The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) (10 page)

“You still have
a problem with him don’t you?” She asks.

“Hey you would
too if he wasn’t your cousin.”

“What’s not to
like Morgan? He’s handsome, he’s successful, and yet you still have a problem
with him. So what is it? In what way is he not the perfect man? He’s smart,
well read, and educated and he has his own business.”

“Builds custom
motorcycles I believe.”

“So?”

“He’s the
president of the Iron Disciples Motorcycle Club.”

“Even better!”

“How is that
better? He’s a criminal.”

“It’s an outlaw
club yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. This town’s full of law
abiding outlaw bikers. Many of them had outlaw roots back in the fifties and
sixties but today they hold down jobs, are married and have children. It’s not
like it used to be Morgan.”

“He’s got this
patch, the Filthy Few. Ever heard of that patch?” I can tell by the look on her
face that she knows exactly what that patch means.

“I think it
means that anyone wearing the patch will kill for the club; no questions asked.
But that doesn’t mean he has; he is just willing to if that’s what he needs to
do to protect his club.”

“You’re almost
right. It means, and this is straight from him, a person earns that patch when
he has killed for the club. I Googled it and confronted him and he didn’t deny
it. The man’s a killer Stacy.”

“If you really
believe that deep down in your heart you wouldn’t be staying here with him.
You’d jump at the chance to leave if another place was offered.”

“No.”

“Fine,” she
says. “Then you can stay with my sister. She has an extra room.”

I shake my
head.

After a long
pause she says: “See I told you, you really don’t believe he’s a killer.
Otherwise you would have taken my offer or taken a room in a nice hotel But
I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. I have a friend who is with Army
Intelligence. He swears up and down that he is a human lie detector. He also is
skilled at reading people. If you really think my cousin is a killer, my Army
friend will know it. But he’s not. I’ve known Cabe all my life. It’s his
brother Eddie that’s the killer.”

“Fine, call him
and invite him over. We’ll pretend to talk business but then I’ll introduce him
to Cabe and then your friend can ask him questions.”

“Great, what
time shall I ask him to drop by?”

“Well, since he
was up all night why not come after three?”

“I’ll call him
after nine.” She replies.

The stock
market is all over the place and extremely volatile. When her friend Corey
shows up at three I would have sworn it wasn’t even noon yet. Fortunately Cade
walks into the living room as Stacy is introducing him to me.

“Stacy tells me
you’re in a motorcycle gang.”

Corey
deliberately uses the word gang instead of club on purpose. Motorcycle gangs
are basically groups of people who ride motorcycles and anyone who pays their
dues can join.

On the other
hand a motorcycle club is very exclusive. It takes years for a person to go
from person to hanger on, to prospect, to fully patched member. It is
especially hard if you are trying to get into an outlaw club. Few people have
any clue the level of commitment required to belong to an outlaw MC. It makes
the till death do us part marriage commitment seem inconsequential. Most outlaw
clubs require a lifetime commitment where the club supersedes every other
aspect or commitment in your life. In the military they often say god, country,
and family, but in the outlaw MC community it’s the club, the club, and the
club; everything else takes a distant fourth place. Motorcycle clubs are the
one place where equal rights for women are still back in the dark ages. Women
can never belong, even if you reach the coveted Old Lady status. You belong to
your man, but you have no rights in the club and the club will always come
first.

“It’s a club
Carey,” Cade replies, intentionally miss-pronouncing Corey’s name. Let the
battle of wills begin. “So what do you do for a living?”

“Army
intelligence.” Corey replies, fixing Cade with a steely glare.

“Army
intelligence? Isn’t that kind of an oxymoron?”

“I’ll tell you
what one isn’t; bikers and third grade educations. Don’t those go hand in hand
in your world Carob?” Corey fires back, deliberately calling him the wrong name
again.

I’m beginning
to wonder at the wisdom of bringing Corey here to sniff things out. It’s clear
he not only has no respect for bikers, but he seems to really dislike them in
general. Things could get real ugly here in a hurry. Maybe I should do
something to cool down the two sparring bulls before they lock horns. On the
other hand I’m kind of enjoying this. Corey is a strong willed and fearless
individual and it warms my heart to see him taking Cade down a peg or two. And
for the thousandth time I wonder why I dislike the guy (Cade) so much? It seems
like there is more to it than just the whole thing about the Filthy Few patch.
On the other hand I can’t see myself liking a murderer. I am very curious to
hear what Corey will have to say about him later. But for now I’m just going to
enjoy my front row seat at the fights.

Then Corey
notices the bullet hole in the wall. This should be interesting.

Corey points to
the hole. “Cleaning your gun again?” He asks.

Ouch! That has
to sting a bit. Accusing another gun enthusiast of an accidental discharge
while cleaning his own gun is fighting words if there ever were any, but Cade
handles himself perfectly.

“Just cleaning
someone’s clock actually! I just taught a man a very hard lesson about pulling
a gun on an unarmed man. He definitely won’t be doing that again; or anything
else for that matter. So if you think you can waltz in here with your fancy military
training and push me around why don’t you draw your own weapon and I’ll send
you off to join the other guy.”

Corey laughs.
“If I thought I even needed a gun against you I wouldn’t be much of a man. You
should be the one pointing the gun. Not that it would do you any good but at
least it might help you feel a little better about your chances!”

Stacy and I
realize at the same instant that the two men have just crossed the point of no
return.  They’re not going to back down from each other without blood being
shed. As fast as I can I swing my legs off the couch in an effort to get
between the two angry men? Fortunately at the same instant Stacy steps in
between the two men. She faces her friend, placing her hands on his chest and
pushing gently.

