Demented Sons Series Volume One: Books 1-4 (Demented Sons MC Iowa) Page 9

  Looked like some of the brothers beat us. Of course Pops was there.

  Wonder if Mama Jean made up some of her homemade pretzel bites.

  Mama Jean and Pops had owned and operated the Oasis for the last thirty years or more. Pops was one of the original members of the Demented Sons MC, and he was head over heels for Mama.

  They’d never had any kids, and she took all of the brothers from the club in as her “boys.” I tried to pretend I hated her calling us boys, but truth be told, she was a great person, and it felt good to have someone who was like a mother to me.

  Fuck, I missed my mother every fucking day, even though it had been almost nine years since she died thanks to a drunk driver. If he hadn’t killed himself in the accident that day, I would have put a fucking bullet in his skull. Piece-of-shit asshole. I fucking hated drunk drivers as much as I hated goddamn terrorist assholes and as much as Prez hated hard drugs since his little brother OD’d on meth seven years ago.

  Looking forward to a cold beer, I walked in through the door that had to have been original to the old building.

  The bar was dim and smelled like smoke, beer, and old musty building, but it was all part of the appeal. The exposed brick walls gave it a warm, almost Prohibition-era feel. The pool tables in the back were already in use, Snow and Pops in the middle of a game on one, some young preppy college pukes on the other.

  Hollywood and I walked over to the beat-up bar and each pulled up a creaking barstool to wait for the college fucks to finish their game.

  Mama Jean ambled up and placed a cold Corona, complete with a lime sticking out the top, in front of me and a Bud Light in front of Hollywood. Yeah, she knew us all well.

  “Thanks, Mama Jean.” With a smile, I grabbed the Corona, shoved the lime inside, and took a deep drink. After I was done, I set my beer back down on a little cardboard coaster that had seen better days.

  “So how’s life treatin’ you, Mama?”

  She smiled at the drawl I could never really shake and leaned across the bar to give me a rough kiss on the cheek.

  Mama was a big-busted woman who, despite her nearly sixty or so years, still had coal-black hair. I had a sneaking suspicion it was from a bottle, but I sure as shit wasn’t busting her out. Deep lines on her face spoke of the many years on the back of Pops’ bike, though they were probably a little to do with the cigarettes that had given her the raspy voice she still had even though she quit a few years ago.

  “Shitty, thanks for asking, Reaper. My back is killing me, and my feet are gonna fall off one of these days. I’ve been after Pops to sell this joint so we can travel more before we’re too damn old to do it. It’s just this old place has been the only baby we ever had. I’d have to find just the right people to take over. It would break my heart to see it close down.” She scowled and I laughed at her. We both knew she wouldn’t let this place go no matter how much shit she talked. She loved it, and she loved us coming in here to see her.

  Hollywood started batting his eyes in a crazy-ass imitation of a little kid. “Hey, Mama Jean, you sure look gorgeous today. I don’t suppose you have any fresh pretzels and beer cheese dip?” She swatted at his arm and laughed. “You know you make the best beer cheese dip in the world.”

  “Cripes, kid, you don’t need to lay it on so thick. You know Mama will hook you up, but don’t think you’re getting them for free just ’cause you’re good at baffling me with bullshit.” She sauntered to the back to get the pretzels, laughing the whole way.

  After she brought them out, we sat drinking our beer. I reached over and grabbed one of his pretzels, dipping it in the cheese before he could pull it away.

  “Hey, you shit, order your own!” Hollywood dragged the plate over to the side, out of my reach. Shooting me an exaggerated glare every so often, he continued shoving pretzel bites in his face as I smirked and finished my beer.

  Mama walked up, setting a plate of them in front of me. “They’re on the house, Reaper.”

  Trying to hold back a smile, she gave a sidelong look at Hollywood.

  “What? That’s not fair! Why’s he so special?” Hollywood pouted like a two-year-old, and I couldn’t help but laugh at him.

  Holding up my empty bottle, I asked Mama for another. After she set it in front of me, we enjoyed the rest of our pretzel bites before getting up to grab the pool table that had been vacated. As I left my stool, I tossed a generous tip on the bar for Mama along with the money for my beers.

