KICK
Two Years Ago
I’m always nervous at rallies like this. Opposing clubs come together with a bunch of stuffed teddy bears strapped to our bikes and pretend as if we’re not secretly plotting to off one another in a different setting, with much less media coverage. We play nice with arseholes that we’d likely gut on the street given half a chance, and it’s all in the name of the kiddies.
It’s not the opposing clubs that are the problem, or at least it’s not the other clubs that are making me nervous. It’s that members from the Banditos chapter in Byron are here. Members I falsely accused of ambushing us a year ago when I saved my best friend’s arse.
Ethan—or Elijah, if you want his pansy-arsed new name given to him by the state after he was released from prison with a government issued “get out of jail free” card—and I had grown up brothers. Our fathers belonged to the Angels, still do, and they indoctrinated us into the family when we were barely old enough to ride a goddamned push bike, let alone a motorcycle. But Ethan had been sent to jail; he took the wrap for me, and when he was let out early on good behaviour he disappeared without a trace, Prez had sentenced him to a date with the reaper.
Course we had to find him first. We hadn’t even been looking when Rocker and I were on a run up north and spotted him and his old lady at some quiet country town parade. Every fibre of my being wanted to beat down my brothers in order to allow Ethan to get away, but my hands were tied. When push came to shove, I chose Ethan. I shot my VP in the back and chose the brother who had abandoned me over the brotherhood I had patched into. I had two options—spend the rest of my life running, or fake an ambush and ride back to the club with my tail between my legs and some bullshit story that would cost a lot of people their lives. Prez had gone in, guns blazing. We’d invaded the Byron chapter and shot up every last motherfucker in that club, women too.
Other charters heard about it, ties were broken, and business deals were hard won. And from what I hear, the big bad B’s are still out for blood. So fuck yes, rallies like this make me un-fucking-comfortable, to say the least.
“You keep staring over there and some fucker’s gonna come beat in your head in front of all these cute kiddies here,” Tank says, smacking the back of my skull. He holds out his hand, and I clasp it as he pulls me into a one-armed hug, striking my back with a loose fist in a show of brotherly affection.
“Hey, man. Where you been?”
“Brisbane, Gold Coast, out west, and every shit hole town in between. Prez’s got me tied up in so much shit I’m starting to reek of it.”
Tank is the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since Ethan left. But he’s not Ethan, and I’m not the same stupid kid I was. “Hit me up next time then. I could use some time away from the club; old man’s breathing down my neck. Can’t take a piss without him popping up to put the fuckin’ chokehold on about where I am in the club and where he was at my age.”
“You’re a ballsy little fucker, I’ll give you that, but you’re not cut out for the jobs I do, man. You’re too fuckin’ sensitive.”
“I am not fuckin’ sensitive.”
“Yes, ya fuckin’ are.” He grins. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that, brother. You’re just a pussy, is all.”
“Fuck you.”
Tank sweeps his huge arm out and playfully tags me in a head lock. I buck and writhe in his grip. With a little more pressure and a twist of his bicep, he could decapitate me in the blink of an eye. I make a mental note not to ever do anything to ensure I’m handed over to his tender loving care in the future.
I’m busy looking at the ground when a pair of spiked heels attached to very long leather-clad legs stop in front of us. Beside the perfect pins, an overly-tanned pair of much shorter legs stand on equally high heels. I follow them up past a mini skirt, a midriff pink top and an average pair of tits. Her face is made up with too much gunk—too dark, too orange, too fucking Oompa Loompa. Her friend, on the other hand, is the shit Playboy is made of—sweet curves to her hips, a toned stomach, big, fucking perfect tits nestled into a vest that’s far too tight, so they spill out in front. Fuck me. Rolling my eyes up further, I’m met with a long neck, shiny brown hair and smooth brown skin—not that fake-tan shit her friend’s wearing, but a creamy café au lait colour. She looks like one of those fancy fucking lattes, and I am a man dying of thirst. Pale blue eyes glare at me, but the corner of her mouth tips up in a seductive smile. I thump Tank in the kidneys again, and he quickly releases me.
“Excuse me, boys,” the brunette says, and Christ on a crapsicle, she has a voice like whiskey and melted butter combined. It’s soft, but husky all the same, and it immediately makes me think of shoving my cock in between that perfect, full pout. A beat passes. One in which we both just stare at one another, and then, feeling some of my wits return, I quit staring and take a step towards her. She doesn’t back up. We’re face to face, chest to chest, fucking cock to pussy, and all I want to do is shove myself so far up inside her that I poke a hole out the other side and see daylight.
