CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“No one blames a wild animal for his appetites. Don't judge mine." - Lawless.

 

 

 

 

Lawless had about as many faces as he had degrees stashed in his back pocket. And he had a lot of those. Some called him a genius. Others said he was a killer. I'll take what is Lawless? for 300, Alex. Something about that little piece of paper to say he was cleverer than the average joe made his Johnson hurt. Look at me now, momma.

And no one liked a painful dick.

Except for Lawless. When he was in the mood for it.

Like tonight.

His watchful eyes had kept a lock on the door, chiming in with his club brothers’ conversation now and then, it was like tuning out buzzing bees. His expression bored. It was no reflection on them. He was just ... bored.

All sorts traipsed through Otis' doors of an evening and if he were lucky someone of his varying tastes would trot on through like a good piece of meat.

It wasn't as though he was fussy. Only when he was.

He could mold anyone into what he wanted them to be, people were good little maggots like that.

They sliced open, butter on a summer's day, save for the spurt of blood. And minds were terribly fucking pliable under certain manipulation.

It was better if they came to him fully twisted, because if he got his hooks into them if his tick was engaged ... well, it was just better if it wasn't. He didn't like being mean if he could help it. He wasn’t a psychopath, he had a conscience, thank you very much, Bob. That was never his purpose ... and making excuses was a bad habit to get into.

Eyes on the door, he scratched up his neck, the black tattoo masked his entire throat and underneath his chin, an ink turtleneck, and down across his shoulders, the work had taken six sessions and two of those he'd passed out with the agony on such a sensitive part of his body. If anyone got close enough to the block of color to really study it, would see it wasn't what it seemed from a distance, small intricate layering of black spiders on a repeated loop. No one knew the reason why. Only two people knew and one of them was dead.

He wore his reminders in plain sight.

The door opened, people burst through, laughing, enjoying life. He saw a smallish chick come in with a group of seven, she was hidden behind a big wide shouldered dude for a second, but Lawless saw, he ignored them all, just regulars most probably, who cared. It was the chick he had a stare on for. Logging what he saw like he was flipping through a Sears brochure. Short dark hair, clipped close to her head, he bet with one of those hair clippers, no fancy salon for her, she had a square masculine shaped face, no pimples or freckles, effortlessly flawless skin, flat tits, not even small poked nipples, no hips to see, not a fucking curve in sight. She was straight up and down lanky. Looked to be in her early twenties.

A stirring began in his black pants. A tickling in the back of his throat. He could taste pennies. He wasn’t having a stroke.

Shifting in his seat. He took a closer look. Licked his lower lip. His dick hurt.

She didn't wear makeup, now if she didn't wear a bucket of perfume, too, she'd be perfect; For what he wanted tonight.

Callused sun damaged knuckles rapped on the table, he threw down a twenty for his share of the drink tab. "Catch you, ladies, later," he told his MC buddies who snickered. They understood his movements. They wouldn't see him until morning, maybe the day after.

Depending.

"I'm rollin' too." Rider said. But Lawless was already walking across the bar, the chick noticed him of course, being six feet four everyone noticed Lawless. That and he was told he imposed fear in most people. He didn't know why, he seldom interacted with people who weren't part of his MC until his job came into effect and then he got up real close with people and made them very, very dead. He had a black bag of goodies for the event. Maybe he could get doctor death as his new tattoo, he smirked a little to himself, people just didn’t get his humor, he thought he was hilarious. He could laugh someone all the way to a shallow grave.

He preferred animals most days. Animals didn't lie, cheat or call you a waste of air and they didn't throw you out into the wild when you were only seven. Momma, what did I do wrong?

There were those animals who ate their young, however.

Oh yeah, she'll do. He smiled to himself feeling like King of his own jungle. Swagger, swagger, nice to eat you.

A fast pace in his chest. He let her see him eyeing her up and down. Let her recognize what was going to happen to her nice boyish body. Gangly and thin with a nondescript face. He didn’t care about her name, he wouldn’t be using it.

The chick fidgeted but didn't look away, she gravitated apart from her group and towards him, meeting him somewhere halfway.

See that, molding and he hadn't had to do a thing. A look was all it took.

People were easy. Animals made you work for their affection. Fucking people begged for it like embarrassing pieces of meat.

"You look like a man," he told the androgynous chick in his whiskey-deep voice, his neck craned down and he sniffed deeply. Not a hint of perfume on her skin. Perfect. And up close he saw she was of age. He would have chucked her back into the pond otherwise. Bad fish, he didn't do them young. He was a fucking deviant, not a monster.