  Hollywood racked ’em up for the game, and I picked out a pool cue, chalked the tip, and blew off the excess, creating a brief green cloud.

  The game was close, and he only kicked my ass because I sank the fucking cue ball with the eight ball when I saw a tan, blonde-haired chick walked in the bar. When she turned around, she looked at me with her big brown eyes, and I resumed breathing.

  Fuckin’ A. Why did I think it was her? Why did I care?

  But I knew the answer.

  It was the same reason I only fucked women from behind. Because it was easier to pretend they were her if I couldn’t see their faces. Because she was still under my skin after three fucking years.

  “Hollywood, I gotta run, man.” After I put the pool cue up and hugged him, I patted the patch on his cut firmly.

  “Don’t be a pussy just because you lost. Best two out of three.” He grinned. Motherfucking little shit.

  “Shut the fuck up, bro, and respect your elders. I need a ride to clear my head. You can join me if you want.”

  “Aw, fuck you, bro. You’re only a year older than me. And yeah, I’m game. I’m always up for a little wind therapy. Let me settle up with Mama.” He walked over to the bar, taking the opportunity to flirt with blondie and her friend.

  Typical Hollywood. Looking the other way, I walked outside to wait on him, trying to think of anything but how she had felt underneath me… riding me… snuggled up against my cock with her back pressed to my chest and my hand tucked around her tit.

  Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  She was probably married by now and hadn’t given me a second damn thought. She probably didn’t even remember what the fuck I looked like. Besides, she sure as shit deserved better than me.

  These were all things I told myself, but since coming back up to Iowa, at least once a week I talked myself out of riding down to her old house to see if by chance she was still there.

  Besides, what would I say when I knocked on the door? “Oh, hey. Is there a great-looking blonde here with amazing sky blue eyes, legs that go on forever, and the perkiest tits this side of the Appalachians?” Yeah, that would work. They would probably call the cops on me. That would piss Snow off.

  What I needed to do was quit thinking every fucking blonde I saw was her.

  We raced down the road, handlebar to handlebar, as the sun began to set in the sky behind us. My hair blew in the wind, flapping wildly, as our bikes continued to eat up the miles on the asphalt. There was absolutely nothing like the freedom of the wind whipping against my clothes and plastering my cut to my chest.

  It was so much easier to think and clear my mind.

  I could breathe.

  I could outrun my demons. At least temporarily.

  As darkness descended, I figured we better turn back. Honestly, I’d ridden without any idea of exactly how far we’d gone.

  Realizing I needed gas, I pulled over at a gas station to fill up and take a piss. As Hollywood pulled up to the pump opposite me and got off his bike, he looked at me without saying a word before opening the cover to his gas tank and reaching for the gas pump.

  We ran our cards and filled the small tanks in silence.

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s on your mind?” Hollywood asked as he returned the nozzle to the pump after he was done.

  When I didn’t answer right away, he walked over toward me, slapping me on the back as he stopped and looked me dead in the eyes. This was a man who had been through the depths of hell in Iraq and Afghanistan with me more t
imes than I could count. The same man who dragged me from the edge of oblivion, rescuing me from myself and bringing me back with him to what I now considered my family.

  He knew me better than anyone, and he knew I was a fucking mess, but I didn’t have the words to tell him what was eating me up inside. I didn’t know how to explain that I was fucking obsessed with someone I would never have. Someone I didn’t fucking deserve. Someone I couldn’t get out of my fucking skull no matter how much I drank, no matter how many chicks I fucked, no matter how many miles I rode.

  “No.” I didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Well, excuse the fuck out of me.” Even though he tried to act like he wasn’t bothered by lack of communication, I knew I’d upset him.

  “It’s nothing I can talk about right now, bro. Just fucking drop it, okay? I just need to sort through some shit, that’s all.” I walked off into the shitty little gas station to piss and grab a Gatorade.

  The cool AC in the store hit me at the same time as the smell of burnt grease assaulted my nostrils. Shit, did they ever change the grease in their shitty-ass fryers? Damn.

