Death Lords Motorcycle Club: Chelsea and Wrecker (The Motorcycle Clubs Series) (15 page)

“Who owns that monster?”

“God, Chels, talk about leaving yourself wide open.” She punches me in the arm but I’m able to evade her. Hooking my arm around her neck, I drag her close. “The only monster you need to be worried about is the one in my pants. The camera is Abel’s.”

She blows a raspberry in my neck. “Didn’t know he was into that sort of thing. What’s Trainor doing?”

“Checking in.” I zoom in. “Shit, I can almost make out the room number with this camera. Lift it up for me, Trainor. That’s right.” The key folder displays the numbers 212. “Second floor.”

I set the camera down. “I think we should go home. Tell Judge what we know. Touch base with Junior and find out if he’s peddling meth or if there’s a loose cannon.”

Chels is disappointed, but she settles into the passenger without argument because the two of us armed with a camera can’t do too much here. Besides, we’ve found out what we needed to know. Trainor’s avoiding his home, making deals with MC members, and lying low in a low rent motel. He’s hiding something but not for long.

I
head
straight for the clubhouse. Chelsea calls Judge on the phone and has him meet us there. If Junior’s selling meth then Judge will want to cut him loose. It’s not that we care too much about the drugs themselves, but the problems that come with drug trafficking. It’s a quick way to bring the law down on your heads; not to mention everyone is fucking over-territorial. Lots of people around the drug trade disappear suddenly.

I drop Chels off at the Cut-n-Curl because this is club business. Judge, Flint and the two Enforcers—Michigan and Easy—are present when I arrive. I give them a detailed rundown of the meth lab explosion at the Trainors’, Mr. Trainor’s meeting with the Misery MC member, and him hiding out at the motel.

Judge chews on the information for a bit and then admits, “I’ve been thinking about this all night. Eric Schmidt was hired as Chief of Police five years ago, not too long before you had the run in with that skinhead from the Eighty-Eight. After the Eighty-Eight got a foothold to the West, it seemed obvious that they’d run their flesh and drug trafficking straight through Fortune to the Twin Cities. If you’ll recall a few of us smaller clubs got together and forced the Eighty-Eight back.”

“But you think that they did an end around with Schmidt?” He nods and from the lack of surprise on the other men’s faces, this information is only new to me.

“It makes sense.” Judge rubs his chin. “I always felt that he must have hated me for some other reason other than a power struggle. No one’s ego is that fragile.”

Easy snorts but it makes sense.

“If the Death Lords were gone then the trafficking routes through Fortune would open up.” We’re a straight shot down Interstate 94 from North Dakota on the way to the Twin Cities. Having to go around us is a pain in their ass. Suddenly Judge curses. “That dumb fuck. I don't care that he's running drugs or cooking up meth but you don't shit where you eat. You raise your family in a nice safe place and you don't bring this stuff around them. The drug trade is fucking dangerous as all hell and being that close to home? What a dumb fucking idiot. I get why he doesn’t want us around but we can’t have him running this town because he’s too stupid to live.”

If Schmidt were here, Judge probably would have choked the life out of him—bare-handed.

“So what about Misery?” I ask. Drugs are the easiest money around and meth is cheap and simple to create. The main ingredients can be found in almost every barn from here to Fargo. The problem with drugs is the competition. Protecting turf often ends in bloody wars. And the number of my fellow inmates that were in because of drugs was too numerous to count. It doesn’t surprise me that a club that lost its leader would look to something like trafficking to replenish its bank account.

“Junior reached out to me after you boys went up to move some of the assets. He wondered if I’d loan him a member or two. We need to find out what Misery knows, what other clubs are involved, and if it's going to touch us,” he replies darkly.

“Wrecker shouldn’t go alone,” Flint interjects.

“Yeah I know.” Judge drums his fingers on the bar top.

Easy and Michigan share an unhappy glance. It makes sense for one of them to go with me but Annie, their girl, is about to pop.

