Raw: The Ultimate Mc Collection (2 page)

They knew exactly what I liked, and how I liked it.  They also knew what I didn’t like.  And that was the most important skill of all.

I was all business. Don’t get me wrong, I was more than happy to get serious between the sheets, or against the wall, or up against a tree in the middle of the woods, but once it was over, I had no time for messy feelings or clingy women.  I wasn’t old man material.  I never had been, and I never would be.

Cherry and Tiff knew that, even if Cherry tried to get a little possessive sometimes.  Every now and then, I’d have to remind her of the limits of our interactions.  And sure, Tiff was technically our prospect Thorn’s occasional squeeze, but as the President of the Gods of Chaos MC, I had earned the right to be with any of the club girls I wanted.  Unless she was someone’s old lady, and there was only one of those around these days.  Most of the brothers weren’t too interested in making these girls a permanent part of their lives.  Sure, they might take a liking to one or two, but they were rarely attached to anyone in particular.  So, I borrowed Tiff every now and then. 

I liked the way she tasted.  And she reminded me just how much by climbing up and straddling my face at the same time that Cherry smoothly mounted my cock.  They rode me simultaneously, deliciously rocking their beautiful pussies against me, their lips and tongues melting together above me.  The sound of their moans filled the clubhouse as we worked with a triple goal in mind.  Tiff’s pussy was like velvet against my tongue, as I fucked into both of them over and over, our bodies meeting in the space between, slamming into each other again and again, harder and faster with every sweet, debaucherous thrust.

Cherry tightened around my cock, her spasming pussy rhythmically pulling me over the edge as I reached up, and grabbing Tiff’s hips, I pulled her down towards me and pressed my tongue into her deeper and deeper until she was thrashing above me, the three of us coming together in a symphony of moans and soft screams, our voices echoing into the darkness of the still black night.

We collapsed in a pile of naked limbs on my bed, the girls cooing on either side of me as I caught my breath, our chests rising and falling in the quiet room.  This time, the girls drifted off to sleep, and I gently untangled myself, leaving them cuddled together as I snuck off to the shower.

I cherished times like these.  Rarely was there anything quiet about the clubhouse.  The sounds of the party had faded long ago, and I knew all too well the scene that would greet me when I opened the door that led out of the peaceful privacy of my room and into the chaos of the clubhouse.  But every now and then, I was blessed with being awake during those moments in between the chaos.

The peace was comforting.

I showered and dressed quietly, pulling my jeans over my hips, buckling my heavy silver skull belt-buckle, and placing my piece in the gun pocket of my cut.  My knife slid smoothly into its leather case on my left hip, and my second knife fit snugly into my black leather harnessed biker boots.  I stretched a clean, white t-shirt over my tattooed torso, and shrugged my cut on over my shoulders.  I never felt quite right until I had my cut on.

Like I said before, chaos was my life.  This vest was a badge of honor, a symbol of respect for everything I chose to do, the very person I chose to be.

It was a part of me just as much as my skin was.

I took one last look at the girls in my bed, looking like angels sleeping with nothing covering them but the pale moonlight streaming in from the window.

Any normal man would not be leaving.  Any normal man would not be about to wind his way through the remnants of last night’s party, straddle a dangerous machine, and roar straight into the pitch black danger of the night to meet up with a fellow criminal to plan their weekly agenda of crimes.  No.  Any normal man wouldn’t have done any of that.

But, like I said before, there’s nothing normal about me.

I walked through spilled beer, side-stepped naked bodies strewn all around, picked up some broken glass, and turned down the stereo behind the bar.  When I stepped outside, it felt like only minutes had passed since I had walked in.  In truth, it had been several hours, but the night felt young, and as I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, I felt invigorated.  Strong.

I pulled on my helmet, started up my bike, and drove slowly, peacefully, down the winding road that would lead me to the main highway that would eventually lead me to the coast, where I was expected in an hour.  Plenty of time to go slow and enjoy the stillness of the night.

Unfortunately, that peace was short-lived.  As soon as I spotted the headlights, I knew something was wrong.  Nobody ever came this far down our road, and if they did, they were on a bike and I knew them well.

At first, I could only make out the shadow of the man.  His long, sleek El Camino shimmered in the moonlight like a snake lying behind him, lighting him up.  When he turned towards me, I saw the glint of gold in his mouth. Then, I saw the silhouette of his cock in one hand, and a pistol in the other.  He froze like a deer in my headlight, to my advantage.  Before he could think to take one step towards me, I was on him.   As I jumped off my bike, I saw the woman lying at his feet. I saw her bloody face, her skirt hiked up around her hips, her bare legs and feet covered in scratches, and I attacked without any further thought or debate.

Whoever this guy was, he was no good.

I barreled into his chest, knocking him off his feet, his gun skidding through the dirt and resting in the grass ten feet away.   Stunned, he stared up at me, locking eyes with me as I grabbed him by the lapels of his filthy white suit jacket.  A crumpled pink carnation clung to his front pocket like a dying wish.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

“Fuck you!” A sickly, evil grin spread across his gaunt face.

Sweet anticipation spread through my veins as I asked one more question before pummeling him.

“Who is she?” I asked, my chin jutting in the direction of the still motionless, bloody woman.

“Just a cunt who deserves what she got.”  The sick sneer remained on his face until the first contact of my fist.  The rest was a blur.  I don’t know how long I hit him.  At least until he stopped moving.  A shot in his leg, just in case he decided to come back to while I went to check on the girl.

