Whiskey no longer cared what the people of Defiance thought of him. Shit, those people that placed themselves above everyone else weren’t that good anyway, they just hid their dirty secrets a little better than the rest of them. All Whiskey wanted now was to live his life on his terms and serve his Club. He had given up the irrational thoughts he had as a kid of being held back by the sins of his Mother and Father, but he was still looking for something, redemption maybe, for all he had seen and done. He sometimes wondered where those idealistic, fear nothing, rough and tumble little boys went.
After he had served his time in the Air Force, Whiskey knew there was only one place he wanted to go, back to Defiance, and his Brothers with the Ruthless Bastards. He spent ten years living and breathing someone else rules and orders, now he wanted back how he lived as a kid. No rules, no boundaries, and no paper-pushing bureaucrat barking orders that made no sense and cost people their lives.
Since Whiskey retired, he wasn't adjusting to the real world as well as he would have thought. Civilian life wasn’t working all that well for him. Thank God for the MC. The Ruthless Bastards saved his life when it was blown to shit, literally. His last mission in the Air Force was a complete and utter failure. Most of his team didn't make it back from that mission, and Whiskey was left with a bullet hole in his shoulder that ended his career on one of the elite Pararescue Teams of the United States Air Force.
Whiskey continued to walk down the side walk and realized, much to his dismay, the town hadn’t changed after all these years. It was still the same fucked-up place it always had been. He could see it by the way the people wandering the sidewalks were acting, the pretty people or upper crust were on one side of the street and the ordinary citizens were on the other. The upper crust still thought they ruled and looked down on people who didn't fit their criteria. It was a joke because most of those upper crust fuckers were more messed up than the people they looked down on. Shit, even the diner was proof of that. The place had the best food around, but it was on the wrong side of town, so only people like him and the guys ate there. They were considered the low-lifes or undesirables of the town. Whiskey knew better.
Whiskey wanted to feel nostalgic or some shit, but he couldn't get himself to care all that much about the town. The town wasn’t what brought him back home, it was with the Ruthless Bastards. It was similar to any other little town in any other place. Main Street had a few stores, a bank, and a gas station. It also held the local police and fire departments, which the RBMC had in their back pockets. It was clean, even wholesome, if you looked at it through rose-colored glasses.
Whiskey knew better; he knew of the seedy side of things, always had been, he thrived there, was where he felt the most comfortable. Wondered if the upstanding people of Defiance knew the Mayor spent his free time one county over at a little strip club the MC owned and ran. He also wondered if any of them had a clue that the Chief of Police had a bit of a nasty habit of liking girls just above the legal limit. Maybe he should pay Chief Parker a little visit and relieve some of the tension he had been feeling; the man deserved a good beat down for his proclivities.
Whiskey had never once apologized for who and what he was, he accepted his assholeish ways. That fact he was now even considering apologizing to Addison rubbed him the wrong way. He made those decisions back then, and he should just nut up and accept it. There was no changing the past, but the need to prove to himself and to her he had grown and become a better person was just as much of a draw. For some reason, he needed her acceptance and respect more than he had ever needed anyone else’s.
Then again, Addison hadn’t been as sweet as he had thought, moving on at record speed to the high school quarterback, even before the blood of her innocence he had taken had time to dry on her thighs. That day haunted him and yet kept him going. Taking her innocence in the back of his beat up, rusty, old Ford wasn’t supposed to be memorable, it was supposed to prove some jaded, teenage achievement.
Shit, he could still feel how she strangled his dick in a vise-like grip as he pushed into the tightest pussy he had ever felt. He would always be her first, having taken without thought what no one else would ever get. He thought that was his reward, and those memories got him through some awful times. He had replayed those moments with her inside his head so many times over the years, it had become an obsession. In his mind, he would change the two-minute pump and dump into a full-length porno.
Whiskey started back to the diner, he needed to shake this mood, get some good coffee and great food, and Brass’ sarcastic self would help. Glancing around he noticed people were staring at him. Whiskey didn't give a damn what people thought of him anymore that time in his life was long past. What he didn't like was feeling like a chump wandering aimlessly caught up in his thoughts. Damn, memory lane sucked, so did rehashing all his regrets; that was not the way he lived his life. He wanted to be done with it, and maybe Addison could give him a little of that peace he so craved.