  I took a quick pit stop in the men’s room to piss, washed my hands—yeah, thanks, Momma, for drilling hygiene into my damn head—then walked over to the cooler and grabbed a blue Gatorade. No clue what fucking flavor it was and didn’t care.

  Fuck it.

  Frustrated, I placed it on the counter and pulled out some cash, peeling off enough to pay for the bottle and telling the cashier to ring up Hollywood’s too and I would get it. After dropping the change in my pocket, I pushed open the door, going back out in the heat and across the lot to the pump with Hollywood on my heels.

  I sat on my bike as I cracked open the bottle and began drinking the cold liquid. It felt good running across my tongue, and I held the side of the bottle to my forehead. Condensation formed quickly on the cold bottle in this heat; it ran down my face before dripping to the ground.

  “You know we have church tomorrow, right? And then the get-together down at the Oasis for Mama Jean’s birthday?” He took a long guzzle of his Gatorade. “Man, that shit hits the spot! Thanks, bro.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I drawled, “and no, I didn’t forget. We have that run to Des Moines we need to iron out. About that delivery for the South Dakota chapter around the end of the month, right? That’s gonna have to be a quick run, and we’re gonna need most of the brothers in on it to flank the truck and drive lookout. We don’t need to be fucking around down in Des Moines too long. The cops are dicks there and have a grudge against bikers. I don’t want them harassing us and snooping through the trucks before we can get them dropped off.”

  “Snow knows all this, and that’s part of what I think he wants to go over tomorrow night. Man, I’m glad Snow did away with this kinda shit, but even running the occasional guns for other chapters is starting to make me nervous. Fucking ATF is really tightening shit down. This isn’t some biker TV show. It’s getting harder to fly under the fucking radar. It’s too easy to go legit these days. Don’t know why they want to fuck with that shit. Quick money, I guess.” He tossed his empty bottle in the trash and sat on his bike. “You ready?”

  “Yeah, let’s hit the road.”

  I tossed my bottle in the trash before I lifted my kickstand and started my bike. We pulled out together as one, but I purposely roared ahead to fuck with him. He downshifted to catch up, flipping me off with a smile when he finally caught up.

  By the time we parked in front of the clubhouse, it was well after eleven.

  We walked in to Metallica blasting on the old jukebox Gunny had picked up at an estate sale. I fucking loved that thing. Speaking of, I saw Butch and Gunny sitting in the corner sectional getting lap dances from two strippers from our strip club and some other skanky-looking chick I didn’t recognize. I briefly wondered where they dragged her up from. They could keep her.

  One of the prospects, Soap, stood close by, watching over the room.

  The club whores must’ve been “servicing,” because I didn’t see them around. The whores were just that, whores. They lived at the clubhouse voluntarily and were free to leave when they wanted. They serviced the brothers when they wanted it, and in return they had a place to stay—three hots and a cot, basically—and the protection of the club. Don’t mistake them for slaves.

  It smelled like cigarette smoke and ass… and what the fuck had I stepped in? Jesus, I was gonna have to get after the prospects to clean this shithole up tomorrow.

  As I walked past the bar toward the hall leading to small rooms set up for the brothers to crash in if they got too drunk or if it had just been a long night, I felt tits press to my back. A set of bright red manicured nails reached around and ran across my abs.

  Fuck. I didn’t even have to turn around.

  “I’m not in the mood, Gretchen. I told you I don’t need your fucking services. Go hit up Hollywood or Butch.” Trying to walk away, I pulled her arms off me, but she grabbed my hand, placing it on her mound, clearly defined in her tight spandex boy shorts. Not getting the hint, she rubbed her fake tits on my arm as I jerked my hand from her crotch.

  “Come on, Reaper, baby. I’ve missed you. You know it was good between us. No one has ever made me come like you do. Your cock is the only one that can satisfy me now. The rest of them are just bumbling boys compared to you. Don’t make me go to bed alone and unsatisfied, baby.” She batted her brown eyes and flipped her bleached-blonde hair over her shoulder.

