Biker in Black_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Damned Angels MC Page 2

I couldn’t tell if it were the baseline of the music or the movement of my arms, or the beat of the punches I was landing on the asshole down in front of me, who was looking less and less like a man and more and more like a bloody mess. Didn’t matter. He had his hands on my girl, and that shit had to stop.

  Pound. Pound. Pou…

  Slowly I became aware of strong hands on my upper arms, restraining, pulling me back, until I lost my balance over the downed dude and landed on my ass next to him. He didn’t look so good. He was still breathing, but his nose was rearranged, his face covered in blood, and he was coughing kinda roughly. I guessed I must have probably cracked a rib or two, too. Par for the course. He fucking deserved it.

  Whoa…wait a minute, sucker. Back the fuck up. What was that I had just been thinking? The girl. Erin. Fuck. Rewind.

  She’s not my girl. She’s not mine at all. Damnit. What the fuck was I doing? Beating up the Boss’s VIP, just because he had his hands on the goods? Aw, fuck fuck shit. There I go again, my temper getting in my way again. Fuck. I did not need this shit, not now, not when I had to keep my head clear and in the game.

  But man, I could tell Erin wasn’t comfortable with this dude—I could read her like a book now, after watching her for the past two months—and I had just reacted. Shit. I might have totally fucked myself right here. But this Mr. O. dude was bad news. Rich, pompous, connected. Arrogant as fuck. Not that he cornered that market—hell, I was pretty damn arrogant, too, if I’m honest. But I backed mine with knowledge that I could damn well take care of myself and take care of business, whatever was necessary. This fucker? His arrogance was power-driven, which is the most annoying kind. He was a string-puller and an asshole. He probably had deserved a good beating for a long time. I was kinda glad it was me who gave it to him.

  Not that I’d be telling the Boss that. The fucker. I hated him, too. Worse.

  “Yo, dude, come back to us, man. Focus. Torch, dude, you fucked up. Fuck.” Blades, one of my brethren in our MC, Damned Angels, was standing in front of me, hands on his hips, shaking his head and looking at the sniveling pile that was Mr. O.

  “Aw, fuck. He had his hands all over her. It’s against the rules. Fuck.” I hoped that excuse would be enough. I didn’t want to look too deeply into my real reason for flipping the fuck out over this asshole’s hands being all over Erin.

  “Torch. In my office. Now.” Danny the Prick Fletch finally piped up, attempting an authoritarian tone through his nasal cavity.

  Fletch gingerly raised himself out of the booth, in which he had cravenly sat throughout the beatdown, then straightened his silverized jacket and swaggered to the elevator bank near the lobby.

  I dragged my ass off the floor, checked out my knuckles—bloody and a little sore, but not that bad, all things considered—and followed his lead.

  We rode silently up to the second floor, neither of us looking at one another. Out the elevator, down the hall, and into his office, which was lined with a wall of windows overlooking the main room of the club. He seated himself importantly behind his huge walnut desk, which kinda dwarfed him and made him look a little ridiculous, though I bet no one ever told him that. He wasn’t the biggest guy: kinda short, probably no taller than five seven, and a little on the paunchy side. He actually reminded me a little of Joe Pesci, but without the sense of humor or that awesome accent.

  He looked at me standing there, towering over his desk, and clearly didn’t like what he saw. He glanced at one of the chairs posed in front of the desk, then looked back up at me and said, “Sit.”

  I played the good dog and sat.

  The chairs were rigged. They were made to sink your ass way below normal level, so even though I towered over Fletch under every normal circumstance, it was clear his chair hiked him up and mine sunk me down, so his head was nearly level with mine. I almost laughed out loud; it was such an obvious trick to gain intimidation points, but it still failed ’cause I probably had a good seven or eight inches on him.

  “Do you know who that was? What the fuck were you thinking? I can’t believe you just knocked around Michael fucking Owen. I should take you out, right here, right now. You have a big problem, my friend. Better start talking, fast,” he said, thinking he sounded all threatening.