“How about Abel?” I interject. “He went up with us to move the assets, so Junior and the crew are familiar with him.”

“I like it,” Flint muses.

This decides it for Judge. He gives an abrupt chin nod toward Easy. “Call up BangBang and get an exec council vote.”

It doesn’t take long for BangBang to roar up on his bike. The vote is unanimous. Two Death Lords will go up to Minneapolis and find out what the fuck is going down with Misery. Trainor is to be watched by us while the local Death Lords and a few other friendlies put feelers out about Schmidt and any trafficking.

“Do you think county is into this?” I ask Judge and I walk out from the chapel room that runs in the back of the granary that serves as our clubhouse into the main area. Abel is sitting at the bar nursing a beer.

“We can't be too careful but I'll feel Dahlman out.” Dahlman being the county sheriff.

“When I go to Misery how do I play it?”

“Dumb. Go in dumb. You’re there as muscle. Have Junior test his folks and find out who’s really interested in being part of the club and who’s just using it for convenient cover. Show ‘em what it means to be a brother but you don’t know jack about the meth or Trainor.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Chelsea can teach the old ladies how to act too.” We share a laugh. Chelsea’s the youngest old lady here in the club and even with Easy and Michigan taking on Annie, Chelsea is still a year behind her. That she wouldn’t be on the bottom of that particular ladder might be appealing to her.

Judge stops beside Abel. “You okay with this?”

Flint had informed the new patch of what his new duties would be.

“Signed up to be a Death Lord. Doesn’t matter if I’m here or in the cities.”

“Good man.” Judge gives him a healthy pat on the back. “I’m not sure how long this will take. May be over in weeks. May be longer. Chelsea can get her beauty certificate or whatever the hell it is those ladies get.”

I cast a knowing glare at Judge. “You got this all planned out, haven’t you?” He’s never going to stop being my dad, always three steps ahead of me. His eyes twinkle but he doesn’t acknowledge that question. At least not out loud.

“You telling Chelsea that you've planned her life?” I ask.

“Oh no. She's your responsibility now.” He claps me on the shoulder. 

“
Y
ou’re taking
this pretty well, all things considered,” I observe as Chelsea zips her suitcase. When I told her of Judge’s orders, she didn’t argue but went straight to the bedroom and pulled out her little wheeled case. It’s the one she arrived with all those years ago when Judge showed up with Chels’ mom but never had a chance to use again because Chelsea didn’t go anywhere. Or maybe it is more accurate that we never took her anywhere.

She was fourteen when Judge took her under his wing and seventeen, going on eighteen, when I went to prison.

She’s twenty-one now. No wonder she wants to leave Fortune. And not forever, she said, just for a little while.

“It’s not going to be long and we won’t be far.” She places her hands on her hips and looks around the room. There’s not much here since we just moved in. The bed, a mirror on the wall, two nightstands that BangBang’s wife gave us. We just moved in and now we’re leaving. “What will Judge do with the apartment?”

“It’s ours. We don’t know how long this will take. Could be a month. Could be longer. No point in renting this out to someone if we’re going to be back in a short time.” I repeat the words that Judge said earlier. As she shoulders her large purse and takes another long look around the room, I wonder if I had been close to losing her. Whether the urge to move out of Fortune would have taken her away from me forever. A chill sets into my spine that has nothing to do with the cold outside.

“What’re you thinking about?” She cocks her head to the side, her attention pinned on me instead of the beige walls. I walk over and tug her case off the bed and pick up my own duffel bag.

“I’m thinking that I love you.” Because when it comes down to it, she didn’t leave. She stayed true to me all three years I was in prison. I hurt her by turning away from her during that time. I didn’t want her to see me caged. I didn’t want her to have memories of me being in a jumpsuit with my hands and feet shackled together. And if I’d said that I wanted to stay in Fortune forever, she’d have been beside me the whole way.

A smile touches her lips, curves those plush pillows up. She saunters forward and wraps her arms around me.

