Chas's Fervor: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 3) (15 page)

“Watch your mouth, young lady. You’re talkin’ about a very fine woman,” the older officer said.

He’s got such a hard-on for the bitch, it makes me sick.

“Can I call someone?” she asked the desk sergeant.

Waving his hand, he pointed her to a black phone on a small wood table. Addie picked up the phone then hung it up, tears rolling down her face as she realized she had no one but Margaret to call, and she just couldn’t call her. Resigned, she turned away from the phone, then she remembered Matt. She dialed his number.

“Matt, this is Addie.”

“Hi. You sound funny. Is something wrong?”

Through tears and sniffles, Addie recounted her ordeal.

“I’ll be there right away.”

“Don’t bother. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Maybe I can bail you out.”

“They told me bail won’t be set until the arraignment tomorrow afternoon.” Her voice hitched.

“Tell me how I can help you,” Matt said.

“Please, call and tell the library I’m sick. Please don’t tell anyone the truth. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course. Consider it done.”

Nodding at the sergeant, who indicated she had to hang up, Addie said, “Thanks, Matt. I have to go, but I’ll be in touch.”

“Let me know if you need anything else. I mean it.”

When the line went dead, heaviness like a steel paperweight consumed her. Her legs were like lead, and she dragged her feet as the deputy led her to her cell. Inside the chilled room, Addie collapsed on the sagging mattress atop a steel bedframe which jutted from the wall. She leaned back against the gray cinderblock wall; the muted light of the single fluorescent tube in the ceiling cast a dreary veil over her surroundings.

Thoughts crisscrossed her mind: she’d probably lose her job, she couldn’t afford an attorney, her fingerprints would give her away, and Ian would find her. After two years of running, dodging Ian and the law, her life was over because of a crazy, horrible bitch. Addie had no idea why Brianna had done it. They’d had words several days past, but to purposely ruin Addie’s life over a few choice words seemed inconceivable to her.

She sighed, wrapped her arms around herself, tucked her feet under her legs, and hunkered down for a very long night.

S
itting at the
Pussy Cats strip bar, downing a beer, Chas’s mind wasn’t on the stripper playing with herself on stage. Addie’s soft skin and seductive mouth were center stage in his mind. He’d kissed more women than he could count, but the way her lips moved against his, her tongue dancing with his while her hands ran up and down his back, was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He never felt a jolt of lightning hit his dick as fast as it did when he held her soft, curvy body in his arms, and kissed her full lips. He couldn’t get enough of her kisses, and he was bummed the night ended without her hot mouth on his aching dick. Hungering to see if her pussy tasted as sweet as her mouth—he bet it did—she left him with a stiff cock, her fresh scent on his shirt, and her gloss on his lips. It was the first time he’d left a woman without draining his cock in her. Since he rode off that night, Addie was always in his thoughts, and he craved her more than ever.

“Are you thinking of your
date
from the other night?” Jax said, as he elbowed Chas in the ribs.

“What the fuck?”

“I figured you had a bitch you were hot for when you turned down Lola and Rosie a few days ago.”

“She’s Jack’s fuckin’ teacher. She’s been helping him on her own time, so I took her out to dinner to thank her. It was no big deal.”

“Fuck, they’re makin’ teachers way hotter than when I was in school. Did you thank her by fucking her?”

“She’s my kid’s teacher. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Whatever you say, man.” Jax raised his eyebrows and grinned.

“Fuck you.”

Jax laughed from the belly, and Chas looked back at the stage. Leaning forward, he stared at the young girl who fumbled with her top as she unsnapped it. Dressed like a school girl, complete with pigtails and knee-highs, the dancer stared ahead, her eyes filled with terror and dread. She let her top drop, and Chas clenched his jaw. “Fuck, she can’t be any older than fifteen,” he gritted under his breath.

“Let’s kick these assholes outta the club and get the fuck home. Do we really have to see anything more?” Axe, face taut and fists clenched, pushed back in his chair with his steel-toed boots.

“Easy, man. These fuckers are out, that’s for sure, but we gotta pick the right time, and this isn’t it.” Chas tilted his head toward the bar.

Standing by the bar stools, the sheriff and two deputies laughed and flirted with the skimpily clad waitress who looked barely legal.

“Fucking badges are greasing their palms with more than moolah.” Rock’s lip curled, and his look hardened as he eyed the forty-something sheriff.