Whiskey was just about to go into the diner when Crush, a new Prospect for the Club, came up next to him. He stepped aside to let him enter, not ready to go inside himself. Whiskey really looked at the man for the first time. Crush was a good guy recently out of the Air Force. He was a big man, even larger than him or his brothers, and that was saying something considering they were well over six-foot-tall and weighed in at about 250 pounds. Crush was closer to seven feet tall and more than likely weight in at about 300 pounds; the guy was huge. He was also an ugly motherfucker, having gotten his face and neck scarred up on his last mission. Whiskey was sure the man felt the same way he did about his early dismissal from service.
They were both still capable, but the military had deemed them unfit to continue to serve. As far as Whiskey was concerned that was a bunch of bullshit. The look in Crush’s eyes reminded him of the look he saw in his own mirror. He was looking for a place to belong. A place he could use his skills to better the world, to right wrongs. The RBMC provided that, but Crush needed to prove himself loyal to the club before any of that could happen. The MC’s full patch members had high hopes for him.
Crush, acknowledged Whiskey with a tip of his chin instead of approaching him and trying to talk. Whiskey wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment. Knowing a man’s mood was a good skill to have, both in the Club and the military, it could save his life someday. He appreciated the man not bombarding him with the constant chatter like the other Brothers had a tendency to do just to get a rise out him. Whiskey wasn’t a person to mess with, and with his current mood, the man had a right to be cautious.
Whiskey remembered his Prospect days with mixed feelings of hate and love. He loved being a member of this family, proving himself worthy and being granted the privilege of becoming a full-patched member. But, he also remembered hating the shit jobs he had to do to get to this point. He had a good feeling about Crush and knew he would go far with the Club.
Whiskey took a couple of deep breaths and decided once and for all it was time to get his head out of his ass. He would deal with Addison when the time came. If they would be living in the same town, he didn’t want her to run every time she saw him. They might not regain the friendship they once had, but maybe they could get over the stupid moves they had made as teenagers and live in peace.
Before Whiskey put his hand on the door to pull it open, the bane of his existence pushed in front of him shouldering his way through the door. Tank, that fucker, had a death wish. Unfortunately, Whisk couldn’t do anything about it because he was also a Brother. His hands were tied from blowing the fucker away like he wanted. Brayden “Tank” Taylor had at one time been one of his closest friends. Everything changed when they hit high school.
Tank was everything Whiskey wasn’t in high school, quarterback for the football team and the town’s favorite son. He had scouts checking him out, and everyone knew good things would happen for the guy. The only aspirations they had for Whiskey were prison or death. Funny how things turn out; Tank lost out on his scholarships when he fucked-up, getting loaded and taking his car out for a joyride. The Dude wrapped his flashy sports car around a tree causing permanent damage by hurting one of his friends. The man was now in a nursing home somewhere, and Whiskey wondered how much that shit weighed on Tank; maybe that was why he was such an asshole.
From what Whiskey heard, the colleges vying for him dried up, and he joined the Air Force, only serving one term, but also making him eligible to be a member of the Club. The RBMC had few rules, but one of them was that each member was required to have served at least one term in the military.
Whiskey wasn’t around when the asshole was Prospecting, or he would have thrown one hell of a fit. The man had rubbed him the wrong way back then and was still doing the same now. Brothers were supposed to have each other’s back, and even though he hated it, he knew if push came to shove, he would have even his over-privileged back in a heartbeat. The problem was Whiskey didn’t trust him to have his back. Thankfully, the fucker passed without another word.
Whiskey made his way inside and looked at the table his Brothers were occupying. It seemed like the socialites were slumming again. Hell, he’d noticed them before but hoped they would be gone by the time he got back to the diner. Whiskey hated those bitches. Whiskey didn’t play that game like most of his Brothers. These chicks didn’t do a thing for him. They were overdone and fake from the tips of their cosmetically enhanced noses to their manicured toenails. Back in the day, he would have pity fucked one or two, but not anymore. They were once tried and overridden, and he was never one for sloppy seconds.
The ringleader of the little group, Val, was sitting on Link’s lap tongue fucking his ear. How he put up with that shit Whiskey would never know, it grossed him out just looking at it. Valerie Haswell had been around since high school. She had been the skanky head cheerleader from the most prominent family in town. She didn’t just act like she was better than everyone else, she believed it to be true.
Whiskey knew why Link suffered through this shit; it was his job. These chicks might irritate the hell out of them, but they served a purpose. These women knew what was going on in town and who was doing what; the Club liked having that information. Give the bitches a little booze and some dick, and they spilled all the secrets of Defiance’s elite. It was a dirty business, but someone had to do it, and Val had always had a thing for Link. The woman thought her pussy was platinum-plated, and Whiskey would bet it was just as cold as the metal itself.