  “Listen, man,” I calmly replied, “I didn’t know who he was. Hell, I still don’t know who he is. I seen him around, man, but…Look. He had his hands all over her. You drilled it in with us that that’s not cool. Hands off the dancers. I was just lookin’ out for your girl. I was doin’ my job. If that guy is so all-out important, you should’a given us a heads-up. Who is that guy?”

  “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret here.” Danny leaned in. “That guy is Michael Owen. You don’t know that name? Who are you, the goddamned fucking groundhog? Michael Owen, son of Senator Owen, ring any bells? Stupid fuck. He also happens to be my silent partner in this respectable establishment, so you effectively just beat up your own other boss. You have some serious ass kissing to do now, my friend. Lucky for you, you’re right. Unlucky for you, you are also wrong: the hands-off rule applies to the clientele. Michael Owen is not the clientele.” Finally, he leaned back in his throne chair. “But since you didn’t know, I’m gonna go to bat for you and protect your sorry ass. This time. Just never let it happen again. There are no third chances here. Be fucking grateful for this second one.”

  “Yeah, man.” I nodded, pretending gratitude. “I ’preciate it. A lot. Really, I just thought…”

  “You didn’t think,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Get down there now, and get out of the building. I’ll talk to him, make it cool, but I’m pretty sure he ain’t gonna wanna see your face the rest of tonight. And just so we’re clear: you owe me now.” He looked really satisfied with that.

  I stood up. “Yeah, man, thanks. I owe you. Got it.” And I turned and left his office, heading down the hall to the bathroom. I needed a minute to get my brain together.

  Holy hell. Tonight had turned into a clusterfuck. I shook my head.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me. This whole racket was a disaster. And the time was coming close to deal it out to the end with Mr. Fletch, and figure a way—once and for all—to get myself out of this shitstorm. Things were not cool within Damned Angels, and I either had to find a way to break from my MC (fuck but that burned), or turn things around. Our newish president of just four months, Slim, had completely fucked us up and over, forcing this work with the prick porno boss, Danny Fletch, the murdering slime. And the Pres was out there acting like everything was going smooth as silk. I about couldn’t take it anymore.

  But before I could go—or pull a gargantuan mutiny—I needed to make sure Fletch would pay for what he had done to Franco. Fucker’d killed my best friend. He had actually killed my best friend. That. Does. Not. Fly.

  Aw, fuck. Franco. I missed him like mad. Great guy, great friend. Totally stand-up. The motherfucker had your back. The brother I could always count on, the guy who made you laugh so hard your gut hurt. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He was six feet under, now.

  And justice needed serving.

  I still didn’t know the full story. But I did know this much: Danny Fletch had directly caused Franco’s death and then made sure all of us in Damned Angels knew it, in order to “keep us in line” and show him “proper respect.” So, without question, I knew enough to be sure that Fletch had to go down, and go down hard.

  My only hesitation came from the question of who had actually pulled the trigger: was it Fletch himself, or was it one of our MC brothers, at Fletch’s order? If it was a brother, things got really, really complicated, because I would then be going directly against my own. To actively work against the MC brotherhood was cause for an internal takedown. And I did not want my brotherhood after me; that’s a sure death sentence, and I had no death wish.

  The thing was, ever since Slim had gotten us tied in to serving as Fletch’s freakin’ security service, it was like Damned Angels was no longer a brotherhood
. We had lost our purpose, and were basically just serving as muscle and protection to a sleazy porn king. Between running security at Club Centerfold and protecting Fletch’s shiny ass from the freakin’ mafia and cops and feds for all his illicit porno dealings, the MC barely ever had any time for our own anymore. No more “church” meetings, no more parties, not even hanging out on the Damned Angels compound. Fuck, we hadn’t even had a good ride together in ages. It was like we’d just been transferred into Fletch’s titty bar and porno world, and demoted to muscle without brains.

