Pagan (The Henchmen MC 8)

Virgin shot Sugar a look, both silently communicating something we weren't in on. When he spoke, his voice was deep, not rough and gravelly like Edison's, but smooth and slick. Bet my fucking cut that he got boatloads of pussy thrown at him. "Enforcing."

Hired muscle.

Cy and I shared a look, both knowing the same thing- Reign would like that. When it came to MCs, he was a bit prejudiced against the ones who ran drugs or women. He didn't like that shit, and he didn't want it in his operation. But hired muscle? Guys who knew how to use their hands? He'd be all over that.

"You guys met our prez yet?" Cyrus asked, moving to stand.

We had orders to bring what we thought were good prospects up to the big guys so they could get more info out of them, get a feel for them, maybe get some names to hand off to Lo's people so they could run them and check their records.

Reign might have wanted to build his numbers back up, but he wanted to be smart about it.

Alone, I tipped back my drink, watching another crowd of women make their way inside the front doors.

Desperate was a look that you could somehow also smell on a woman. Sure, all you had to do was look at the skirt that was short enough to see full ass and twat if they so much as slightly bent forward, the heels high enough to break an ankle in, the too-dark eye-makeup, the shiny lips, the tits spilling over their shirts. Some even had the added oomph of having their entire stomachs on display. One had a shirt so short that all you saw was underboob when she turned. But there was also something that seeped out of their pores, distinct even above the smell of whatever shitty cheap perfume they practically bathed in.

Each was distinct to the woman. But there were a few general ingredients they all had.

I need you to fuck me until I feel pretty.

I need you to make me feel as useless as I already think I am.

I need you to reinforce my daddy issues.

Then they went ahead and sprinkled a few concentrated drops of their own personal baggage in the mix, slipped into something slutty, and walked through the door.

I wasn't huge on fucking clubwhores. But did I maybe have a handful of them in the past? Fuck yeah I did. And I had no regrets. But given the choice between getting that smell all over me and trying to wash it off for a week after, or finding some chick at Hex or Chaz's who smelled like possibilities instead, I'd take the possibilities any day. Not because I wanted to settle down with those possibilities, mind you, just because they didn't get all over your skin after and make you feel slimy as fuck.

I was considering grabbing another underboob-showing chick, taking her back to a room, and fucking her until I got my surly mood out of my system, when she walked in.

She had a slut uniform on; I'd give her that. Her long, slim legs were almost completely on display in her skintight black club dress that her big tits looked ready to burst out of. Her black hair was long and had that wave shit going on. Her eyes were lined, her lips red.

She looked ready for a fuck.

But no amount of window dressing could mask the fact that she wasn't there, not yet. Desperate. It was almost like she was courting it, like she was looking for that one last experience that would reinforce what she believed about herself. And if she was looking for that, getting fucked by one, or a train, of bikers, was sure to give it to her.

Normally, I would shrug it off.

Hell, she was pretty enough, I might have even been willing to give her what she was seeking.

But no amount of slutwear or makeup could hide the fact that she was barely more than a kid.

There was no way she was even close to being drinking age.

So two weeks of frustration came to the surface, making my voice loud enough to be heard over the music, the conversation all around.

"What the fuck are you, eighteen fucking years old?" I asked, standing, waving my drink hand at her. "Get the fuck out of here. You're too fucking young to be a goddamn clubwhore. Go play with some Barbies and Bonnie Bell, and leave the fuck-me heels and dick-sucking lipstick to women who fucked their lives up enough that being a cumdumpster to a guy who doesn't even know her name is the highlight of her mother fucking week." My voice hadn't lowered, even as I put my drink on the bar and walked up to her, the loudness making her shock back, eyes huge. If I wasn't mistaken, those big brown eyes of hers were getting watery. Because she knew I was fucking right. "Want better for yourself," I added, close to her ear, as I moved past, walking out the front door and into the yard.