Their Private Need (Death Lords MC 3)

There ain’t more to be had here. Not with Easy and not with Miss Annie. Resolutely I shut down those wants. I’m fine with my hand and if I need a body there’s always one willing to open her legs for me here at the club.

My future is mapped out for me. I belong here with the Death Lords MC.

My brothers are enough.

They have to be.

Chapter Two

Annie

“Turn away from the sinful desires, say no to the temptations of the flesh, seek God’s blessings in all things. Turn to the light, say yes to spiritual unity, and the rewards of the Lord will be plentiful.” My father’s deep voice is overloud in our small dining room. His oratory is suited for a bigger space, one even larger than the Fortune Methodist Church provides.

My eyes surreptitiously take in the time. It’s half past nine. It’s half past forever, actually. This is the fourth take of Father’s Sunday sermon. By the time the morning service rolls around, I’ll have listened to it at least three more times. Usually I can recite the whole sermon myself by Saturday evening.

I wonder what normal twenty-three-year-old women are doing on Friday night. Do they hang around together and watch television? Or are they at the bars in sparkling tops and too-short skirts flirting with men covered in tattoos and leather? Or maybe they’re having sex with their boyfriends. Anyone of those scenarios is better than what I do on Friday night or Saturday for that matter.

I’m not as innocent as everyone thinks I am. I’ve not only read books but taken advantage of the filterless Internet available on a couple of the library computers. There are pictures of positions I’d never even considered possible but the ones that I kept returning to were the images of one woman pleasured by two men.

Behind my bedroom door, I fantasize about multiple hands running over my body, multiple mouths kissing my skin. I want those multiples to belong to the two bikers that saw me home after out of town strangers vandalized my boss, Pippa’s, car.

Those two acted like one unit. They communicated with long looks and jerks of their head. When I asked Pippa about it, she gave me a worried look and said that they enjoyed doing everything together. It was a broad hint and maybe she thought I wouldn't get it but I did.

“Annie!” Father’s terse tone jerks me out of my fantasy. I try hard not to flush but that’s a losing proposition. My cheeks heat up in a predictable fashion.

Frowning, he reaches over to a stack of pamphlets and pulls one out. “I want you to attend this tomorrow.”

The half sheet of blue paper announces that the Fortune Knitting Club will be meeting at the Brew Ha Ha for its weekly get together. I swallow my groan of dismay. It’s as if he read my mind and purposely chose the activity as opposite from the bikers as possible. Actually that isn’t true because if he had read my mind, he’d take his cane and lash me with it. Father is a big believer in the proverb that a saved rod is a spoilt child.

When I was younger, he spanked me with a paddle that had the scripture carved into the wood. Between getting my mouth washed out with soap and my butt burned with the paddle, I learned not to stray too far from the path my parents had set for me. Before Mom left, it had been easier but when I was around fourteen she’d had enough of being the preacher’s wife and left us. She lives in Seattle in a writer’s colony. I think she may be a lesbian although I’m not entirely sure, but Father rails about the sins of homosexuality with special fervor.

Father forbade contact. The one time I thought about disobeying him, he had a literal heart attack. The doctors told me to keep his stress down or the next one would kill him. Father told me that not taking care of him would send me to hell. There’s so much that’s going to send me to hell. My reading choices, the pervy online pictures, the men who parade themselves bare naked in my imagination.

But I still can’t find myself turning my back on Father. He’s been the one parent who stuck with me and while he’s not super affectionate, I know he loves me. I can’t abandon him and frankly I don’t have many marketable skills.

If I left him, what would I do? I know lots about the Bible, how to put together a bulletin, pay bills, play the piano and smile when I don’t really feel like it. I haven’t seen a lot of want ads that are looking for those particular skills.

At eighteen I declared I was going to move out, get a job and live on my own. A few months later I slunk back with my tail between my legs. No one would hire me in town or even in the next county. I was too inexperienced. He never once judged me after my failed bid for independence and I was too embarrassed to try again.

I’m well suited to be church secretary. I have the dowdy clothes, the lack of sex appeal and soon I’ll be a pruny old maid. Truly, how’s a knitting club going to be worse than sitting in the parish house looking for more free clip art to stick into the church bulletin?

“Sure, I’ve been thinking I could knit a shawl.”

He nods approvingly. “You should think about a blue one. It would look pretty with your eyes.”

See? Not all bad.

“Thanks, Father.” I take the bulletin and place it in my lap. I don’t really need it though. It’s not like I have such a busy schedule that I’m not going to remember that I have an appointment after dinner tomorrow at the coffeehouse. And hey, maybe there’ll be some of my high school classmates there and I can check out how the other ninety-nine percent of the world lives.