“We gotta bide our time. Jumping in now would be fuckin’ stupid.” Hawk’s jaw tightened when the young dancer picked up her tips from the stage floor. “We’ve seen enough, let’s get the fuck outta here. We’ve got a clubhouse to raid.” With a cruel smile, he stood up from the table. The other members jumped up and followed their vice president out the door. Mounting their Harleys, they rode to the charter’s clubhouse, their blood pumping, muscles twitching, and hearts pounding—a good ass-kicking always hyped them up.

When they approached the Kilson charter’s clubhouse, they saw a few of the members huddled in a circle to the side of the front door. Hawk and Chas approached them, the gravel under their feet crunching. One of the Kilson members turned. “Hey,” he slurred, “who the fuck are you?” His eyes focused on the Insurgents’ rocker on their leather jackets. “Fuck, you’re one of us. Welcome.” His blood-shot eyes sized them up.

“Hey,” Hawk answered. “What do you guys have going on here?” He pushed his way between two members.

Chas, right behind Hawk, did the same.

“We got a bitch who needs punishing,” the man next to Hawk snarled.

On a dirty mattress, a young girl, eyes swollen shut, bruises coloring her body, was held down by two members as another member raped her. Her yelps of pain and humiliation fell on deaf ears as the other members yelled, “Fuckin’ whore!” while they waited their turn.

Many outlaw clubs condoned the punishment of their women, whether they were club whores, mamas, or old ladies. The common form of punishments in these clubs was to forcibly pull a train on the woman after using physical means to restrain her. That usually meant a beating and holding her down while a group of members, or the whole membership, took their turns raping her.

The Insurgents was one of the outlaw clubs that did not prescribe to this form of punishment. Women in their clubs were there voluntarily, and sex was consensual. Sometimes, at the club parties, brothers drank too much and some things could happen, but if noticed, it was stopped right then and there. The Insurgents did not coerce their old ladies or club whores to strip or prostitute in order to earn money for the club. Any charter engaging in activity not condoned by the mother club, risked hefty fines or expulsion from the Insurgents MC.

The Kilson chapter not only took part in sexual activity with teenagers, they were forcing their women to work in strip bars, massage parlors, and in prostitution. Punishing the unfortunate woman in the circle by forcing her to pull a train sickened Chas. From the slack muscles on Hawk’s face and the pity reflected in his eyes, Chas knew he felt sorry for the writhing, bruised woman on the mattress.

Stepping away from the circle, Hawk said in a low voice, “We’re going inside the clubhouse. If we start something out here, they’ll be tipped off inside.”

Chas and Hawk joined the others.

“Pug and Razor, stay out here and watch the sonsofbitches. If you hear shit going down in the club, stop what’s going on over there.” Hawk jerked his head in the direction of the members.

There were six members around the woman. “We can easily handle the fuckers,” Razor snarled, his eyes narrowed.

Looking at the rest of his brothers, Hawk asked, “We ready to kick some fucking ass?”

Snickering and cussing, the Colorado group entered the charter’s clubhouse.

The main room housed around twelve members who were engaged in various activities: snorting coke, shooting up, and fucking. A young woman, wearing only a bikini, came up to Chas. Smiling at him, her bottom teeth crooked, she said, “I never seen you around here. You want me to keep you company?”

Chas looked at her petite body, long brown hair, and heavily made-up face. “How old are you?”

Rubbing her hand up his arm, she cooed, “How old do you want me to be?”

“Your true age.”

Taken aback by his answer, her eyes skimmed his jacket. “You a member?”

Chas turned around, showing his rocker to her.

Relief spread over her face. “I needed to make sure. Don’t want to be busted, you know?” She rubbed his arm again.

“So, how old are you? The truth.”

“Sixteen. You one of them who likes ’em younger?”

“No, I like them older. Do you live here, or are you a hoodrat?”

Bristling, she snapped, “I’m no hoodrat. I’m Shack’s ol’ lady.” Pride beamed in her eyes.

Chas’s stomach twisted.
The fuckin’ sick sack of shit. We shoulda killed him when we were up here the last time.

“Percy, get the fuck away from him,” a man shouted from nearby.

“But you told me you was loaning me out tonight. You wanted it. I didn’t,” she responded.

“Get the fuck away from him. Now!” Shack’s eyes darkened with fury, as he roughly jerked her away.

