Megan - Days 3-13

As I entered the second week in the craziest deal of my life, I noticed that my actions in shooting Scud had earned me only a marginal amount of respect from the MC. I’d earned just enough that the bikers no longer wanted to drop me into the river. And, luckily for me, Shark stood between me and any impending dangers where his MC was concerned.

Although I’d done a fairly good job of staying out of the Shark’s way, I still faced my fair share of difficulties. I’d had two heated groping sessions where I was cornered and discovered that race had nothing to do with sexual appetite. If it weren’t for Shark’s authority and stringent rules regarding not fucking me, I would have ended up experiencing what it was like to sleep with multiple dirty bikers.

Thankfully, for me, Shark spent most of his time at the clubhouse where I slept, cleaned, and cooked. I’d also been tasked to clean the MC’s bar, which was about seven miles closer to Copper Springs, the small town right off the main highway.

The bar was like the clubhouse, except it was bigger and was stocked with a larger amount of alcohol. Also, women were allowed at the bar. The only time I was allowed away from the clubhouse to clean other areas was during none-operating hours.

I’d learned about some of the MC’s activities. The clubhouse I slept in was mainly a hangout spot exclusively for the MC and the meeting place for the club’s chairman. It had taken me a while to catch on to the fact that Shark wanted me there because it would keep me hidden from the public.

Most of the men continued to treat me like an outsider, but the longer I stuck around, the more they allowed me to see and hear information about the inner workings and operations of their club.

I had learned that the MC labeled the women as “old ladies” or “property” and didn’t hesitate to trade women if it was what suited their needs. I noticed that the woman claimed as personal property belonged to one member. Guns and drugs were their main source of income, and the few businesses they owned were meant to clean their illegal money. Only family members were made chairmen, and the MC recruited only Caucasian men.

Motorcycles, the things I had expected to see most, weren’t as prevalent as I’d thought they would be. Most of the men drove huge pick-up trucks and biked occasionally or socially on planned group drives.

I’d been getting the inside track on the way a real motorcycle club lived and considered it one of the perks of my new gig since I was an actual writer. After days of enduring their name calling, grabbing, and shoving, the men all but forgot about me until they faced me or needed me to do a chore.

It was human nature to adjust to certain ways and behaviors, and I’d started to adjust to these people who considered me their enemy.

It had gotten to the point where I’d started hearing the N-word less. I wasn’t a head doctor, but I’d venture to say that even the racist got tired of being racist after it no longer fascinated them.

* * *

By the tail end of the second week, I’d graduated from the N-word pincushion to the dejected bastard child. The MC’s old ladies or property weren’t going to accept me or adjust to me as quickly as the men had. When I was asked to clean the bar, the women taunted me worse than the men ever had.

When at the clubhouse that had become my temporary home, I cleaned whatever needed it and kept to myself in the broom closet of a room Shark had assigned me. I slept in a twin bed that felt like a lump of moving rocks. Therefore, I was thankful I’d bought a sleeping bag on the one chance I’d had to go to The Mart, their version of Wal-Mart.

The mattress I slept on stunk like the MC had been stashing dead bodies inside it. I had washed the bedding several times, and it continued to permeate a vile odor of stale dick droppings and ass juice. I slept tucked snug inside my sleeping bag, no matter how hot it became inside the tight room with its tiny window.

The scent of weed occasionally floated into the small air vent above my bed and thankfully, kept me just high enough to keep the funk from invading my mind. There was no way I was sleeping on the pillow they’d obviously stuffed with dirty drawers. I used my backpack as a pillow.

Fortunately, I’d brought my laptop and I was grateful that I’d been allowed to keep it. My portable Wi-Fi drive was a blessing. Since writing was my only escape from the situation I’d thrust myself into, I continued to write and market my work.

My thirty-day stint with the MC had come as a surprise, but I realized something I had neglected to think about beforehand. No one would miss me if I never went back home. The two detective business cards I’d given to Shark were fakes that I’d printed myself. It was a little insurance that had kept the MC from killing me on the spot and dumping my body out back.

These bikers had no idea that I was a severely damaged woman who only occasionally ventured outside the norm. I’d sat and planned how I was going to approach this MC for months before I decided to act. Shark was right about his initial assessment of me. I was crazy. Possibly insane. My mind was twisted, but I’d learned how to hide it well.