Val only came around when she wanted to piss off her husband or parents. The entitled bitch would come back, bringing her crew, to slum every other month or so, then go back to her happy, privileged life. Whiskey felt sorry for his brother in a way for having to put up with the bitch for so long, but was also thankful it wasn’t his job because he knew without a doubt he would have strangled the bitch long before now. Whiskey also didn’t think he would be able to get it up or pull off the ruse. Val disgusted him on every level.
Jen and Julie were with her today; those two didn't come as often as the others, but still came enough to gain a reputation with the Brothers. Whiskey was sure they only came when they wanted to scratch an itch and allowed some biker dick to enhance the process. Clutch was the center of their little sandwich. Easy pussy was easy pussy and everything about these chicks was easy.
His disgust must have shown on his face because the bitch had the nerve to address him, something he always discouraged by avoiding her ass. Her bloodshot, overdone eyes were doing a thing, Whiskey wasn’t quite what; the bitch probably thought it was seductive or some crap. Val had been after him for a while now, and he had no desire to take her up on anything she had to offer. Val pulled her tongue of out Link’s ear and looked at Whisk, a smug look on her face.
“Hey Whisk, you want to join our little party?” Damn he should have known better than to give that bitch any amount of attention, even looking at her for a second brought out the greed in her eyes.
Val’s weak-assed attempt at enticing him, playing with her fake tits over her overly tight shirt and licking her lips, only further repulsed him. Whiskey knew the bitch had been through just about every member of the Ruthless Bastards. She was just a well-used hole. It seemed to be her goal in life to have every last one of them in some lame attempt to rub her rich daddy’s and husband’s noses that she could and did anything she wanted. Whiskey wasn’t even remotely interested in the bitch, never had been.
Threesomes were fun, but the thought of crossing swords with Link was not something Whiskey ever wanted to experience. He preferred his threesome action to include two chicks; those were fun times. Dudes did nothing for him, he liked to watch, but stayed well out of the action, and planned on keeping it that way.
“Bitch, I wouldn’t touch anything you got with Brass’s dick, and you know it.”
“Dude, I resent that,” Brass said. “My dick is picky. Didn’t we just have a conversation about quality pussy? Shit, Val’s snatch has seen so much action, I’m sure I felt callouses up in there the last time I was drunk enough to tap that ass. Shit, Val you’re looser than a thrift store turtleneck on a hot day. Next time you see that doctor of yours, you might want to ask him about that vaginal rejuvenation shit. It would be like turning the miles back on your car, only on your pussy.”
“Fuck, Brass, I got to say man I’m impressed, I never knew you were such a poet,” Whiskey laughed. “I don’t know man, that might take more work than one doctor could perform. I mean, shit, that snatch would need a complete overhaul.”
The Brothers at the table were laughing and from the looks of it, Val’s crew was having a hard time not busting up. Val looked pissed. If her overly Botoxed face moved, it might have cracked at the moment.
“I don’t know Whisk, I heard you’re a one pump chump. I was only offering to give you a pity fuck because, well shit, somebody had to. I mean why else would I have suggested a threesome? I had to get something out of it; at least Link can go all night.”
Val was baiting Whiskey, and he didn’t care. He just stared back at the bitch. It always unnerved her, and Whiskey liked it. His Brothers said his eyes always looked psychotic when he was staring.
“What are you looking at?” Val demanded.
“I don’t know bitch, but I think it’s why revolving doors were invented. How many dicks have you had just this week? Shit, I think your cunt gets more action than a two-dollar hooker on a bad day.”
Everybody laughed that time. Val was a bitch in the first degree, but she served her purpose. She was also easy to shut down.
The waitress, a sweet little thing, five foot nothing and curves in all the right places, came over to take his and Brass’s orders. She looked young enough to be jailbait, but Whiskey knew better. Whiskey respected the girl, she wasn’t afraid of waiting on them like some of the other waitresses. She knew all their names and treated them like she would anyone else. She was probably one of the only chicks Whiskey knew who didn’t have an agenda. She didn’t mix with the MC, but she also didn’t shun or walk away from them, either.
“Hey Whiskey, Brass, you two going to order or do you just want coffee?”
“Hey, Suzie,” Brass said, “are you gonna come out to the party this Friday?”
