Renegade: Desert Knights MC (8 page)

Chapter 10: In Action

Before I can answer Anton’s question, he has his large hand wrapped around my mouth and another arm against my hips. He drags me down to the room I told him to meet me at and unlocks it quickly. As he pushes me inside gently, he turns and looks back at the bar suspiciously, as if we’re being followed.

Despite the darkness of the room, he finds me. A hand wraps around the back of my neck and pulls me in close to him. Though I can only make out the powerful shape of him, I can feel the enveloping warmth of his body just inches from mine. Suddenly, it feels like I can’t breathe.

“Tory—” he starts.

I cut him off, unafraid of what I need to say, “I had to see you. I’m sorry. I know this is dangerous, but I couldn’t not see you.”

He whispers lowly, “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do, Tory. Your father and brother already have it out for me for some reason. This is just giving them more reason. Your brother jumped me at today’s meeting and then threatened to have me killed if he caught us. This is serious shit.”

I want to fall apart as he explains. I should have known that what happened in the dining room wasn’t over. Nothing with my brother or my dad is ever over…not until they get complete and utter satisfaction. And for my sadistic dick of a brother, that meant Anton Murdoch’s head on a platter.

Anton continues, “You know that your brother, maybe even your dad, are coming here tonight? I invited them as a peace offering.”

“I…I…I didn’t know. April told me that you go out drinking with the rest of your guys. I didn’t think that would include them.” Fear is washing over me the deeper we get into this. When I arrived all cloaked and hooded with April hiding me at a corner booth, every bit of me was fired up and ready for whatever may come. And while I don’t regret doing this, I, too, am wondering if it’s going to be worth the risk.

“I know you didn’t. But you can’t be that stupid anymore. You’re Walsh’s daughter. We can’t keep doing this.” The tone of his voice sounds unsure, even disbelieving. He may be saying one thing, but I know another larger part is saying something else.

“Doing what?” I ask as innocently as possible. I place a hand on his rock-hard chest, the lines of his muscular abs making an indent through the thin t-shirt. I run my fingertips up the line of his sternum towards his neck, my nails slightly pushing into his flesh as I make a ring around his neck and up towards his the line of his hair.

“Tory…” He goes quiet as my other hand places itself low along his hips. A fingertip slips under the waist of his jeans and tugs slightly to pull him closer to me. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

My voice lowers, deep and thick. “I know what I am doing. I know what I want. And it’s you.”

“I’m not going to be a gentleman or some fucking knight in shining armor.” His arm wraps around my hips and lifts strongly around my ass. My feet and legs go up and around his hips as he hoists me off of the ground. “You sure you want this?”

I swallow hard as I answer, “Yes, Anton.”

Our lips meet first, both of us grasping for the other. His taste is sweet and sour, almost dry, but I love it even more because it’s him. No dream could make this kiss more real or precious to me. And as we dive in—head first—I can feel our bodies synch up. He pushes forward, and I move back, I’m still grasping onto him, holding on with all my might, but he never lets go, never adjusts his hold on me. We just remain locked, our lips and mouths doing all the work.

Eventually, he moves farther into the room. He navigates it expertly—without even having to break or look up. I see his eyes blink open for a second, as he lifts a hand out to find the tall end of a wooden bar. Rocking me backwards, he lowers me down slowly onto the high tabletop so I am level with him.

He stands back for a moment to admire me, and I watch as his chest caves in and out as if he can’t catch his breath. A hand reaches out and finds the zipper on my hoodie. It lowers slowly, revealing the tight, black tank top with the lace edge along the low-cut neckline. I shimmy out of the sweatshirt before making my intentions to him clear. Slowly, letting him see every centimeter of my skin, I inch the tank top up my torso, past my bare breasts, and above my head so that I am completely and totally exposed to him.

He follows my lead, taking off of his shirt. And just how I imagined him in my dreams, the first thing I notice in the slight light of a shuttered window behind the bar is those tattoos. But they aren’t black and white, but a vibrant tapestry covering every inch of his skin from the sunrise on his lower abs to the Desert Knight’s crest upon his chest. I reach out and touch my hand to it, covering it up.

Anton is quick to grab my wrist and bring it to his mouth. He plants a small kiss on the sensitive skin and then another and another until his mouth and head begin to travel the length of my thin arms. When he reaches the curve between my arm and chest, I feel him inhale my scent, taking in the natural parts of me. The nuzzle of his scratchy face against my skin, so close to my breasts, sends me reeling.

