CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rocker stood by, watching as Pete Vanko used his open hand to hit Whitey Simms across the face. The blow struck with a thick smack of flesh to flesh.
Since Whitey was currently tied to a plastic chair, his arms cuffed behind it with zip ties, his feet the same, he could do nothing to defend himself.
His head snapped to one side and then slowly rolled back, his mouth open, eyes blurred.
He looked like shit, which was fine with Rocker, Pete and Stick, the only Flyers in the small room. He stank of piss, too, after spending the night in the chair, unable to do anything but relieve himself in his pants.
His friend in the corner had fared no better. He watched, the picture of hang-dog misery, as Pete slapped Whitey again.
"Yeah, you like that?" Pete demanded, looming over the guy. "How's that feel, Whitey? You like to hit women, how's it feel to get some yourself?"
When Whitey said nothing, Pete kicked his chair, rocking it dangerously. "Answer me!"
"Fu' you," Whitey mumbled. "Tol' you, 'n accident. Did'n' mean to hit her."
Pete spat. It hit Whitey's dirty jeans and trickled down his leg. "You meant to scare the shit out of her, though. From what I hear, you mouthed off plenty, told her you had a lot worse planned. Guess you thought she'd just keep taking it, like your other victims. You should have remembered one thing, shit-head."
Reaching down, he grabbed Whitey's chin and yanked his head up, leaning down to scowl into his eyes. "She's Flyer family. That means you don't look at her, you don't speak to her, and you sure as fuck don't touch her!"
Whitey eyed Pete, glowering through swollen eyes. "I got it, I got it. Won't happen again."
Rocker straightened, and moved to stand beside Pete, leaning to look down at Whitey. "Huh. That's not what you said last night, when I caught up with you. Back when you still thought your homies were gonna come to your rescue. You said you were gonna use the fat bitch to teach us a lesson, treat her worse than we treated your sister, Aysha."
Whitey snarled at him, looking like a cornered rat.
Pete shook his head slowly. "See, now right there is your problem. Your way of looking at things is all wrong. I didn't do anything but fire Aysha's ass after she showed what a stupid, vindictive bitch she is in front of my woman, and my customers. You know what I think, Whitey? I think you're as stupid as your sister, maybe worse. I think, if we turn you loose back on your home turf, you're just gonna come right back for more."
"Let us go," his friend begged, his voice thick with tears. "We'll leave town, I swear. I'll go, and I'll take him with me."
They ignored him. "I think you're right, Brews," Rocker agreed. "I think we need to send a stronger message here."
Whitey's friend moaned.
Whitey himself read something in Pete's face, because he let out a strangled whimper. Of course, it could have been the pistol Pete pulled from the back of his belt, too. "No, no! Lemme go, you mother-fuckers. I'll--"
His words cut off in a strangled whimper when Rocker stuffed a wad of old towel in his mouth and a strip of duct tape to hold it there.
"Say good night, Whitey," Pete said, and hit him again, this time with the butt of his gun.
The skinny guy stiffened, and then went limp, sagging in the chair.
Rocker started for the side-kick, who sobbed aloud. "Don't shoot me."
"Shut up," Rocker told him. "Or I'll knock you out too. As it is, you're goin' for a ride. A long one. And my advice is, you get where you're going, find some new friends, yeah? 'Cause you got none left here. You may not have been the leader, but you went along and did not one thing to stop him."
It wasn't easy to nod with Rocker gagging him and duct taping it on his face, but the kid managed.
A horn sounded outside. Stick Vanko straightened from where he'd been leaning against a wall, watching silently. "All right, that's Snake. Let's load 'em back up."
Pete moved to roll the cargo door up. Snake's old utility van was backed up to the loading dock, motor running. "Hurry it up," Snake rasped from the twilight beyond his tail-lights. "Ain't got all night."
"Yeah, you do," Stick told him, helping Rocker free the unconscious Whitey from his chair and drag him into the van. An unconscious body was a fuckuva lot heavier than the person would be awake. "Gonna take all night to where you're goin'. Hey, Darlene, you ready for a nice weekend at the casinos?"
Snake's old lady called back from the front seat of the van. "I sure am, Stick, and thank you!"
Pete shoved the other guy in after Whitey, arranged a tarp and some nearly empty boxes over them, and jumped down to slam the back doors of the van.
"Ready," he said, and slapped his palm on the closed door.
"All right," Snake said. "See ya. If I don't win at the tables, you bastards owe me."
The van pulled away, and turned to drive away around the club house, bound for the highway, and points south.
"Whew," Pete said, shaking his head. "Gonna take me all night to get the smell of fruity shit out of my nose. What is that stuff?"
Rocker chuckled. "Darlene must've bought out the rack of air fresheners at the grocery store and tossed 'em all in the back of that van."
Stick shook his head. "Nyet, she's dealing those scented candles. Tried to sell them to Sara, but I set her straight. That shit makes me sneeze."
"Well, the smell of those two will no doubt penetrate by the time they get to Vegas."
Stick shrugged. "Snake and Darlene get a free weekend in Vegas, so I doubt they'll complain."
"Oh, Snake will still complain." Rocker and Pete shared a look. The skinny, chain-smoking biker was always bitching about something.
"Are the brothers down there ready to receive our guests?" Rocker asked as they lowered the garage door and swung the shelves back into place.
"Da. They'll give them a fine reception, and make sure they call home to let their friends here know they've decided to relocate to sunny Nevada."
It was a sound plan, with no holes as far as Rocker could see. He followed Stick and Pete from the room.
"And when I catch up with the third one, I'll let him know he'll want to move on, too."