Brass had a thing for the hot little waitress, but other than waiting on him and serving him food, she never allowed it to go any further. Whiskey didn’t question it; the Club didn’t have the best reputation as far as women were concerned. They never did anything bad just never stuck around. For a good girl like Suzy that reputation would be a no-go. Brass just hadn’t gotten the memo yet. He always asked if she was coming to one of the many parties the Club had, and she always turned him down, all you had to do was wait for it.
“Nope, sorry can’t this week, Brass, maybe some other time?”
“Sure, thing Suzie Q.” Whiskey saw the disappointment in the man’s eyes before he shielded it. She poured them coffee, took their orders, then walked away as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
Reagan was about to get her rocks off, and Suzie had acted like it was just another day, no big deal. Whiskey was sure Tank was playing with her under the table. Reagan's beautiful face had a blush on it that was the telltale signs of her upcoming orgasm. Nothing made a woman prettier in Whiskey's book. Her copper eyes were hooded, and her breathing was escalated, the pink on her cheeks only made her skin glow brighter. Tank was whispering shit in her ear, and Reagan was struggling to stay still and quiet. Typically, Whiskey would enjoy the show, but today he wasn’t into it. Today was just a different day with the same actions. He knew when they got back to the Club, things would get much more interesting, and even that didn’t appeal to him at the moment.
Reagan was Club property, a Puppet. Dick Puppets were the girls that the MC claimed and protected because of their contribution to the Club on their backs. Whiskey was surprised to see her out with the rest of this fucked-up little group. Reagan was a local and grew up with most of them, but she had never been a part of the “in” crowd. Val and her crew treated her like shit. Reagan was trailer trash, just like him. The only difference was that Reagan tried to be better, and even though she had been a Club Puppet now for about six months, it was in the loosest sense of the word. Whiskey knew she hadn't been with any of the guys other than Tank.
Reagan was a Puppet in name only; she was more like a sister, always tried to make their lives a little easier. She tended bar, cleaned toilets, did laundry, and tried to keep the Club house clean. Unfortunately for her, no one else tried, so it was a moot effort on her part. Reagan also had no problem with the lifestyle, or at least he thought she didn't; the truth was he had never taken the time to talk to her and find out anything more about her. That was kind of messed up considering they all lived together. It was a fucked-up form of family, but one that worked just the same.
When Whiskey’s phone vibrated, he was almost thankful for the distraction. When he heard the other Brothers’ phones also going off with an incoming text message, his mind switched from the fucked-up past to the present. Something was up. It looked like they had Church in twenty. Church was a meeting where the Club, and only the Club’s patched members, discussed upcoming missions and other Club business. It was a regular Sunday thing for them. Calling all the patched members in on a Tuesday was unusual.
Whiskey got up to leave and heard Link telling Val he had to get going and Tank telling Reagan to get her ass in gear; nothing unusual, this shit didn't happen all the time, but it happened. Reagan just grabbed her stuff and headed for the door. Val, on the other hand, was throwing a fit wanting to know why Reagan got to go, but she didn't. Whiskey just gritted his teeth and kept on walking. The bitch didn’t know her place, but that was Link’s problem.
Throwing some money on the table to cover the food he never got to order, Whiskey walked through the dingy diner and out the door. The call-to-action caused his adrenaline to pump, fueling his fire. He heard some of his Brothers behind him, but didn’t stop to see if they were following; they all knew the score. If the President of the Ruthless Bastards called, they jumped.
The Ruthless Bastards weren’t your typical MC; they were considered one percenters, but not for being ordinary outlaws; they didn’t run guns, drugs, or women, own strip clubs or sex shops. The RBMC were mercenaries, paid killers offering their services to the highest bidders, vowing to use the skills that Uncle Sam had given them on their own terms. Right the wrongs they wanted and never look back. Although the MC was a front to get them into places where ordinary life wouldn't let them, it didn't mean it wasn't the real thing. They were an MC and lived by those rules; they just had a different purpose than other outlaw clubs.
Their first and most stringent rule was that they didn’t go after innocents, period. They only went after the worst of the worst, on U.S. ground. Other clubs that did the bad—girls, guns, drugs, you name it, and the RBMC was doing its best to stop them. No one ever saw them coming, everyone believed the front they put out there. Most times they were still working for the agencies, getting paid bank to put others away. The biggest difference was that they followed their own rules, and no one could force them to do shit, unlike the time they served in the Armed Forces. This time, they had a choice, could steer and command their own lives. Whiskey wanted to right wrongs on his own terms. He never wanted to be at the mercy of some fucked-up asshole’s endgame, again.