She had a pulse.  Gently, I pulled her long blonde hair away from her face. Her eyes were closed and the swelling was already beginning. My eyes trailed up and down her battered body, and rage swelled inside of me again.

My eyes darted over to the man, and he began moaning softly, barely moving, like a dying piece of roadkill.  I rose, my stride unflinching, with more purpose than I had ever felt in my life.  My gun was heavy in my hand. My bicep twitched as it went off, my hand holding onto my weapon steadily, with ease, with confident intention.

And then he stopped moving.  Suddenly.  Easily.

And just like that, the stillness returned. But, while the peacefulness I loved had only been interrupted by a few moments, now, everything was different.

That stillness now came with a price.

I stood over her, staring down at this strange woman, and wondering what the hell I had stumbled upon.  Who was she?  A hooker?  His lover? 

I rifled through the El Camino, and found nothing but a bottle of lube in the glove compartment and a few condoms under the front seat.  Two joints were in the ash tray, which I pocketed.  No purse, though.  I walked over to the dead guy, taking him in briefly before looking through his pockets.  I wasn’t much on fashion, but even I could tell his suit was cheap by the thin, rough fabric and his shoes, while very shiny, weren’t even real leather.  His stringy black hair was slicked back away from his ugly, pock-marked face.

I found his wallet, with an ID that said he was Franco Javier Corona and had an address in Gresham.  Three hundred and fifty-seven dollars in small bills, and two hotel card keys, and not much else.  I pocketed the cash, and tucked his wallet back inside his suit jacket.

I looked at the girl again, and shook my head. Something wasn’t right.  She was too healthy, too pretty to be a hooker.  Way too fucking pretty to be the dead guy’s girlfriend. Her skin, while bruised and scratched, was smooth and toned, with a perfect bronze sheen to it.  Her curvy hips swelled away from a taut, strong core of perfect ab muscles that I could see a flash of because her black tank top was pushed up against the swell of her full breasts.  Every hooker I had ever seen was emaciated and ravaged from drugs and other various abuses, and the girl laying in front of me looked as healthy as a prized horse.

A prized, knocked-out, completely unconscious horse.

I realized then I needed to work fast.  She would just have to tell me who she was when she woke up.  But for now, I needed to get her out of here, and clean up this mess.

I took a step towards her, and my eye caught a slight movement to my left.  I looked over in the shadows, and couldn’t believe my eyes.

An owl.  The owl.  No, it couldn’t be
, I thought.  But he was a dead ringer for the damned owl that had appeared only twice in my past.  And just like before, he sat there, staring at me, his huge eyes blinking, calm and noble, looking as if he owned the fucking forest.  Could it really be the same one?

If it was, then I knew this was a terrible omen.

The first time he appeared was so long ago, it almost felt like a dream.  Twenty years ago and it was the last and only time I had ever loved a woman.  I was a naive twenty year old, and I couldn’t wait to marry Julie. Young or not, naive or not, I knew she was the one I needed to spend the rest of my life with.  We got married on the Oregon coast, both of us wearing black leather and huge smiles.  After a year of love-drenched bliss, she died in a senseless car crash coming home from work.  The night I lost her, this damn owl showed up as I stampeded through the forest, screaming at the moon in a drunken rage and grief-filled bout of insanity.  He sat perched on a rock, his huge golden eyes blinking at me, his eyes filled with what I perceived at the time to be understanding.

The second time was ten years later when my dad died, leaving behind an empty seat at the head of the table at the clubhouse.  There was nobody else qualified to fill it, so there I sat, the middle of the night, all alone, listening to my old man’s favorite Waylon Jennings record.  It was a hot summer night, and the windows were open, the blackness of the forest quiet and inky beyond the window.  The owl appeared out of nowhere, landing on the windowsill in a soft, sweeping flap of his feathery wings, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.  We sat there for several long moments, staring each other down in the quiet stillness of the night.  Again, he blinked over and over, and my blood went cold when it dawned on me the last time I had seen him was when Julie had died.

And now here he was again.  Only this time, he was sitting in the grass, the moonlight falling over his body as he gazed up at me.  Something about him was different, but that didn’t dawn on me right away.  Later, I would realize he looked friendlier, curious almost.  Not so serious, perhaps.  But tonight, just like before, he filled me with terror just by appearing.  So much so that it abruptly jarred me out of my daze and I quickly set into motion.

Gently, I lifted up the girl and placed her in the El Camino.  She didn’t budge even slightly, worrying me even more.  I threw the man’s body in the back of the El Camino, thanking him out loud when I saw the tarp already back there, just waiting for the perfect dead body to come along and wrap itself up in it. 

“What a thoughtful piece of shit you are,” I said to him as I closed the tailgate. 

After parking my bike on the side of the road, I hopped in the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition.  My eyes locked with the owl’s once again, who had been silently watching my every move.  

“Shit,” I muttered to myself.

I started the car and headed down the road back to the clubhouse, watching the owl grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror behind me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Grace

The fog wouldn’t lift.  As much as I tried to swim through it, as hard as I tried to muster every ounce of strength in my brain, I couldn’t break the surface.  

The searing pain was gone, but the darkness remained. Foggy, black, heavy, like a storm cloud that never broke open.  It was as if I carried it, far in the back of my mind, while it continuously threatened to spill itself.  The promise of light remained merely inches away, a constant nagging anticipation, a longing that I could see but couldn’t touch.

Where was I?  What was I supposed to be doing? The limbo of uncertainty haunted every second, every breath that managed to  scrape its way out of my lungs was a question.  But there were no answers.  The light never came.