  It was demoralizing, at best. And I, for one, had had it.

  The fact that, on top of all that shit, Fletch had actually murdered Franco Perez—one of our own, and one of the best—without retribution. No one was saying shit. There was no church meeting, no one even seemed upset, or questioned the rightness…It blew my mind. It didn’t make any sense, but since no one was talking, I felt like I had to bite my tongue and bide my time, figure it out, be smart about it.

  There was something darker going on, some reason Pres had gotten us tied in with this shit, but I didn’t know what it was, and I’d bet very few of my brothers (if any) knew, either. We were all kinda wandering in the dark, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one deeply concerned about it.

  On top of that, Fletch also had us informing on each other, and it was impossible at this point to be able to figure out who to trust. It was like a fucking Nazi barracks.

  So my only choices were to figure out if there were any brothers I could trust, build up a secret coalition, and pull out a full-blown mutiny, or figure out how to buy my exit and bolt.

  But either way, I was gonna take Fletch down. And out. Sure as fuckin’ shit.

  Once I got my thoughts in order and had my focus back, I flipped the switch and left the gents’, heading back down into the club.

  By the time I had made my way into the main room, there was no sign of Owen, nor of the little ruckus he had caused. Couldn’t even see any of his blood by the booth where it had flown. I looked around for Erin, wanting to make eye contact with her, check she was okay, but no sign of her either.

  Feeling a light tap on the back of my left shoulder, I swung around, only to find Britt, one of the other dancers, looking up at me with a mixture of boldness and trepidation, like she was crossing a line she knew she shouldn’t have but was gonna do it anyway.

  “She’s gone, too. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you should leave her out of it. She doesn’t need your kind of trouble. I want you to promise me you’ll stay away from her from now on.”

  What the hell? Who was this chick? “Listen, babe.” I lowered my voice. “I don’t know what you saw, or what you think you saw, or what you think you know, but I can tell you this much: what I do, and what Erin does, ain’t none of your business. So you stay out of it, hear?”

  Britt looked in my eyes, trying to read me, and mumbled as if to herself, “I do not have a good feeling about this. Oh no siree, no I do not. Trouble, like my mama says.” Shaking her head, she walked away.

  I looked around once more, confirming Erin was, indeed, nowhere in sight. And I shook my head, too. That woman blew my mind. I lost it around her. Lost all train of normal thought.

  She was phenomenal. Beautiful, with deep dark brown eyes like liquid dark chocolate, long wavy blonde hair. A perfect body—slim, athletic, and bodaciously curvy all at once—and sassy and smart, too. About the only thing wrong with her was her fucking mouth, which would not quit with the cuss words.

  I cussed. Fuck, I cussed a lot. But I did not like my women to cuss.

  Shit. Note to self: Erin was not. My. Woman. Fuck.

  Nor would she be. I had to keep focus on the shitload of business in my face: retaliation for Franco, first and foremost. I could not believe how easily I lost track of that single most important element of my world every time Erin was around. Man, she was dangerous.

  It was only that touching thing. First time I saw her, I knew she’d be the one I’d be getting my lap dances from. The chemistry between us was off the charts, even from that first night I saw her. She obviously felt it, too, seeing as how she didn’t even need to ask me, just took my hand and led me to a back room, like we’d been doing it together forever. And even that first time, she put my hands all over her, begged for it, demanded it.

  That was another thing she’d need to learn: I called the shots. Bossy little bitch, but I kind of loved that about her. I’d need to tame her. I would tame her. And have a fucking fabulous time doing it. Damn, it’s like she was made for me. Our bodies sure knew it.

  Fuck! Focus, Torch. Business before bitches. What a fucking mess.

  Chapter 3

  Erin

  Sitting in the dressing room at one of the makeup mirrors bordered by bare bulbs just like every theater dressing room as seen in the movies, I tried to get a rein on my emotions. My mind was flying back and forth between Torch and misters Fletch and O.