“Just thinking that you do?” she teases and nips at my lips. I close my arms around her frame, one suitcase in each hand. “Because I
know
I love you.”

“You’re a brat sometimes,” I scold laughingly. “And if Abel wasn’t cooling his heels out in the living room, I’d drop the cases and throw you on the bed.”

“He can listen,” she says and drops her hand between my legs to cup my half hard erection.

The ceiling needs painting, I think when I drop my head back to enjoy the caress. “How about I just invite him in?” I joke but when the breath at my neck hitches, I dip down to look at Chels’ face. “What’s this? Didn’t know you were into that.” I have to force her chin up with my finger because she tries to hide a blush.

“I’m not.” She wiggles and I let her go. Shouldering her bag again, she stomps to the door. Once she reaches it, she turns back. “I don’t want anyone but you. It’s just sometimes I look at Annie, Michigan, and Easy and wonder but that’s all it is. Just a thought.”

This is interesting. We’ve had sex in a lot of places and in a lot of positions, but we aren’t very kinky—not threesome kinky or serious BDSM kinky although I’ve enjoyed binding her wrists and spanking her ass a few times. She’s just never expressed an interest in a threesome. “I’m pretty possessive. Not sure I’d want to see you have another dick inside you—not your mouth or your pussy.”

She makes a face. “I wouldn’t want that either.”

“Then what are you thinking about?”

Her chin drops to her chest and she mumbles a little. “Stuff.”

I wait and I swear the air between us turns pink with her embarrassment. Finally she lifts her face and rosy cheeked admits to her little dirty fantasy. “It’s just I wonder what it’d be like if some guy licked me while you were inside of me or if I was riding you in reverse what it’d feel like if he sucked my breasts. Just stupid stuff.”

I stride over and this time I do drop the cases so I can fully embrace her. “That’s not stupid and it might just be within my comfort zone.” Because I’d still be owning her with my cock. That other dude would just be like an add-on.

“I wouldn’t want it with any of your brothers though,” She cautions as if I’m about to open my mouth and call Abel in right now.

“Why not?”

“Dunno. I just don’t feel comfortable looking them in the face afterward and so it’s not going to happen because we don’t want to bring a stranger into a room with us. Besides, it’s just… pillow talk. Nothing serious.” She pushes up on her toes and presses a kiss between my lips.

“Well, it’s turned me on thinking about it and I bet you’re a little wet between the legs.” I grab her ass and lift her flush against my full-blooded hard on. “So you can whisper your fantasy to me tonight when we’re fucking and I’ll make it real good.”

T
he Misery clubhouse
looks like a rundown old lady. There’s a rickety exterior set of stairs leading up to the second floor of the house and the porch that runs along the entire front of the house is slanted to the left. I make a mental note to stay away from that end of the house. It might sink into the ground with a wrong step.

“I’m glad I brought clean sheets with me,” I whisper to Grant as we walk up the wooden stairs. Two of the four steps are rotting and I can see the snow and dirt on the ground beneath them. We’re staying at the Misery clubhouse for just tonight and then I’m in charge of finding a small house for us to rent. It’ll have to have two bedrooms because Abel is staying with us.

He’s been silent as a mouse since we arrived. Grant, despite being younger, is in charge because he’s been a patch longer. Plus, he knows more about what it means to be in a club than anyone, given that Judge is his father and Grant grew up running around bikers and the granary and the club itself.

“Looks like a shithouse, don’t it,” Grant mutters in a low voice.

“This can’t have all happened in the last year,” I answer. The house has years of neglect on her and from what little I’ve heard, the former president has only been gone for a year.

“Nope. Says a lot about the club though.”

If the clubhouse is in this state of disrepair, the club itself isn’t going to be in much better shape. Wrecker presses the doorbell and then steps to the side, pulling me behind him. Abel takes the other side of the door, neither standing in front of it. Their actions tell me all I need to know. Walk lightly around the Misery club and don’t trust anyone.