She grimaced and touched her shaved hair as if offended for a second, ready to tell him to fuck off by the tenor of her scowl. "I like it," he followed up with. Teeth bared, he licked his lower lip. "You want to get out of here?"

Straight to the point. He touched her pulse in her throat, just with a finger, it was hammering excited or afraid. He hoped excited. He wanted full participation.

"Eh. I'm with friends. We could grab a drink." Even her voice wasn’t sweet or feminine. She’d scream.

Stroking his eyes over her square face, thin lips, she didn't even have long lashes, he could already see the bindings he'd use on her. Tight rubber.

"I don't want a drink."

"Oh. Well, another time then." She smiled up at him all shy and needy. He could paint those cheeks in his come.

Adorable little she-boy. He wondered how nasty she could take it. He let his stare continue.

He didn’t mind some of his circuits being shot to hell. Who was perfect anyway? He had money, he could go anywhere. He chose to be where he was because he just did. It suited his life, besides, his brothers would fall on their asses without him.

"There won't be another time." He took a step away.

And began to count in his head.

"Hey, wait up." He reached three.

Lawless smiled to himself and turned half of his body, his wide shoulders rolling under his Renegade Souls jacket. He was always proud in his club clothes. He’d worked for it, earned it, no one could take that away from him. The little wild pup had pulled himself up from the gutter with no help whatsoever. Of course, he felt pride. He could have become feral. The public just didn’t know.

"I suppose we can go somewhere to talk." She hedged licking the corner of her lip drawing her eyes all over him like a hot bath submerging to the deep end. She went from his shaved head, stopped at the ink and roamed.

Greedy meat.

Talking. Right. Sure. Not today.

Lawless palmed her neck, sinking his fingers into her flesh with a bit of bite to the hold. Testing. And felt her shiver.

Submissive meat at that.

Just fucking perfect.

For tonight anyway. It wasn't his way of life. Sometimes he wanted a real feminine type.

Other times men.

Sometimes something in between. His preferences had many faces and flavors.

Sometimes he wanted steak, and then other nights’ lobster.

Who judges a man's appetites?

What didn't ever change was the control. He drove his own bus.

What was the term for it the screwed-up media had coined it; Lawless was sexually fluid.

Maybe that should be his new tattoo. He leered a wicked twist of his lips. Women called him pretty, handsome, sexy, he was just himself.

He wrapped his full palm around that slim boyish neck when he heard talk from his boy's table. "I gotta go, Zara is meetin’ up with the social worker and the kid tomorrow, and somehow that means I gotta help with some shit or other." Rider laughed but it wasn't what Lawless heard that had him halting mid-step like he'd been shot in the torso with plutonium bullets.

Acid gurgled up his windpipe almost making it hard to breathe.

It was what he felt in that beat of a second.  

Palpable electricity.

"Stay." He told her and stalked back over to the boys. Words vomited out of his lips. "Prez. Z-girl said the kid … Angela, was bitching about homework and needing a computer. You tell her to tell the kid, she gets all A's up until Christmas, a laptop is hers."

The. Table. Dropped. Silent.

Every one of them shutting up at the exact same time.

All his brother's eyeballs were on him.

Lawless didn't blink.

"Say what?" Rider asked finally. Suspicion in his tone.

Lawless couldn't explain. The ball in his gut was on fire.

"Schoolwork is important. Tell the kid to stop being a little brat and get on with it."

He'd hacked the school records. No big deal, it was a thing he could do. As well as build computers when he was bored. He'd seen she was doing good in some classes but others, total ass-clown. He strode off. "And I'm gonna send some physics books to your place, for Zara to give to her."

He didn't see his brothers gaping at his back when he walked out with the chick.

Angela had an incentive now to stop acting the fool in school and not allow last year’s trauma to ruin her whole fucking life. So, what if he felt sorry for her, he’d literally dragged her out of hell and dealt with her clinging to him for hours. Maybe he felt responsible.

He didn’t.

There was no explanation Lawless wanted to dig into.

He had a place to take this chick. Not to his flop at the club, or his apartment in town.

Nah this was private, out of the way. Secluded. Paid for on a month to month basis. No one knew. He was a private guy and didn’t like to advertise.

Somewhere someone could scream. if they wanted to.

Lawless wanted her to. Needed her to.