She smiles with her eyes. She smiles with every single muscle of her face. I exhale sharply. “You might wanna give me some breathing room”—She glances down at my cut, to the nametag sewn into the soft leather—“Kick.”
“Baby, the only breathing room I wanna give you is when you’re coming up for air after sucking me off. And even then I’d rather you just gag on it.”
She laughs, but there’s heat behind her gaze, and I’d bet my left nut her panties are as soaked as my dick is hard. This bitch wants me bad. And I’d about give my right nut to have her rolling around between my sheets, taking my cock in her mouth, and my cum in her cunt.
“You bikers are all the same. My friend Cece and I were just trying to get out of the heat and grab ourselves a drink, and here you two are, spoiling our fun with your pathetic display of machismo.”
“Pathetic?” I give her an incredulous look and turn to Tank, but he and the petite blonde are already dry humping one another up against the pub wall. Damn, that fucker works fast. “Looks like your friend found refreshment in my brother’s mouth.”
“Jesus,” she mutters and glances across the road to the Severed Sons MC charter, where their president—who looks about ninety in the shade—stands, arguing with a big burly dude in his thirties. His long black hair is tied back, bringing attention to his hook-like nose. Several of the Sons turn to face us.
“You an old lady?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not gonna get my head beaten in for doing this?”
“Doing what?” she asks warily.
I snake my hand around her waist and pull her to me, covering my mouth with hers and kissing her with brutal force. She doesn’t fight like I expected her to; instead, she kisses me back, driving her tongue into my mouth before shoving me away from her and punching me square in the jaw.
“Ow!” I cup my aching jaw, flexing it side to side to ease away the sting. “What the fuck was that?”
“I didn’t give you permission to touch me, much less clean out my oesophagus.”
The old man and the greasy Italian dude who were arguing only moments ago, shove her out of the way and get up in my face, ready to beat my head in. “You touching my daughter, motherfucker?”
“Your daughter?” I glare accusingly between her and her old man. “You’re a club brat?”
“Don’t fuckin’ talk to her, arsehole,” the old guy says, and I’m not gonna lie, the dude’s still pretty fucking scary. “Talk to me.”
“I didn’t know. She said she wasn’t an old lady.”
“Because she’s the fucking Prez’s daughter, you fuckwad. No dirty Angel scumbag is good enough for our girl.” The big Italian dude steps closer to me, and then he glances at his president. “Can I kick his head in now?”
I give her a once over and shake my head. The bitch just fucked me silly sideways. She may not be an old lady, but she’s an MC brat, and not just any MC brat, but the fucking Severed Sons’ princess, which is worse than hitting on someone’s old lady.
“You set me up,” I accuse. She smiles again, and her whole fucking face is in on the seduction: eyes, lips, a single dimple in one cheek, everything. I gotta get this woman on the back of my bike and in my bed because I haven’t met a bitch yet that can best me at my own game.
Or I hadn’t.
Until her.
“I’ll get you back for this, and you’ll be beggin' for me to ram my co—” I don’t get to finish that sentence because the next thing I know the old dude’s meaty hook is pounding in my face. He has a fist full of heavy silver rings, and I feel the viciously sharp edges of every single one of them.
A beat later, Tank is beside me, throwing full-grown men away from him. The ruckus attracts the rest of the Angels, not just our chapter, but our associates too. My dad is suddenly beside me, pulling the old coot away from me as he pounds his fist into the old bastard’s face and screams, “Couldn’t keep your fucking nose clean for one goddamned rally, could ya, kid?”
I king-hit the Italian, bringing him down with one hard blow to the head and glance around for the girl. I can’t make out anything, not the patches of my brothers, or those from rival gangs. I turn around and see her and her friend huddled against the outside of the pub. I should leave them there. It would serve the bitch right. She doesn’t look at all fazed by the violence, but her friend is squealing like a frightened piglet.
The cops are already moving in, hosing us down with a shower of batons and pepper spray. I can’t see Tank anywhere in the fray, so I flee in the opposite direction, heading for the girls and taking down two motherfucking Sons that get in my way. I don’t even stop when I reach them—I just clasp Blondie’s hand with the princess and drag them off towards the alley. Or at least, I try to drag them off towards the alley. Princess has other ideas.
“Let go of me,” she demands, snatching her hand from mine.
“I’m trying to fucking help you, bitch.”
“Oh, I can see that,” she says caustically.