The door opens and a solid fellow, no more than a few inches taller than my own five foot four, steps out. He looks to the right and left and frowns. “You the guys from Death Lords?”

“Wrecker.” Grant holds out his hand and the shorter man shakes it. “This is Abel and my old lady Chelsea.”

“I’m Mutt. Good to meet you.” He holds open the door. “Come on in. It’s fucking cold out. I hear you’re staying with us?” His words are directed toward Grant, but his eyes flick to me with dismay. The
no girls in the boys’ club
attitude is written all over his stiff frame. I guess girls are only allowed inside at night?

“Just for the night.”

Junior’s inside the door waiting for us—or at least Grant and Abel. “Hey, man, nice to see you.”

The two give each other a restrained fist bump and thumps on the back. Abel and Junior just shake hands.

“Judge give you a call?” Grant asks.

“Yeah, he was vague on the details.” Junior wants to talk but no one is going to do that in front of me. Other people might be offended by that but I'm not a member of either club and club business belongs between the guys wearing the cuts. No outsiders. Anything Wrecker can share, he’ll do it after. It has a lot less to do with me having a vagina and everything to do with me not being a member of the club. That’s not to say that I think Death Lords are going to open their membership up to women. I’ve only seen one female member of an outlaw MC group. She’s a member of the Hellfire Riders. She’s an Amazon—a literal wonder woman. Tall, beautiful, and deadly enough to take out a man with her fists. I admired the hell out of her and my guess is that if someone of her caliber wanted in on the Death Lords, they’d accept her.

Me? I never aspired to that. I’m happy being an old lady. All I ever wanted was to wear the leather that said “Property of Death Lords” and Grant’s patch. That’s not a super modern ideal but it fit me.

“This is my girl Chelsea. Once we get her settled, we’ll be able to talk.”

“No problem,” Junior says and leads us up the stairs to the left. “We’ve got five guys living here now. Two of them will bunk together tonight. You and Chelsea can have this room and Abel, I have a room down here at the end of the hall.”

Intentionally or not, Junior has us separated. Neither Abel nor Wrecker likes it and both hesitate from moving on.

“Is there a problem?” Junior asks. There’s no obvious challenge in his voice only genuine confusion. That’s enough to have Grant give the go ahead.

“No problem.” I push inside the room and despite the exterior being in a state of disrepair, I’m not fully prepared for the wreck I see. The bed is just a mattress on the floor and it looks like about a dozen orgies have taken place on it. There’s a sheet duct taped around the window and a couple of ashtrays on the floor.

“The fuck?” Grant curses under his breath.

“One night,” I tell him and point to the end of the bed. “Put the bags there and go do your stuff.”

“You going to be okay?” He looks dubious.

“I am. Now shoo.” He backs out with a pissed off look on his face but hopefully he remembers that the reason he’s here is to whip the club into shape.

I pull out the clean sheets from Grant’s duffle. He didn’t bring much and his bag is bigger so I stuck a bunch of extra shit in his bag. I pull off the comforter, gingerly holding an edge, and then lay the two flat sheets down. The comforter goes back on top. Down the hall I find a grotty bathroom with dark growth around the tub’s edges. The sink looks marginally better. I do my business quick and then hustle back to the room. I brought a special outfit for tonight. Ordinarily if I go to a mash, I wear jeans and a tight t-shirt. Tonight, though, I’m going all out. Gray wool over-the-knee socks with white ribbon at the top are paired with a black leather skirt that ends mid-thigh. Not too short, but not a skirt that allows me to bend over either. Unless, of course, Grant’s behind me. My shoes are black leather Mary Janes with a three inch stacked heel.

On the top I pull on a white Harley t-shirt that is shot with silver threads. I tease my hair up into a big cloud, line my eyes with black eye liner and color my lips with the reddest lipstick I own. The whole look is a sluttier version of Britney Spears’ iconic school girl look. I know Grant loves that frickin’ video but he loves me more which means he’ll be seriously turned on by this getup.