  On the one hand, I couldn’t suppress my warm hot feelings about Torch—my body still turned on from that lap dance, even after the shit Mr. O. just pulled with his fucking hands all over me in such a grabby, unwelcome, nasty way. And it was like Mr. Fletch had invited it, offered me up for it, the fucker.

  Enter Torch again, and the way he pulled me out of the way, then went all Rambo on Mr. O. Warmed my little heart. No, seriously. Made me feel watched over, safer, protected. There wasn’t much a girl could do in this kind of situation to protect herself, working a titty bar and the boss approving molestation by a VIP. I could have been seriously fucked.

  And then I remembered his words: “I’m looking forward to taking your ass, make no mistake about that.” Jesus.

  Let me be clear: I was no prude, and I was no stranger to sex. Fuck, I was an erotic dancer; selling the idea of sex was my bread and butter. But I was no prostitute, and I made the call of who I slept with and what we did. And no way was I into the idea of fucking Mr. O., in any capacity, least of all letting him take me in the ass. Truth is, I’d never let anyone in there before, and I did not plan on changing that status anytime soon. The way I saw it, we got a hole specifically designed for the cock. And that’s the only hole down there I was interested in filling, ever. ’Nuff said.

  Thinking about the way Mr. O. had grabbed me, manhandled me, and threatened me with anal rape, I started to shake. Damnit, where the fuck was the bartender when you needed her? I didn’t have anything back here in the dressing room to calm me down, to help ease me back to myself.

  What I really wanted was Torch. Torch’s arms holding me, touching my skin, soothing my shivers. I wanted his power, his strength. I wanted him to make me forget all about Mr. O. But the Stones nailed it: you can’t always get what you want. I tried for deep breathing instead.

  It was starting to work when there was a soft tapping at the door, and then it opened. I looked up sharply, but it was only Britt, thankfully. The angel had brought along a tray carrying two shot glasses filled with what I knew would be tequila, along with lime wedges and a couple of beers. She knew me well.

  “Baby girl…that was not a good scene.” She set the tray down in front of me, and I popped the first of the shots.

  As it burned its way down my throat, I inhaled deeply and looked her in the eyes through the reflection in the mirror. I felt the hot wetness of tears build up behind my eyes and in my nasal cavity, but I wouldn’t let them go. I was not a crier, and I wouldn’t start now. “I know. Just…give me a minute.” I took the second shot glass and bolted that one down, too, then grabbed a lime wedge and sucked it. Another deep breath, and I looked at myself in the mirror.

  “What is going on with you and that Torch guy, Erin? He went after Mr. O. like an Avenger. You do not want to shit where you eat, girl. What are you doing? People are talking. You need to know that. And getting involved with one of the security? Those biker dudes don’t play nice, and they are not here for us. You know that, right? They are only here for the Boss. And the Boss is
all about Mr. O. That Torch must have a death wish, to go after Mr. O. like that. This cannot end well for you, Erin. You need to straighten your shit out.”

  She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. “Listen, B, I know. I hear you. It’s just…I don’t know. Right now, I’m really grateful he stepped in. Did you see what Mr. O. did? But it doesn’t matter, I’m good now. It’s all good. Whatever happens to Torch…well, that’s his business, not mine. I didn’t ask him for anything, and I won’t. I got my plan, and I’m sticking to it. Don’t worry ’bout me, okay? It’s all going to be fine.”

  “Oh, honey.” She wrapped her arms around my shoulders from behind and rested her cheek on top of my head. “I do not like your plan.”

  I’d known Britt for going on six years; she was my first friend in town, and we’d seen each other through a lot of bad shit. She was my rock through everything that had happened with Thea, and she got me through those first few months after her death, when I could barely think straight between my grief and my anger. And she was the only other dancer here who knew my plan. She may not have liked it, but at least she understood it, and I knew she was not trying to talk me out of it. There was nothing on Earth that could.