“Your dad’s having some pretty new jewellery slapped on his wrists right now, princess. What happens when a fucking hot bitch like you gets left alone with no club protection at a biker rally?”
“She screams for help,” she replies, and she deafens me with an ear-splitting shriek that brings the cops running.
Motherfucker.
I go down on my knees, my hands clasped behind my head before the cops can even reach me, but the dumb fucks beat me into submission anyway. She winks at me as I’m hauled to my feet and dragged off to the paddy wagon. Fucking MC brat.
Shoulda known.
***
Prez, Rocker, Frogger and me spend the afternoon in lock-up while our brothers do damage control on the outside and try to bail our sorry arses out. When we’re finally released around nine pm, Prez pulls me aside as the others walk towards the van. He rests two meaty hands on my shoulder and looks into my eyes.
“That shit you pulled just cost me a lot of favours, kid.”
“I didn’t pull any shit. One minute she was comin’ on to me, and the next she just flipped, and her club was laying into me. I didn’t know she was the fucking princess of the Severed Sons. I mean fuck me, did you see her? How the fuck did that come from someone like the old dude?”
“Slayer had more than his fingers in some sweet ethnic pussy pies, that’s how. Listen, there are bigger things at play here than you wanting to see that little bitch bouncing up and down on the end of your dick. The Sons have recently been making life hell for us. He glances at the brothers filing into the van, then lowers his voice, his eyes back on me. “See, they took a good deal of our profit away from that drug bust last month, they got the bitches in blue in their pocket, and it’s affecting Angel deals. With that shit the Banditos pulled up north, our hands are fucking tied. And that means you gotta keep clear of that pussy.”
“Jeez, Prez, I’m looking to get my cock sucked. I wasn’t planning on marrying her,” I say, shrugging out of his hold, though truth be told, I’m fucking angrier than a cut snake. I don’t know why, the bitch is no one to me, but that doesn’t stop this irrational rage welling inside me at my prez’s demands. I stalk towards the van and climb into the back. Tank, who’d driven out from the mountains to bail our sorry arses out, slides the van door closed as he piles in with us. Frogger, a middle-aged brother as ugly as homemade fucking sin, with big googly green eyes, raises a quizzical brow as he asks, “What the fuck’s eatin’ your knickers, boy?”
“Your old lady. I make her lick my skid-marked jocks before she reams me out.” A beat passes in which Rocker bursts out laughing, and then Frogger launches himself at me, crashing us both into the side of the van. His hands slide around my throat, and he smacks the back of my head into the metal siding. I laugh as he punches my already bruised face.
“Fuckin’ knock it off, or I’ll strip both your patches,” Prez yells from the front of the van as he brings us to a skidding stop, probably no more than two hundred metres from the cop shop. Tank is the one to pull Frogger off of me. His big, meaty fist yanks him back by the curls at the nape of Frogger’s neck, and he slams his body into the side of the van the way Frogger just did with me. Only seeing as it’s Tank, I’m guessing it was a lot harder than the way Frogger had thrown me around.
“Say fuck about my old lady again, and I’ll gut you in your sleep, you little prick.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Tank gives me a warning look and I wind up spitting out blood onto the steel van floor instead. Tank is one huge motherfucker. I’m not scared of him—I’ve taken him on before, fucking around at the Clubhouse after having a few drinks—but after having the shit kicked out of me by the Sons, taking a police baton to the head and letting Frogger give me a few good hits to the face just now, Tank would hand me my arse in three seconds flat. I’m done fighting today. I just wanna head back to the clubhouse, grab the first available bitch and let her nurse me back to health with a long, hard fuck.
And that’s exactly what I do. Cindy, a skinny club whore with long dark hair, who I’ve never really looked at twice before now, is the first bitch I lay eyes on. I walk right up to her—as the rest of the club cheer and applaud our return from lock-up—and take hold of her hand, sliding it down into the waistband of my jeans as I kiss the corner of her mouth. My fat lip stings like a bitch, but I relish the pain anyway because it makes the pleasure of her tiny hand stroking my cock that much sweeter. I lead her to my room, and I fuck her every which way possible, imagining all the while that it’s that mouthy little bitch’s cunt I’m driving my dick into. I punish Cindy, or Carla, or whatever the fuck her name is, the way I want to that Severed Sons club brat, and vow that one day it will be her bouncing up and down on my cock, despite the fact that my Prez just forbade it.
I gotta get inside that woman, even if I have to take a bullet to the gut for betraying my club.
I gotta get inside.