The door pops open when I’m spritzing the setting spray and I nearly shoot myself in the eye with the stuff.

“That meeting went fast,” I note. A quick glance at my watch reveals that it’s nearing dinnertime. My stomach growls. “We eating here?”

He nods. “Ordered pizza. A bunch of people are coming over. What are you wearing?”

“Like it?” I rise and twirl around. The skirt bells out a tiny bit.

Behind me I hear a growl and then I feel a hand in my hair as Grant drags me back against his body. He buries his face in my neck. “If there weren’t a couple dozen strangers coming to this house in the next ten minutes, my cock would be in your pussy so fast and hard that they’d hear you all the way to Fortune when you screamed my name.”

His hand sweeps beneath the short skirt and cups me in a rough fondle. I gasp when his fingers slip under the elastic of my undies.

“Just a couple dozen,” I scoff playfully. “That’s the excuse you’re going to use?”

His answer is to plant a hand in the middle of my back and tip me forward. I catch myself on the handle of my little two-wheeled suitcase. “Shit baby, I think I could come just looking at this ass.” He pulls the skirt up to expose my butt.

Our temporary room is at the top of the stairs and through the thin walls, I can hear the front door opening and closing and the murmurs of greetings.

Do I care that there are a bunch of random people filtering in downstairs? Nope. I shift my legs wider apart and tilt my butt up toward Grant. He releases an appreciative breath. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous but there’s a mess downstairs and I told Junior I’d help him clean it up.”

With a sigh I stand up and brush my skirt down. “That sounds like zero fun.”

“I know, baby.” His eyes are locked on my skirt. With a regretful sigh, he tips his neck to the side and taps a finger against his pulse point. “Kiss me.”

“I’ll get lipstick all over you,” I warn.

“I know. I want your mark on me. So kiss me, mess me up and we’ll rub it in. I don’t want there to be any problems tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

He just taps his neck again so I lean forward and lick him. When he groans, I go for the bite. His arms tighten around me and for a minute, I think he’s going to forget about the company downstairs and throw me on the bed but he’s too much his father’s son which means duty before play. I let him go and rummage around my junk for a makeup remover tissue. I use it to smear the lipstick, leaving a noticeable residue behind.

“You think a lipstick mark is going to keep the women off of you?” I ask skeptically, folding the tissue and then laying it beside my makeup.

Grant has a hand on the doorknob but isn’t in any hurry to leave. “No, but every bit of armor helps. Junior says that the crew left over is dysfunctional as shit. There’s a lot of infighting amongst the brothers over chicks. He doesn’t trust more than a couple but his dad brought in a fuck-ton of patches in the last few years—like eight or so and there are even more prospects and hangers on.”

“Why doesn’t he just kick them out?”

“They know too much. He didn’t say what they know about exactly, but he feels that if he cuts them loose, either they’ll go to a rival club with information about Misery’s deals or they might even rat the Misery boys out to the cops.”

I release a low whistle. “That’s not good.”

“Junior thinks that most of the guys are decent but isn’t sure. Tonight he’s introducing Abel and I as nomads breaking off from the Death Lords. We’re going to stick around here for a while. We’re using you and your beauty school stuff as an excuse. When you’re down there, remember not everyone’s friendly. Don’t drink anything that doesn’t come from Abel or me. Don’t eat anything either.”

“Eating?”

As he rubs a frustrated hand over his hair, I admire the bulge of his biceps that peeks out from beneath his short sleeved t-shirt. “Sounds stupid, I know, but I feel like we can’t be too careful. We’re out of here tomorrow because I’m not leaving you alone in this shithole.”

“Why is it in such awful condition?”

Grant opens the door and ushers me through. “Junior says they moved here a year before his dad died. He hasn’t spent any of the club money on it because his father was sick and then after, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay. Plus, it’s a bunch of guys under thirty and you know we don’t know how to fucking clean.”

I roll my eyes at this because Grant is a neat freak. He’s probably more grossed out by the bedroom and the general condition of this house than I am.