The coffeehouse is nearly empty but for the eight ladies of the knitting circle, all of whom may be older than my dad. Disappointment threatens to overwhelm me but I straighten my shoulders and smile because there isn’t any point to nursing those blue feelings. I could be home watching reruns of Duck Dynasty or the Duggars.

Learning to knit and spending time with these ladies is better than anything I’ve got going on back home.

“Hey, Mrs. Wilkins, I hope you don’t mind a beginner like me joining you,” I say cheerfully and take a seat on the sofa next to her. She’s got the start of an afghan draped over her legs.

“While I don’t mind newcomers, aren’t you a little young for our group? You should be out with my grandkids.”

“If I was out with them, then I wouldn’t learn how to knit this amazing blanket. This is beautiful. How long does it take you?”

“About forty hours, dear.” She smiles kindly. “It’s good to see you out even if it is with us old ladies.”

Mrs. Wilkins may be in her sixties, but she has that Helen Mirren quality to her. Still beautiful and still turning heads of men twenty years younger. I should sit by her every knitting session and see if some of her magic rubs off on me.

“I’d kill to look as good as you, Mrs. Wilkins.” I pull out my plastic bag of supplies. “I went over to the Walmart and picked up needles and yarn so I’m ready to learn. Teach me,” I plead.

Mrs. Wilkins shows me the basics—how to hold the needles and hook the yarn around my thumb and pinkie. How to dip the ends together to form a purl or a knit stitch and soon I’m clacking along with the rest of them on my test row.

“How do you like that new librarian?” Mrs. Erickson asks. She appears to be working on something small and white. I remember then that her granddaughter is pregnant with her third kid in as many years.

“Pippa is awesome. She’s so smart and has great ideas for kids’ programs. We’re having a contest for the preschool kids to see who can read the most books before school starts. Each child who reads ten books gets a free one to take home. And we have things planned for older kids too. I’m really excited.”

“That’s wonderful,” replies Mrs. Wilkins. “Perhaps you will be able to work more hours there.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just volunteer.” I asked Pippa the other day if you needed a college degree to be a librarian. She has a degree in library science and is actually going to work on her master’s degree online. I didn’t realize you had to have schooling even beyond the initial four years. Seems like you need a college degree these days to work the

gas pump.

“I hear she’s seeing Judge,” interjects Mrs. C. Mrs. C is the town megaphone. Anything that goes on in her circle is blasted all over. I think it’s a clever marketing move. After all, people keep going into her town grocery to buy things that they could get at half the price at the Walmart on the edge of town. But you go to Mrs. C’s because otherwise you don’t know half of what’s happening in Fortune.

“She’s too young for him,” Mrs. Erickson purses her lips in disapproval. “She is young enough to be his daughter.”

“Speaking of daughters, did you hear that Chelsea and Wrecker are seeing each other? Why, yesterday they were holding hands coming out of the Cut-n-Curl.” This gasped outburst came from Stella Jonas. She is not a missus. In fact, she has never been married. As I stare at her lined, leathery face, I wonder if that’s my future—outraged because two stepsiblings decided their feelings for each other weren’t familial after all. Father’s next sermon will probably be about the three categories of love—eros, filial, agape—and how we sinful creatures have twisted God’s ideals into something dark and unsavory.

Mrs. Wilkins merely knits quietly, smiling to herself as if the idea of the biker dudes pairing off in these unholy ways is completely normal. Then I remember. One of Mrs. Wilkins’ grandsons is Easy, a member of the Death Lords MC. The coffee shop door swings open at that very moment and in walks the devil himself.

Chapter Three

Easy

The coffee shop isn’t my scene. My scene involves either red meat or alcohol, and the coffee shop in Fortune is as close to a New Age establishment as a small Minnesota town will tolerate. There’s caffeine, crystals and sandwiches with weeds in them.

But when I see her car outside the Brew Ha Ha, I hit the brake on my bike so fast I almost end up ass over elbows. I haven’t had a bike related accident since I was ten and my front tire hit the curb as I was trying to wave down Kelly Pickleheart, my fifth grade crush.

Inside I find my grandma knitting with her church club but next to her on the sofa is my target. Because I’m not still ten, I don’t make the mistake of gawking at Annie. I’m fully aware of her sitting like a stone statue turning redder than the cardinal painted on Grandma Wilkins’ teacup.

“You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.” I lean over and give Grammy’s slightly wrinkled cheek a kiss.

“What are you doing here, Van?” she asks delightedly.

“I saw your car sitting outside and wanted to say hello.”

“Sit down, sit down,” she orders, and scoots over to make room for me between her and Annie.

“As long as I’m not going to be interrupting anything.” I take my seat and spread my legs out wide, brushing up against Annie’s leg. Her swift intake of breath makes me smile.

“Of course not—none of us mind, do we, ladies? Have you met Annie Bloom, honey? She’s Pastor Bloom’s daughter.”