Their Bounty (Four Mercenaries 1)

That, Clover could live with. He smiled at Tank, relieved that he wouldn’t have to hide his sexuality. “The pleasure’s mine,” he winked at the biker, who burst out with laughter and patted Clover’s arm.

Another club member invited them all inside, to a huge open space made of stone and wood. Hunting trophies hung all over the walls, though Clover’s gaze was drawn to the mounted head of a deer, because there was an entire collection of women’s panties hung on its antlers. And below? A large pool table, a blackboard with female names and a tally.

He could only guess what that was about, but then he spotted ‘Travis’ among the names and wasn’t sure of his original assessment anymore.

Drake and Tank were soon gone to talk something through with Cross. Boar had been tempted by the promise of tasting beer the bikers—or rather their community—brewed themselves, which left Pyro with the task of watching over Clover. Within moments, they were alone for the first time in forever, because all the strangers didn’t count.

Pyro cleared his throat, his chest already revealed for the party, since he’d pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and dragged it behind his head. It was hot, but Clover felt too exposed to follow his example and stayed in all of his clothes. He’d chosen a green T-shirt with a big four-leafed clover and the slogan: Kiss me, I’m Irish but wasn’t so sure about its message anymore. He didn’t know the rules this community lived by, and things could get awkward here real fast.

“So yeah… have fun,” Pyro said, nudging Clover toward a gathering of women, who ogled him as if he were the most curious thing they’d seen in a long time.

‘Have fun’? That was the extent of Pyro’s help in socializing? Well, Clover wasn’t born yesterday, so he knew a diss when he got one. He smiled and walked off, wishing Tank was here to guide him through things. Since he didn’t know anyone, he smiled at the women.

One of them, an attractive blonde with a distinctly cougar vibe, gestured at him with one long-nailed finger, but it might have as well been a message from the whole lot of the female spectators who’d ogled him since he entered the room. He approached, but before he got to speak, one of the women grabbed the front of his T-shirt and gave him a damp yet short kiss.

“We love Irishmen.”

Clover laughed. “I’m not actually Irish. But my name’s Clover. Do you all live here? It’s like a village.”

“His name’s Clover,” the woman said a bit louder, so that the others could hear her over the loud music, and that scrap of information caused an eruption of smiles. The woman who’d called Clover over earlier picked up a bottle with no labels and had it passed to him. Clover thought it was some kind of homemade juice at first, but the thing smelled of spirit so strongly he recoiled, making all the women laugh, as if it were all a gag. He wasn’t sure what to think.

“I’m Mina,” the girl who kissed him said before grabbing Clover’s hand and directing it so she could have a long sip from the bottle while he was still holding on to it. “Just try. We make it here ourselves.”

Oh. So this was some Idaho moonshine. His head wasn’t very strong when it came to alcohol, but he figured it was only polite to sample what he was offered. Like minty fire on his tongue, it burned all the way down his throat, bringing tears to his eyes, but he tried to smile at them even as he started coughing.

“Very… good,” he rasped.

He hadn’t intended to become a mascot, but one thing led to another, and fifteen minutes later he sat on a sofa next to the cougar, whose name was Star, and answered millions of questions about his albinism. And about his life with Tank’s crew, because his role in the group fascinated the women from the get go. Apparently, Tank had a bit of a reputation when it came to his tastes in men.

The moonshine became more palatable with each sip, and he loosened up, listening to Star’s prophecies and various comments about the sexual prowess of the men present. He didn’t intend to get it on with strangers, but he enjoyed the anecdotes nevertheless, especially that it turned out he hadn’t been wrong about the blackboard.

“Travis should really step up his game now that you’re here,” Mina said, nuzzling Clover’s ear in a way that bordered on sexual. Then again, they were all too drunk to stick to boundaries.

Clover shook his head. The last thing he needed was Twink Wars. “No, no, I’m no one’s competition,” he said with a slur. Only now it struck him that he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable when drunk. Not because the moonshine was strong, but because he always had to stay on his toes, always on the lookout for danger, whereas here, with the guys somewhere around, he could relax.