  “Gretchen, there is no ‘us.’ There will never be an ‘us.’ I’ve tried to be nice, but you’re too fucking stupid to get it. Fuck. Off. Go blow someone else’s cock. I’m not your ‘baby,’ and I’m not interested!” Stupid fucking bitch. Did I have to draw her a fucking picture? I jolted away and stomped off as she stood glaring daggers into my back, I was sure. I didn’t give a flying fuck.

  Fed the fuck up, I entered my room, locking the door. It was my sanctuary and my home for the time being. After I hung my cut over the back of the old office chair, I sat on the bed to remove my boots. Tossing them over by the closet one at a time, I hung my head and rested my elbows on my knees.

  Blowing out a heaving breath, I ran my hands through my hair. It still felt strange to have hair. I’d grown it out after getting out of the army because I was too fucking lazy and drunk to go get a haircut. After I hooked up with the club, I thought I would grow it out long, but I could never hack it getting longer than my hairline at the back of my neck. So I kept the sides and back buzzed short, and the center at the top was long and slicked back.

  Scratching my short beard, I realized it was time to trim it up. It was too fucking hot for a full beard in the summer, so I kept it clipped short and trimmed, but I rarely shaved clean. Fucking army made me do that for too long.

  Turning on my ancient iPod, I blared STP’s “Creep.” Yeah, that was my song. It sucked to feel like you were half the man you used to be. Trying to push the demons back into their hiding place, I grabbed my hair on the top of my head in both fists, closing my eyes tight.

  As Shinedown’s “Cut the Cord” began to play, I ran both hands down my face and rose, padding barefoot to the bathroom to take a shower before bed. I loved that the clubhouse used to be a warehouse with this back area where the executive offices were located, so we each had a bathroom with a shower.

  One day I’d get a place of my own, but if I was truthful, part of me was afraid to be alone. A lot of the reason was fear that the fucking memories would take over and I would start to slip away again. As long as there was enough to keep my mind and body busy, I could mostly forget.

  Stretching, I reached over my shoulders, grabbing my black T-shirt at the back and pulling it over my head.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I trailed a finger over the scar on the left side of my face before glancing at the ones on my torso and left arm that I’d covered with tats.

  Most of them had healed well, and by then the one on my face was a thin, jagged white l
ine. Except every time I looked in the mirror, it was a constant reminder of all the fucking scars I carried both inside and out.

  A reminder of how damaged I really was.

  THE NEXT WEEK WENT by pretty uneventfully, with Michael working late on a big project he had. That was, until Thursday.

  My phone pinged, and I looked at it to see a message from him.

  Michael: Hey babe, I just got home and I thought we could go grab dinner

  Me: I’m already making something for myself and Remi, but thanks. Maybe tomorrow?

  Michael: You got enough for a third?

  That night, I really didn’t want to spend time with him. I was still a little upset with his behavior Friday night.

  Instead of answering him, I set my phone on the counter as I went to check on Remi in her room. She was busy playing with her Little People and stacking blocks around them. Watching her, I could only imagine what she was building. Perhaps she pretended it was their castle.

  I smiled at her and turned back toward the kitchen. As I walked down the hall, I heard my door open and turned to see Michael pulling a key out of the lock.

  What. The. Ever. Loving. Hell?

  “You have a key to my apartment?” I asked in shock.

  “What? Oh, you gave it to me weeks ago, remember?” Michael sauntered in, flipping his long bangs back out of his face as he tucked the key in his pocket. He reached where I stood frozen to the floor, wrapped his arm around me, and kissed me on the cheek. “You didn’t answer my last text, so I thought I would come down to see if everything was okay or if you needed help with anything.”

  I knew damn well I hadn’t given him a key to my apartment. What I wanted to know was how he had gotten a copy of it. The problem was, I was afraid if I confronted him about it, I would risk starting an argument, and Remi was playing nearby.

  Choosing to leave it alone, I made a mental note to speak to the manager about getting my apartment rekeyed.

  That pissed me off. His behavior was beginning to make me very uncomfortable. Actually, truth be told, he was starting to scare me. He’d gotten possessive and strange over the last few weeks.