He only lingers a second before moving up to the base of my neck. Little, light kisses spin around me, as I cock my head back to give him even more of me. But he’s already lowering his head down the centerline of my body towards my chest. Before I can have a second thought about what we are about to do, he touches me where no one else has. Two strong, large hands push at the C-shape sides of my breasts. The mounds push together around his face as again I feel his breath suck in the smell and feel of me.

With his head still in place, the hands begin to gently massage. The sensation is almost comforting or relaxing, as I lose all sense of myself. His fingers travel down towards my nipples as he goes, brushing over them as they alternate. When he gets to his pointer fingers, they curl around the bare tip and slightly pull. Immediately, my body responds by pushing towards him, begging him for more.

He moves his hands to focus just on my nipples. One finger becomes two while he tweaks gently at the center of my pink nipples. They are already hard, but they become tiny mounds under his care, and I find myself wanting that gentle pain that comes from him touching me.

While Anton works at my chest, my hands have wandered towards his loose jeans. I place a hand inside his pocket to feel his hips against me. But by doing so, I brush up against his package. It’s thick and stiff, and I know from just a touch that it’s primed. My finger slithers up the base through the thin fabric, tentatively exploring what he has to work with.

But it never ends. I can’t seem to find where it starts and finishes. So I do something I thought I never would. I grab at his belt, pulling him forward into me. He stops his work and looks down as I unhook his belt buckle. The button and zipper come undone easily so that his pants practically slide down his legs. Before I lose my confidence, I pull the fabric of his dark-colored boxers down as well so that his cock comes in full view.

I haven’t seen many dicks in my life…I’ll admit that. But as a teenager, I couldn’t help but be a bit curious of what I was missing out on, so I would occasionally sneak on my brother’s computer to see a few of his saved “special” videos. The men in those movies had pretty average-sized penises…nothing to write home about.

Anton, however, was different. His physical size translated to a cock so long and meaty that I actually became a bit afraid. If we were going to do what I knew we were going to do, how was this going to work?

In awe, I place a hand around the shaft, my hand circling him so that my small fingers don’t even touch one another. I move it slowly up the long shaft till I hit the already-damp tip.

My eyes fly up to his darkened face. He stares down at me in shock, as if he can’t believe I’m doing what I am doing. I continue the motion, this time going back down as slowly as possible till he lets out a moan unlike any sound I’ve ever heard before.

When I reach the bottom again, he places a hand on mine to stop me. “Like this,” he whispers. “Do it like this.” The master teaches me, as he guides my hand quickly up his member. At the top, he shows me how to just slightly circle around the head before cascading down again. He shows me again and again until he pulls away, letting me take over. I lean over to speed myself up, my head is just inches from his cock. In a moment of complete insanity, I give in and kiss at the small slit where I feel the moisture oozing out of him.

As soon as my lips touch his skin, I feel him leaning backwards, taking it all in. This is what he wants and likes, but can I really give him this? I do it again, this time opening my mouth a bit wider so that about a centimeter or two of his cock is in. My tongue flickers against his skin, and again, I feel him lose control. I may be the virgin in this, but I have just as much power as he does!

“Tory...,” he calls out softly, as I feel a hand run through my hair. It tangles into a ponytail for him to hold onto while I work my mouth over him. With slight pressure, he pushes my mouth even further onto his cock until I’ve practically taken half of him. I try to choke back the taste of him, but the farther I get, the more I like it. His skin isn’t metallic or dank, as I had imagined it to be, but it was earthy and even a bit meaty

My hand remains at the base, still following the motion that he had taught me just minutes ago, but I replace the long stroke with my mouth instead. At the top, I use my tongue to do that little twist, and with each tiny circle of the tongue, he exhales loudly and forcefully.

I love the sounds of his body, the rocking towards and away from me. But I especially love how he uses my hair to show me what he wants. A pull back and I’m to go up faster, a push down and I am to take even more of him in. It’s forceful, direct, and exactly what I need to build up some confidence. Eventually, I take over completely. I open my jaw as wide as I can go to take as much of him as possible, and I feel his cock press up against the roof of my mouth as I pull him in.