Living the MC lifestyle meant wild parties, hot sex, and a different woman every fucking night. But, it also meant fidelity and loyalty to the MC, and the MC alone. It wasn’t much different from life in the military. You had a chain of command and followed it. The biggest difference was his chain of command now allowed him and every other Brother a choice. If any of them didn’t like a mission or task, they could ask questions or bow out. They were a fucked-up family of men that would live and die for each. Whiskey wouldn’t have it any other way.
The other major difference was that if a Brother needed a breather, to feel the wind in his face, he could take off for a while and not worry about the consequences. All of them understood the need to be free didn’t make them any less loyal. There were always jobs to do, places to go, and things to see; all you had to do was ask.
Whiskey had gone on runs that could last a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Runs were technically assignments, you got on you bike and went where you were needed. Most times it was hooking up with other MC’s, watching and learning their operations. Getting the scope on what other MCs were up to, and which ones were dealing drugs, guns or women. The RBMC was different, they worked with law officials. but only on their terms. If a club needed to be taken down, they did it; if the dudes in the club needed to spend some time behind bars, the RBMC made it happen. They also took on other jobs, search and rescue and the like. One of the reasons they all had to serve in the military was training was essential to them; it also kept them alive. The RBMC worked with other Chapters across the country. It felt good to know he wasn’t tied down by anything other than the Club. Then again, maybe that was his problem, he wanted to be tied down by something. Maybe it was time to put down true roots. Wasn’t that one of the reason’s he had come back to Defiance?
Getting on is bike, Whiskey made quick time of the fifteen miles from the diner to the Clubhouse. The wind on his face revived him, and he craved a longer run; he needed to get his head straight. Right now, though, he had things to do, mainly going to Church. It was where they decided and voted on everything from Prospects joining to the missions they went out on. What a funny word that was, Church; civilians heard it, and he often wondered what they thought. Some of the more jaded probably thought it was a place they did satanic rituals and sacrificed virgins.
It was also a place that Brothers could air grievances and decisions were made. Just last week, they had decided to get into the medical marijuana business. A couple of the Brother’s wanted to look into getting a grower’s license up north, and the Club had voted the idea in, the potential profits fit well with Whiskey’s future, so he was all for it. Sometimes the items discussed were more mundane, like setting up a schedule to clean the johns. That item for discussion didn’t go over as well.
The RBMC Defiance Chapter had thirteen fully patched members, four Prospects and four Puppets. Most of them lived on premises, the only exception right now being Crank, the Road Captain who lived with his Old Lady Cathy not too far away. Cathy was also the only Old Lady the Defiance Chapter had. She didn’t spend a lot of time at the Clubhouse, but Whiskey had a lot of respect for the woman. Cathy was hard working and accepted their lifestyle without question. She was also a badass in her own respect, training service and defense dogs.
The Clubhouse came into view; it always surprised and took him back a little. The place was an old Planation House, well, a better word for it would be mansion. It was beyond huge and stately. One of the things Whiskey liked was it was a place no one would ever think belonged to a Motorcycle Club. To the untrained observer or passerby, the place just looked like a house or a museum.
The outside was typical of the Plantation style, three stories, big white columns, and wide porches. It rested on over fifty acres and butted up to another hundred and fifty acres of reserve. On the other side was the Sinclair farm, Whiskey’s old haunt. They pretty much had the run of the area and no way in hell were they ever going to get a noise complaint or draw attention to themselves. The place was a perfect picture of an upstanding southern gentlemen, at least until you stepped inside, then it turned into something entirely different.
The Clubhouse was where they all let loose, it didn’t matter what time of day it was; if you walked through those doors, you were sure to get a show of some kind. None of the Brothers cared who was watching or who could see what they did or were doing, some even preferred to have an audience. Two guys could be taking one of the Puppets on a couch in the corner and another could be getting his dick sucked right at the bar. The Ruthless Bastards didn’t need an excuse to party, if they weren’t on a mission or a run, then their lives were a party all the time.
Whiskey wasn’t a shrinking violet, in the past he had partaken in all that the Club offered and to some extent, still did. However, he preferred his sex dirty, kinky even, but also behind closed doors. As he got older, he also wasn’t a fan of sloppy seconds. He loved to watch, but if the chick offered him a taste after the show, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would take her up on the offer. Maybe it was a part of getting older or maybe it was just preference, Whiskey didn’t know and didn’t care. He chose the way he lived his life, and everyone else could just fuck off if they didn’t like it.