“I’m going to get a drink. What do you want?” Abel asks, clearly not interested in what he perceives will be a discussion about clothes.
“Beer is fine.”
“Oh I can get you something better,” the tutu skirted girl says. “My man brought Mike’s Hard Lemonade for me.”
Abel shakes his head and I recall Grant’s earlier warning. “Nah, beer is fine for me.”
“Hey, grab a Lemonade from Dozer okay? He’s the guy with the purple mohawk and the Misery leather vest.”
Abel’s face changes slightly from moderate tolerance to horror but I’m not sure if it’s because she refers to the vaunted cut as a vest or that someone with a purple mohawk is wearing one.
“Go on,” I urge him before he says something that offends this new girl. “I’ll stand right here.”
“Alright,” he replies reluctantly, but moves off toward the kitchen.
“So over protective…boyfriend?” the girl asks. “I’m Laurel by the way. Dozer is my man. Short for bulldozer because he’s built like a frickin’ big-ass tank.”
She holds her hands about a foot apart which I hope refers to his length and not his girth. “I’m Chelsea.”
“What’s your vest say?” She places a hand on my shoulder to turn me around. I shift so she can see the back.
“Death Lords MC.” Despite claiming Dozer as her man, she doesn’t wear a corresponding leather so their relationship can’t be that serious. “Wrecker.”
“Wait, does that patch say ‘Property of?’” Laurel gasps.
Either there are no old ladies attached to the Misery biker club or this whole group is cobbled together by shoelaces and wet, flimsy newspaper. “Yeah. I’m Wrecker’s old lady,” I tell her.
“Here’s your lemonade babe.” The purple mohawk guy interrupts us, shoving a bottle into Laurel’s hands. She reaches up and kisses his cheek in gratitude. Dozer’s arm comes around her automatically, as if they’ve been together for a long time. “You’re new here.”
“I am.”
“Her vest has her man’s MC name on it. Why can’t I get one of those?” Laurel pouts. Her hand pats Dozer’s own leathers.
His eyes cut to mine with a hard warning. “We don’t do that here,” is the explanation he gives her. Then he turns to me and lifts a lock of my hair with hand holding his own beer bottle. “Like your socks. You wearing anything under that skirt?”
I jerk away, gaping at him. Doesn’t he have any respect for Wrecker’s cut? “None of your business.”
Laurel’s mouth gets tight but she doesn’t protest.
“Yeah? My cut says differently. This here’s Misery property and I’m a Misery MC.” Dozer tips his head back and swallows some of his beer.
“And I’m not interested.”
“Problem?” Abel arrives.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I say and take the beer from his hands, grateful to hold something so I don’t slap Dozer and cause an incident.
“She yours?” Dozer asks.
“We’re visiting,” Abel replies.
Dozer snaps his fingers. “The loaners from the Death Lords come to whip us into shape.” He laughs. “If this is the type of goodie we’re offered, I’m totally down with joining your crew.”
Abel’s lip curls at Dozer’s easily changing loyalty.
“I’m going to want a taste of you later,” Dozer leans forward with Laurel still clinging to him.
“Taste of what?” Wrecker appears at my back. His business must be done.
Dozer has no gut instincts or any instincts because he doesn’t heed the warning in Wrecker’s voice. “Taste of that hot snatch you brought with you.”
Abel straightens from the wall and Wrecker’s hand comes to rest on the back of my neck. I can feel the tension in his fingers. “I don’t think we met yet because if we had, you’d know better than to talk about Chelsea that way.”
“Bro, no offense.” Chin lift. “Pussy’s pussy though.”
“Wait. Wrecker and Chelsea?” Laurel pipes up. “You’re the sister, aren’t you?”
Heat rushes up and I can feel it pound in my temple. “Step,” I say shortly. “Stepsister.”
“But you two were raised together, right? I mean, that’s kind of wrong. What are we, in Missouri?” She makes a banjo noise—a bad one.
“Junior?” Abel mutters in an undertone.
Wrecker nods. Junior knew of our situation and told his club brothers and this one, this loose lipped Dozer, told the girl that he didn’t think was worthy of wearing his patch.
Very deliberately, Wrecker lifts the drink out of my hands and gives it to Abel. “Hold this, will you?”
Dozer’s dormant instincts must rattle at this because he turns a little, trying to push Laurel toward a different group in the room. “Come on, Laurel.”
She pulls away, maybe angry that Dozer hit on me right in front of her. “Do you do the father too? Is it some weird incestual thing with the Death Lords? Like I’ve heard rumors that some of the clubs have sex kinks and you gotta play that game in order to belong. Is that your guys’ thing?” Her eyes are wide, but there’s cunning behind them. She wants to start a fight. She wants to see her man throw down and prove himself to us interlopers.
Behind Dozer, I see Junior walking our way. Wrecker sees him too and they exchange a glance and a chin lift. Whatever Wrecker plans to do to Dozer has been okayed by the Misery Club president.
“Turn around baby,” Since prison, Wrecker’s become hard. Not just his body which is cut from quarry rock, but his emotions. His face is impenetrable. I know he’s pissed though. I turn slowly.
“What’s it say?” Neither Dozer nor Laurel answers fast enough because he barks it out again. “Can you read?”
“Property of,” Laurel responds with a so what expression.
“That’s right. Property of. You folks need a little education. This,” he reaches a hand down over my shoulder and lifts the open sleeve of my vest away from my body, “marks her as off limits to everyone which means little bitches like you don’t say a word to her unless she gives you clearance.” The little bitches insult is clearly directed to both Dozer and Laurel. He turns and addresses the ragtag collection of Misery m
embers. “Being part of an MC isn’t free drugs and alcohol and a non-stop stream of pussy. It’s about having each other’s back. When she’s wearing my cut, an insult to her is an insult to me. When I’m insulted, I strike back.” He spins and pierces Dozer with a glare. “You wanted to lick my girl’s pussy? Then get on your fucking knees.”
“We’re not in the Death Lords motorcycle clubhouse; this is the Misery motorcycle club.” Dozer waves a hand. But no one comes forward. Not Junior, not any of them. Dozer looks around and then at Laurel. He takes two steps away. “This is just a girl I fuck. She doesn’t mean shit to me.”
Laurel gasps and stumbles back as if he struck her. I didn’t like what Laurel had to say about me, but I sure as shit don’t like how Dozer treats her. My leather vest might say that I’m the property of Death Lords, Wrecker specifically, but he’d never treat me like I was a piece of trash.
Behind me, Wrecker’s hand slides under my short skirt. “One of you is going to make it up to my old lady. One of you is going to lick her pussy until she comes. Which one is it going to be?”
“Don’t do it,” Laurel begs but Dozer ignores her. Belonging to this club is more important than she is; important enough for him to bend his knees. Do I even want Dozer to touch me? He’s an asshole. Before he gets to the floor, another voice interrupts.
“Your girl is too fine for Dozer.” A tall muscular guy with a buzz cut shoulders his way to the front. A gray t-shirt is stretched tight across his chest and his cut looks like it had to be custom fitted around his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He’s about Wrecker and Abel’s age. There are minute creases near his eyes. “Chelsea, I’m Big Unit but you can call me Big.”
“Misery VP,” Wrecker noiselessly whispers in my ear.
“Nice to meet you,” I say faintly. I can see where he gets his nickname. My eyes involuntarily drop to his waist and the worn white patch in his denim indicates that he is likely big all over.
“What about Annalise?” Laurel hisses, grabbing at Big’s arm.
“Get gone, Laurel,” he replies but doesn’t take his eyes off of me.