“That’s enough
Corey. If you two want to go Raging Bull on each other that’s fine but not now
and not in front of me and Morgan; and certainly not in our house. Even if you
did kick his ass you’d be torn apart in court for starting something in a man’s
house. Come on Corey back off!”

To my utter
surprise both men back down and take a step back away from each other. I also
realize something from the exchange. Yes Cade is a killer of some sorts, but
Corey is no less of one either. The only difference may be what motivates them
and for me that makes all the difference in the world. I just have to figure
out what motivates Cade.

I make a hasty
speech about being in pain and needing rest while Stacy pleads too much work to
do and too little time to do it. Sixty seconds later she’s ushering Corey out
the door and promising to call me later tonight.

Cade walks over
and sits down on the edge of the couch by my knees.

“Are you really
in pain?” He asks. “Or were you just trying to prevent WWIII?”

“A little of the
first and a lot of the last!” I reply. “I thought you guys were going to kill
each other.”

“What the hell
was he here for anyway?” Cade asks.

Things got so
serious so fast we totally forgot to pretend he was here for investment advice.
No point lying now. Cade will see right through it.

“I asked Stacy
to bring him because he’s like this human lie detector. Plus he’s a really good
judge of character.”

“How can
someone with so little character of his own be a good judge of other’s
character?” He asks.

“What? He’s a
good guy. He’s been in Army Intelligence for like twenty years and is a
decorated officer. He has great character Cade.”

“There’s two
kinds of killers…make that three kinds. One kind kills of necessity, one
because of pathology, and the kind Corey is.”

He pauses so I
ask. “And what kind is Corey?”

“He kills
because he likes it. He’s just fortunate to be in a job that affords him the
opportunity to do just that or he might have become a serial killer or
something.”

“What the hell?
You can’t be fucking serious Cade!”

“I am also a
good judge of character Morgan and I know his type. I see them all the time in
the motorcycle world. Most are military types that eventually find themselves
in outlaw clubs because the military ceased to need them in the capacity they
were accustomed to. With the end of the war in Iraq and he troop withdrawals
area clubs were inundated with ex- military types looking to belong to an
outlaw club. It’s a natural fit. They get the brotherhood they are used to; the
comradeship that can only be found in the military or a motorcycle club. They
also get the chance to exercise their violent tendencies in many clubs.”

“Clubs like
yours?” I ask.

“Clubs like
mine and much worse. There is a place for violent people in my club. We have to
protect our people and our way of life and sometimes that comes at a price.
There’s a reason I was never a Sargent at Arms while I worked my way through
the ranks. The Sargent at Arms is a position for the most violent member, along
with the members who perform the club’s security. That’s not for me though.”

“Really? ‘Cause
it sure looked like it a minute ago.”

“Defending your
home and seeking out violence are two very different things Morgan. I don’t
seek out conflict of any kind but I can certainly handle it.”

Could it be
that I have completely misjudged him? I am seriously beginning to wonder about
my first assessment of the man. Before my mind can turn to the day’s business I
feel a hand brush my bare thigh and it’s no accident. I suddenly wonder the
wisdom in wearing shorts; especially ones that barely cover my butt cheeks! I
turn off my tablet computer that is resting on my lap and consider setting it
aside. But maybe it should stay in my lap. It is the only thing protecting my
nether regions from his soon to be roaming hands at the moment.

I close my eyes
for a second and consider my options here. Fuck or no fuck? Fuck me or no
fucking me? What the hell do I want from this man? And by the fucking way, he
still hasn’t addressed the Filthy Few patch issue either. Or maybe he has, I
don’t know. What I do know is I have precious little time here. The longer that
hand stays on my skin the stronger the tingly fuck me feeling is getting. I put
my left hand on top of his as it begins its onward trek towards the hem of my
shorts.

“That’s far
enough buster,” I say without thinking.

“Buster?” He
says. “I have been reduced to buster? That’s not very flattering.”

“Geeze, since
when do badass motorcycle guys worry about a girl flattering him? Or is your
ego that fragile?”

“You never let
up do you?” He asks. “You’ve got more defenses than Fort freaking Knox Morgan.”

“Damn fucking
straight! And you’d have a better chance getting in to Fort Knox tonight than
my Balenciaga’s from Barneys!”

“You’re what,
from where?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

“My shorts from
Barneys New York; never mind. I still have some questions that need answering…
buster!”

He removes his
hand immediately and scoots back away from me as far as he can without sliding
off the couch. His expression is like a scorpion or something just bit him in
the ass.

“Wow…you’re
gonna give up that easily?” I ask with a small smile to take the sting out of
my words.

Immediately he
puts his hand back on my leg, but this time he’s slid his fingers underneath
the thin fabric of my shorts.

“I didn’t say
I’d give away the farm either.” I say, putting my hand back on his and stopping
his forward motion.

“How about just
a couple of sheep then? I am one hell of a farmer you know.”

“I know you
wanna plow me; that much I do know.”

This time his
hand is much more insistent as it moves farther up beneath my shorts. With my
hand on his I try to exert enough pressure to stop his forward motion but
clearly he’s not going to let me stop him.

Now he leans
forward and places his lips on the nape of my neck. When I open my mouth to
breathe a heady mixture of his very masculine scent rushes in and makes my head
spin. Everyone has their own smell that is particular to them alone and Ethan
is no different. What is different is the effect it has on me. Taking a deep
breath with him this close to me is very much like downing a shot of strong
liquor on a hot day and on an empty stomach. It goes to my head so fast my
guards drop before I even realize what’s happening; not that I am very
motivated to stopping him either.