"Good," Pete said. "Thought I doubt he'll be a problem without Whitey around stirring shit. Now, I'm gonna go wash my hands, and call Lesa, have her pick me up. I'm ready to get home, play with my dog, and sleep in my own bed."
Stick raised his brows. "Just sleep?"
Pete grinned. "Oh, hell no. A weekend of shopping, eating out and staying in a fancy hotel has my woman all happy. Gonna go get me some sweet gratitude."
"That's more like it, bratishka."
"You should take Sara away for the weekend," Pete told him as they stopped in the hallway. "Worth it."
"I intend to," Stick said. "Somewhere warm, where she won't need many clothes." He walked away toward the main club room, where brothers and their women were hollering over the sounds of a prize-fight on the big-screen TV.
Rocker followed Pete into the men's room, and they stopped side by side at the sinks to wash their hands. Rocker's phone burred in his pocket. He pulled it out, grinning as he read Billie's text. She was a fun, sexy woman, and he'd just helped take care of a big problem for her. So hell yeah, he'd take his own share of gratitude sex.
He started to reply as Pete stood nearby, drying his hands with paper towels. "Now who're you into?" Pete asked him.
Rocker paused, his fingers ready to text back. "Ah, Billie and I kinda hooked up.. You okay with me havin' some good times with her?"
Pete had an odd look on his face. "She's a grownup, so... I guess. Just have a care with her, yeah? She's not your usual style."
Rocker raised his brows, not sure whether to be amused or pissed. "I have a style?"
"You know damn well you do, brother. You party with the women that blow through here, fuck 'em and chuck 'em without a care. The strippers and club whores are down with that, they know the score. The Boggs' girls?"
Pete shook his head. "Not so much. First time I saw Lesa, I said to myself, steer clear of that one, she's got forever and a mini-van written all over her. Turns out that works for me--although with an SUV, 'cause mini-vans are for good little folks who live in the 'burbs and go to church on Sunday. But Lesa's perfect for me, wants to work beside me and build the Hangar, and she's into me like I've never had a woman be."
His smile faded. "You and Billie? You'll get tired of her and move on, but she won't see it for what it is, like the club women. She needs a steady guy, maybe some computer geek like her."
"Uh-huh," Rocker said. "You about done with the lecture?"
Pete was one of his best friends, like a brother, but he was also a bossy sumbitch, who thought he knew what should happen and tried to bulldoze everyone to make it so. It had nearly lost him his own woman, so Rocker took his advice here with a grain of salt.
"Sorry," Pete said, sounding anything but. "But you know I'm right."
"Yeah, you cock-sucker," Rocker muttered, spearing his fingers through his hair. "You do have a point."
He lived free and easy, and saw no reason to change. He liked women, he liked variety, even some fairly wild shit from time to time.
Billie was fresh and sweet and juicy as a peach, but Pete was right—she would not want to share a man with other women.
"You'll have to let her down easy, bro," Pete went on stubbornly. "She's a sweetheart, but she's young, and a little naive, you know? Lesa says she's lost in gamer world half the time."
"Yeah." This was also true. And too bad for him that he loved her naivete, and loved shocking her, pushing her past what she'd experienced before, and watching it turn her on even more.
Too bad he'd like nothing more than to teach her to be his naughty girl.
"I'll go easy." Rocker turned away, headed for the club bar and shots of something strong, that would burn away the empty feeling in his chest.
Fuck this shit. He'd quit the police force so he could live the way he wanted, do what he wanted with whomever he wanted.
Why did he now find himself doing what he didn't want? Deja-fucking-vu, all over again.
* * *
In the end, it was easy... so easy.
Rocker walked into the club house that Friday evening, to find the music turned up, Credence Clearwater belting out an oldie about how people on the river were happy to give. Bull-riding was on the big screen TV, with a couple of brothers watching and sharing a joint.
The place was busy, the brothers, several old ladies and assorted other women drinking, smoking and swapping gossip and laughs.
An attractive, sultry redhead in skin-tight jeans and a painted-on top lounged on one of the sofas, chatting with a couple of the strippers from State Line. All three had drinks in their hands. "Hey, Rocker," the three women chorused, giving him smiles that said they each knew exactly what he had to offer, and liked it.
Rocker stopped by the sofa, his gaze on the redhead. "Manda. Didn't know you were in town."
She smiled up at him, and rose to saunter around the sofa and into his arms. "Surprise," she said, and kissed him.
For half a second, her touch, her scent, her taste were all wrong.
Then, remembering what he had to prove—that he had a right to fuck whoever he wanted, whenever and however he wanted, he bent his head and kissed her back. And told himself the anger burning through him was lust.
Lifting Manda up off the floor with an arm around her waist and one under her ass, he grinned. "How's about we take this party back to my room, so you can show me how much you missed me?"
She locked her legs around his hips and gave him a sultry look from her heavily made-up eyes. "Sounds like my kinda party, lover."
Rocker clocked Pete by the bar with Moke and T-Bear, all watching him. He ignored them all, stopping at the end of the bar just long enough to snag a half-filled bottle of tequila, then carried bottle and woman back to his room.
He shared the bottle with her, and then leaned back against the head of his bed while she worked her way down his torso and gave him an expert, no-holds-barred blow job. He came hard and fast, and then got her off with his mouth on hers and his fingers in her pussy.
"Mm-mm," she approved, rolling off of him to sprawl on the bed beside him. "I expect your cock in me for round two."
"After the suckin' off you just gave me, it's yours for the night," he assured her.
Then he drank some more tequila, and waited to feel relieved that he'd dodged a noose. He was a free man. This was his place, these were his people, and his brand of wild.
Hoo-fucking-rah for him.