He becomes more frantic as I speed up. His hands move to my shoulders for balance, and I lose track of his breath. I can smell and feel his sticky sweet sweat break through his skin as he’s overcome. Even his nails dig into me. And with a deep growl, he gives me a warning, “I’m going to come, Tory!” He pulls my hair back, springing me up and off his cock just seconds before his hands take over. He catches most the drip of his cum in his palm, but some of the lukewarm liquid manages to spray onto my bare chest and neck.

I watch on, fascinated by it all. I have never seen a guy go to completion, even on the porn episodes I’ve watched. I just could never get that far. But I don’t feel disgusted or dirty being a voyeur with Anton. In fact, I feel proud and damn sexy. I want it to be my turn to breathe deeply and release it all like that. I want that same wicked smile he has on face.

I pull myself off the bar and grab the sweatshirt off of the floor to throw it on over my shoulders. I leave it open as I wrap my arms around his waist to kiss the line of tattoos that marks his spine. I whisper in complete satisfaction and joy, “I have to clean myself up. I’m just going to sneak out for a second. Okay?” 

He turns back towards me so that he spins within my arms. A cold hand zips up my sweatshirt and places the hood upon my head so that it covers my eyes. With a kiss to the top my head, he says softly, “Be careful. Don’t get yourself in trouble. And come right back here. We’ve got more to do.”

I break free and move towards where the door is letting in a little bit of light from the crack at the very bottom. I slowly open it—just slightly—so that a sliver of the noisy, rowdy bar fills our private sanctuary. With no one around, I quickly walk out and over towards the bathrooms a few feet down. I quickly clean myself up in the sink with one eye fixed on the mirror in front of me in case someone popped into the bathroom and caught me. But I’m in the clear. I even have time to take out my lipstick and apply another coat before heading back out there.

This time I don’t check before I walk out the door. And within about two feet from the bathroom’s darkened corner, two large hands come flying at me. They curl around my neck, choking the breath out of me. The pressure against my windpipe caves in around my skin, as one of my hands weakens as it tries to yank away the fingers.

I hear the crystal clear voice of my dad drunkenly stammer, “Tory Walsh! What the fuck are you doing here?” And as I look up at his dark eyes, full of hate and disgust, I know that there’s no chance in hell I’m going to make it back to Anton alive. 

“How in the world did I manage to raise such a fucking disobedient brat? Did I not hit you enough?” I can feel my father’s steamy breath against my face as he leans over me. The hand around my neck tightens, as I feel his stubbly beard brush against my face. “Did I not teach you to fear me?” he demands.

I want to cry out. I want to fight back. I want to do something—
any
thing. But I can just barely get my hands up around the large fingers holding me in place, to say nothing of making them move. My eyes flash up to his, as they beg him to have mercy on me. I don’t know much about my father, but I do know that there’s love deep down in that blackened pit of hatred.

Somewhere.

His wide nose curls and flares; I can tell he’s beginning to break. He has never been violent with me—ever. Not once. I was always his little princess, the little girl he would always love and cherish. As I go in and out of consciousness, my mind even flashes back to the man tossing me a softball as I swing at it from a distance with a red plastic whiffle bat. And then there’s the time he was too drunk to protest me painting his fingernails with my mom’s nail polish.

Surely, he was seeing those memories, too, even while doing his best to choke the life out of me. Something softens within him. A finger lets up, and then another one. My feet that were previously dangling over the mustard-yellow bathroom tiles slowly fall back to the ground. And then there’s the final release, as he pushes me into the wall one last time before looking at me with complete and utter disgust.

When he turns his back, his hands running over his forehead, I finally take in a long, deep breath. It’s jagged and painful, feeling like glass in my lungs. I take in a few more deep sucks, which lead to hard, gritty coughs. My mouth tastes like sand, and that combined with the echo of his hands around my throat makes swallowing an almost impossible task. As I feel the color come back to my face and the pins and needles disappear from my hands and wrists, I place my palms on my knees as I continue to grasp at the foul bathroom air.

I only get a moment to relax before he comes back for more. This time, he grabs a hold of my hair in a rough ponytail and drags me to the ground. My hands instinctively cover my head as I cry out, “Daddy! Please! I’m sorry! Just don’t hurt me!”

“You did this to yourself, Tory!” There’s a large thud as he kicks my arm out from under me and I slam down into the tile so that I am looking up at him. He kneels over me, his hands curled at his side. “What makes you think that you could get away with disobeying my orders? You think you’re better than us because you’re in a fancy school? You think you can just sneak out of the house I pay for like a little whore just asking for it? I won’t have it!”