“Ow. Why you mad at me? I didn’t do nothing wrong.” Percy’s hazel eyes held fear.

“I’ll deal with you later.” Shack shoved her away.

Chas viewed Shack with an icy gaze. “Roughing up young girls the only way to make your cock hard?”

Taking in the Colorado members, Shack sneered, “Get the fuck outta
our
clubhouse.”

“Throw us out with your right arm,” Chas said, his brothers laughing.

“You motherfucker!” Shack swung at Chas, who ducked then punched Shack in the face before he socked him in the stomach.

Bowled over and clutching his middle, blood from Shack’s split lip dropped on the concrete floor. Several members yelled and rushed over to him.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Dustin asked as he pushed through.

“Seems like we need to be asking
you
that question,” Hawk said.

“Let’s everyone calm down and grab some beers.” Dustin pointed at the bar.

“We’re not fuckin’ calming down, you sorry piece of shit.” Jax’s red face was inches from Dustin’s.

Dustin, stiff and glaring, said, “Get the fuck outta my face and learn some respect, boy. I’m the president of this club, and if you don’t fuckin’ back up, I’m gonna beat your fucking ass.”

“Ha! Your old ass is the one that’s gonna get a beatin’, right after we take away your colors.” Jax lunged toward Dustin like a bull in a ring.

Hawk pulled Jax back. “Calm down, brother. I got this.”

“At least
someone
in your group has respect.” Dustin stood frozen to his spot, his eyes glinting with hatred.

“Speaking of respect, you and your sorry bunch of fuckers don’t have any of it for Banger. He’s the national president, and you assholes do whatever the fuck you want without any respect for his orders. Your club is more than off-course with anything Insurgents. Because of your fuckin’ shit, my brothers and I had to drag our asses to Nebraska a while back to patch up the botched arms deal you had with Liam. I was pissed ’bout that. Kept me from my old lady’s pussy.” Hawk scrubbed his hand over his face. “You were warned back then to clean up your shit. No underage women, no hard drugs, no forced sex. Now, I come here and find a group of fuckers beating up and raping a woman?”

“How we deal with internal problems is our business.”

“Banger doesn’t see it that way, Dustin. Not at all. How the fuck old is she?” Hawk said, his voice deadly calm.

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business. This doesn’t concern you
or
Banger. I’m gonna ask you to leave my club.”

Hawk eyed his fellow brothers, turned to Dustin, and said, “We’re going to leave right after we take the club emblem, which you have framed so
nicely
, hanging on the wall.”

Red-faced, Dustin screamed, “You’re not taking shit! I’ve been an Insurgent too long to put up with this bullshit. Get the fuck out! I’ll call Banger and tell him to get his coward ass up here next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time.” Hawk grinned widely as his fist, decorated with silver skull rings, bashed Dustin’s face, shattering his nose. “Your colors are gone. Your fuckin’ ass is no longer an Insurgent.” Yelling over his shoulder, he said to his brothers, “Let’s finish this shit up and grab the emblem.” As Dustin lunged at him, Hawk smashed an elbow into the side of his skull, high on his temple. The man dropped to his knees.

As Hawk beat Dustin, Chas fended off a member who rushed toward Hawk. Noticing the man slipped his hand under his cut, Chas charged. The .22 revolver shone under the overhead lights. Chas zeroed in on the man’s wrist and slid his hand under it. In a flash, the man’s arm was pinned behind his back, and Chas pulled him down, taking the gun before the guy crashed into the floor. Blood splattered around him as Chas pistol-whipped him.

The musty smell of sweat permeated the room. Shouts reverberated off the blood-spattered walls.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The staccato shots punctuated the chaos.

As Chas moved toward the emblem on the wall, a big, burly charter member sucker-punched him and he crumpled on the floor.
What the fuck?
His brain screamed as he gasped for air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black boot aimed at his gut. Taking out his knife, he sliced the member’s shin. Blood flowed. Another slash to the other shin. The man went down. Breathing better, Chas propped up on his knees and bent over the man. In a single movement, Chas slashed his throat, the man’s last exhalation sounding like a balloon releasing air.

Since most of the charter members were stoned and drunk, Chas and his brothers sustained minimal injuries: black eyes, bruises, and cuts. Jerry had the worst injury, a large cut next to his left eye. Holding his t-shirt against it, he staggered toward the framed emblem. Chas caught up to him as he pulled it off the wall.