girlfriend during his high school years, and never took the time – or had the desire – to try and pick up women. He was the definitely one of the club’s strong points, and was often the man a brother would go to in a time of need. His advice was well thought out, never pre-prepared, and always considerate of who it was that was receiving it. The fact he wanted to meet me
to talk
had me a little concerned, but only a little.

I stood from the bar stool and opened my arms, “Big O, what’s shakin’?”

“Just needing to unwind. Let’s go over and sit in one of those booths, I don’t need the bartender listening to what we’re talking about,” he said as he tilted his head toward the booth on the other side of the bar.

I patted him on the back and turned toward the bar, “No argument from me, that stool is as hard as a wedding day cock.”

I grabbed my vodka and Red Bull, anxious to get away from the walking box of crayons behind the bar.

“Place don’t seem the same without Avery and that other chick workin’, does it?” I asked as we walked toward the booth.

“Sure doesn’t,” Otis said as he sat down.

The night we all met Avery, Otis staged a fight between Toad and Pete. Hell, Toad was kickin’ the absolute shit out of Pete, and I had no idea why. Toad will fight a man just for the sake of doin’ it, but fightin’ one of your brothers generally requires a good reason. Come to find out later Otis set it up just so Slice could see how the poor gal handled the outburst.

That damned Avery is good for Slice, no doubt about it. She keeps him grounded, and his mood swings are almost non-existent now. Personally, I don’t need a woman to keep me grounded, but for some of the fellas, it’s a necessity. Although I never would have guessed Slice would be one of those fellas, I was pleased to see him commit to Avery, and more pleased to see how he changed after they moved in together.

The big tittied friend of Avery’s was a totally different story, and nothing short of a sexual train wreck. As I laughed to myself at the thought of her, I leaned forward and grinned, “Sure you heard about Corn Dog and that poor girl who worked here, huh?”

“I’ve heard some, yeah,” Otis nodded.

“They’re inseparable now. He’s been fuckin’ that poor girl six ways from Sunday. Talked to him after the meeting the other day. Said he’s been schooling her on sucking cock, and it sounds like she’s got quite the sexual appetite. Anyway, He’s making up for the five years of lost time he spent in the joint,” I said.

Otis seemed a little off his game. He slowly nodded his head as he looked beyond me and into the bar, “I’m sure he is.”

As he waved his hand in the air, I continued, “You know, every one of the fellas is fascinated by that girl’s big fucking titties. But me? I’m fascinated with the fact Toad wrapped her head in god damned Saran Wrap, fucked her until she was damned near dead, and then took her to the Dog’s house, dropped her off, and she ain’t fuckin’ left yet. Hell, until the Toad dropped her off, she’d never met Corn Dog.”

“I’ll take a couple of Michelob Ultras and bring him another can of Red Bull and a few iced double vodkas,” Otis said as the waitress walked up.

I turned and glanced over my shoulder toward the waitress. Tall and far beyond gorgeous, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties and all of damned near six foot tall. If I was a guessing man, I would guess she was one of Avery’s volleyball sisters from the college.

The waitress grinned as she shifted her eyes from Otis to me, “Sounds good. You guys aren’t going to shoot the place up, are you?” 

“We might after we get a few drinks in us,” I chuckled.

She glanced over at Otis and studied him for a long minute. Knowing Otis wasn’t going to make a move on this girl, and feeling like I damned sure needed to, I cleared my throat.

“God damn…” I sighed as I shifted my eyes up and down her frame.

“What?” she snapped back as she turned to face me.

“Your eyes. They’re the craziest blue I ever seen,” I responded.

She shrugged her shoulders, “Contacts.”

Colored contact lenses, I had a little experience with them and it wasn’t good. In fact, it kind of freaked me out at first. I never understood why a person felt a need to try and be someone or something they weren’t. My eyes were hazel, and I never had a desire to have them be anything but what God gave me.

“Figures,” I grunted as I shifted in my seat.

“Be back in a minute,” she said.

I leaned forward and shook my head, “Nothin’ against the Dog, but I wonder about that fuckin’ girl, Sloan. Damned thing can’t have a lick of proper upbringing in her. Personally, I wouldn’t fuck her with Pete’s cock, and he’s a nasty fucker. Corn Dog’s pounding that shit like each day’s his last, so I guess I’ll say good for him; and from what he was sayin’ she’s become mighty fine at sucking cock. Oh, shit, I almost forgot, I got a story to tell ya.”

Otis grinned and nodded his head. He generally listened to my stories and seemed to enjoy them, even if he’d heard them before. As I started to tell my tale, I couldn’t immediately remember if I’d told him in the past.

“So, speaking of suckin’ cock, there was this girl; she gave the best fuckin’ head ever. Damned thing was like a trained professional, and probably should have had a college course on how to properly suck a cock. She could take my meat all the way to the balls, stick out her god damned tongue, and curl it around my nut sack without missin’ a beat,” I paused and waited to see if he looked uninterested.

He grinned and waited for more.

“So, this bitch had the most beautiful blue eyes. And, because she had no gag reflex, I could fuck this girl’s mouth just like I was fuckin’ a pussy. Anyway, when I’d pound her throat with my cock, I’d look down into her eyes, and after she bat those long lashes and revealed those damned eyes a few times, I’d just explode. She knew her eyes were my biggest weakness, and she was right,” I ran my fingers through my beard and waited for a second to continue.

He leaned into the table and waited for more.

“So one night, she’s down on her knees, and she’s going to town on my cock. Just a slurpin’ and a suckin’ like this one’s her last. Hell, I’m lookin’ up at the ceiling like I got no interest in watchin’ her, which couldn’t be any further from the truth. My problem was this,” I paused as the waitress walked up.

She slid the drinks onto the table. Although I couldn’t immediately identify the name of her perfume, I had smelled it in the past, and really enjoyed it. As my mind drifted away at the thought of her scent, she spoke.

“Here you go, two iced vodka doubles, a can of Red Bull, and two Ultras. Anything else?”

I stared at the drinks and inhaled a shallow breath through my nose.

“Other than being like super big, you don’t look like a biker, I mean not
really
,” the waitress asked.

I grabbed the bottom of my cut and tugged on it proudly, “Never thought I was super big, but thanks,
I guess
.”

“I uhhm, I was meaning him,” she responded with a laugh.

“Oh,” I sighed.

Otis seemed offended. As he lifted his beer and tilted it her direction, he replied, “I don’t know that bikers look
any
certain way to be quite honest. I look the way I look and I’m a biker. One has nothing to do with the other.”