I don’t see his hand hit me. I feel it. It’s white hot and pulsing like a hornet sting on a sunburn. I turn my head away from him, not daring to let him see my eyes watering from the pain. I would not let him see me cry. My mother did that, not me. I would take this.

There’s a long pause, as if he can’t believe that he laid a hand on me -- let alone that he’s done as much damage as he has. He stands up slowly and walks towards the door. My dad opens it just a crack before letting it close behind him. His face has warped back to normal from the monster that was just before me, dishing out punishments. Quietly, almost calmly, he asks, “Did you see him?”

“Who?” I hate to admit it, but in this moment, I can’t even remember why I’m here in this bathroom. My mind has gone blank. All I want to focus on is surviving my dad’s wrath.

“Don’t be stupid, Tory! You know who I’m fucking talking about. Did you see Anton Murdoch or not?”

The name is another slap as I am back to reality.
Anton
. This is all about Anton. Those colorful tattoos, the strong bruised hands, the bulging cock, the pursed lips…. Anton. I am here on this floor for him. But my father didn’t know that. To my surprise, this isn’t about the sin we just committed in the back room. He’s oblivious to that. This is about my defying him by even daring to sneak out to one of Anton’s parties. I can save this! I can!

I lower my voice to an almost girlish whisper, as I say sadly, “No. I-I-I don’t know where he is.” I look up at him with my watery eyes blinking at him blankly and add, “I just wanted to say sorry about what happened at lunch. I didn’t mean—”

He cuts me off as he shouts, “Shut the fuck up, Tory! You know what you were fucking doing.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry. I thought I’d only be here for a few minutes and then go home. I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Well, you were goddamn wrong on that one. And that will teach you to test my authority. If I so much as get a whiff that you were even on the same fucking
street
as Anton, I swear to Christ, you won’t be the only body on the floor. Do you hear me?”

I swallow, a jagged stream of air sticking in my throat as I nod. Grimacing, I answer nervously, “Yes, Daddy.”

There’s no more discussion between the two of us. There’s just an arm around mine that pulls me harshly up to my feet. He stands behind me and grabs my wrists, crossing and then pushing them together like a handcuff. With my arms bound, he pushes me from behind towards the bathroom door before kicking it open with his boot.

From the noise of the jukebox blasting old ‘80s rock songs and the men screaming and clinking glasses, I know that what just happened in that bathroom between Clay Walsh and his daughter isn’t even registering for any of the rest of the club, let alone April who is sitting on some guy’s lap just out of view. She doesn’t even turn to watch me be marched down the hallway and towards the back door.

As we push out into the night from the bar, I glance back over my shoulder and past my father’s hulking body towards the back room where I should be, where Anton is most likely still waiting for me. A part of me wants to twist my arms and break free to run back there, lock the doors, and hope that we could find a way out. But I know the realities of the situation. Anton and I would never be, not as long as my father and brother lived. What we just experienced together was our one moment in time when we were allowed to let this all go. And that moment would have to stay there, wanting and waiting.

I turned back around towards the parking lot now filled with motorcycles and cars. The few headlights glittered in my eyes as tears began to swell. I shake my head rapidly, pushing them away before they can fall and give me away to my father. He marches me past a line of men smoking -- all whom put out their smokes and gesture to him like the king he is. No one asks about me. I’m just one of the others.

The ride home on the back of his bike seems to me to last an eternity. We hit every stop light, which is usually not a concern for my father. But tonight, he seems to know that the longer we wait to get back to the house, the longer he can drag out the unknown. Would there be more beatings waiting for me? Would he find some new and demented way of punishing me further? I didn’t want to know. I just wanted it to be over.

As we pulled up to the driveway, I hopped off before he could even turn his engine off. However, his arms grabbed me before I could get a step in the door. He spins me around quickly to face him with a hand gripped around my arm. My father’s dirty nails dig into my skin through the layers of clothes. His low voice grumbles, “From now on, you wait for me. For everything. You don’t breathe unless I tell you to. You don’t speak. You don’t think. You don’t even piss. That freedom you thought you had in this house is over.”

I nod and purposefully lower my gaze down to the slate gray cement driveway, unsure if I am allowed to speak here. Satisfied, he pulls me past my mother’s garden, through the patio, and into the darkened home. He lets go suddenly, causing me to trip on the hardwood floor and cheerful welcome mat.

