LOKI

Six Years Later

“Yeah, I get you, Big Daddy,” I say into the phone before pressing the end button. Shit is finally going down around this hellhole of an MC club.

Rooster is about to fry.

Gunnar and the rest of his goons are going down with him.

I step into the clubhouse. Taz, one of the clubhouses long-time whores, is putting her tits in the face of Rack, one of the recent additions to Wicked Angels. He’s all too willing to suck one of her huge nipples into his mouth.

My cock hardens.

Ignoring the slut desperate to get laid, I approach the bar where Pyro is sitting and flicking his lighter. He has long hair, dark chocolate brown, and a wicked scar on the side of his face from hairline to his Adam’s apple. I asked him once where it came from and he just grunted in his gravelly voice and that was the end of it.

When he showed up here a few years ago, he was already sporting it.

He was sent down from Boulder because we needed some more muscle here.

At least that’s what Big Daddy told Rooster.

I’m the only one who knew the real reason for his visit, or rather, extended vacation. But that’s beside the point. Big Daddy and the Tucson guys are finally ready to make their move on Roswell to extricate Rooster from his post.

Since Tryke’s death six years ago, no one has dared challenge Rooster for president, no one except Pyro and me. Though we’re not exactly running toward that opportunity. It’s something he and I have talked about, privately. It’s not something you bring other people in on. You do that, you get dead.

Pyro flicks his lighter again. “What’s goin’ down, brother?” I say to him.

“Same shit.” His voice is gravelly, like he’s smoked a dozen packs of smokes a day for years. The truth is the wicked scar caused some damage to his vocal cords. The girls around here find it sexy as fuck. Swear to God, this man gets more pussy than a strip club on payday. I shake my head. My eyes land once again on Taz, who’s moved to hike up her skirt and straddle Rack. It takes everything I have to not walk up behind her and slip it in her ass while she rides him.

“Leave it,” Pyro says. “She don’t deserve a double team,” he grumbles before swallowing back his whiskey.

He’s right, but still, it would be fun as fuck to watch Rack’s eyes bug out of his head as I did it.

The prospect behind the bar moves away. “One more,” I whisper so only Pyro can hear it.

“About fucking time,” he whispers harshly back.

“It’s been six years, what’s one more month,” I whisper back.

“Pyro,” a voice calls from the hallway. We both look over to see Rooster standing there.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Need you and Loki to get over to Iron Wings, Loni’s got somethin’ for you,” Rooster says.

“What would that be?” I ask.

“A new piece of ass? How the fuck would I know? Just get ya’asses o’er there and find out,” Rooster orders. The man has not aged well these last six years. His face is lined with wrinkles, he cut off his hair because he couldn’t take care of it, and he’s lost a hell of a lot of weight. Frankly, he looks like shit. Good.

“Yup,” Pyro says before slamming back the rest of his whiskey and setting the glass on the bar and heading for the door. I follow him out into the warm Roswell sun and we climb on our bikes. He kicks his over first, I follow and off we go down the street.

Ten minutes later and we’re pulling into the Iron Wings Saloon, a Wicked Angels owned bar that’s just off the highway and our biggest money making joint in Roswell. We don’t hold a candle to Boulder, but it works well for us.

There are a couple cars in the lot, none of which I recognize, not uncommon, but the bar doesn’t open for another couple of hours. Odds are we’re here for a pick-up. Loni, the bar’s manager, usually holds funds until the end of the week, but on big nights, she has it picked up the next morning.

The bar is a front for many things, including, but not limited to, drugs and prostitution. The bar’s lot is shared with a truck stop. Best marketing plan on the planet, fuck you very much. You get bikes, dykes, and trucks, most of the time, in the same night, every night.

I lead the way inside. Pyro hates coming over here. I can’t say it’s my favorite either, but I do it because I have no choice.

We step inside and I pull my shades off my eyes and tuck ‘em into the back of my cut. Easier to keep them back there. “Loni,” I call out.

“Back here,” she answers and I head toward the back office.

“Thanks, Skit, for coming in.”

I hear a soft laugh that rattles a memory in the back of my brain, but I bury it before I let it consume me.

“Skit, that’s a new one,” I hear the voice say and it’s sexy with a southern twang worked in.

Loni laughs back, “The hair, it looks like skittles.”

I shake my head. Must be a new hire. Which means Rooster wasn’t too far off. Then again, Loni hires who she wants, when she wants, and she doesn’t give five shits if anyone else is interested in them.

“Can you start tonight?” Loni asks whoever she’s speaking with in her office.

“Absolutely, what time?” the girl replies, and again the southern accent is almost sweet, or maybe it’s just her voice.

She has to be a new piece of ass, though I doubt Loni had time to call Rooster about it before she offered her the job.

“Six to close?” Loni asks.

“I’ll be here, thanks Loni,” the girl says.

They exchange good-byes and the next thing I know, this gorgeous five-foot something in hooker heels with green hair and black streaks that remind me of the inside of a kiwi, slams face first into my chest. The scent of strawberries assaults my nose and my mind flies back to six years ago and the night I took the virginity of my best friend’s sister.

No way.