The tired, startled voice of my mother calls out in the distance, “Clay! Is that you?”

“Maureen! Get the fuck in here! NOW!” The contents of my stomach do somersaults, as I hear the muffled scuffed footsteps of my mother and her little slippers walk through her bedroom and down the hallway. I knew my father well. When something was wrong, she was the one easy target he could take it out on. This time, I was what was wrong, and I knew she would not escape this either.

The hallway lights flicker on, painting a strange family portrait as everyone remains perfectly still. My mother’s eyes adjust to the light before falling on me in a sort of shock. I was the last person she expected to see down here, let alone laying helplessly on the floor to her entryway. The last she knew, I was in bed sleeping a bad day away. I was that one constant she could count on, and I had broken that facade.

She whispers cautiously, “Tory…? What are you—?”

“Don’t fucking coddle her, Maureen! Don’t you coddle her, you hear me? This little bitch snuck out while you were supposed to be watching her.” He points at her accusingly, as she backs up a few steps towards the hallway. “I can’t trust either of you cunts, can I?”

“Hold on a sec there, Clay,” she says, a mixture of menace and fear in her eyes. “Come on. You know that I had nothing to do with this. I’d never let this shit go down.” She stiffens herself like the good soldier she is. She’s experienced this kind of rage tons of times, but never with her own daughter playing witness and executioner. Still, she looks almost powerful, as she looks down at me with stern eyes and says assuredly, “I’m sure Tory had a good reason for going out.”

My dad’s feet pound on the floor as he walks quickly over to her. With one large push of his hands, he slams her into the blue painted wall with such force that a family photo of us on vacation in Seattle falls and shatters near her, as she sinks to the ground. He looks over her as he yells, “Don’t you dare stand up for her! You raised a fucking slut. Same as you were. I should have known better! Goddamn fucking whores!”

She only has moments to curl into a ball before his steel-toed boot slams into the side of her tiny torso. Air escapes her closed lips, and she lets out a sound I’ve only heard once from a family dog run over by a car. My mother falls in slow motion to the ground, her arms still wrapped around her legs.

This was something I always knew happened between them, though I’d never seen it up close. For all of my life, I have been pretending not to hear her body fall and crash against the wall, slam into tables and chairs, slump on the floor. I can’t remember when I first started praying that it wasn’t as bad as what my imagination could have made it seem. However, seeing it in person and up close was like replaying all of those nights with a pillow over my head to dampen the sound of her cries and whimpers all over again. I have never felt more helpless in my entire life.

But I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. I can’t; I’m absolutely paralyzed in both fear and shame. Trying to help her would mean more punishment for the both of us. All I can do is hope and pray that my father tires himself out, like a boxer.

As he breathes heavily over both of us lying in repose over the floor, he does the one thing I had been hoping for over an hour he would do: he turns and walks towards the door, finally leaving us there. With a parting, “Get to bed!” he goes through the entryway and back outside.

We wait in our protective shells for the sound of his bike to roar to start and then take off past the neighborhood of darkened houses, each blind to what has always been going on in the Walsh home. With that bastard safely gone, I crawl on my hand and knees towards my mother. To my surprise, she lifts her hand up and out towards me and wraps it around the back of my neck. I lower myself down to her and curl my body around hers with an arm placed high around her waist to avoid the tender spot.

Despite everything, her body is still warm, still as comforting and as peaceful as I remember it being when I was a child. They say there’s nothing like a mother’s arms, and I know that to be true even when the mother can’t hold her baby any longer. Her voice shakily asks me, “Why Tory? Where were you?”

I don’t bother lying to her. I owe her that much. “I went to go see Anton. I admit I had to go see him, Mom. I know I shouldn’t have, but I had to. I wish you could understand.”

Slowly she turns around to face me, our foreheads touching softly as she takes my hand in hers, “I do, Tory. Believe it or not, I was once you. Grandpa David was the vice president just like Brandon. He ran the Desert Knights with an iron fist, too, and he wanted me to have nothing to do with the club. But when I saw your daddy at a cookout for new recruits, I knew I had to have him. And just like you, I ran off with him. Grandpa David tracked us down in a motel room just outside Reno, but by then I was already pregnant with your brother and there was nothing he could do but accept it.”