Savage Angels: A Savage MC Erotic Romance (2 page)

Snori lifted her by the tops of her thighs, pulling them apart as he pulled her down onto his fat cock, and Trols moved in between her wide open legs.

Trols’ cock slid into her pussy as Snori was reaming her ass, and her eyes and mouth fell wide. Bikers all around the clubhouse bar were stamping and shouting as her head lashed from side to side and the two big Vikings slammed into her. Chains jingled in rhythm and the wooden clubhouse floor shook with the stamping of heavy boots.
 

Hacker’s unruly mop of straw-colored hair bobbed through the crowd and he came with a bottle of bourbon to join our table. Younger than Bogart, about Cox’s age, Hacker was the man Cox was closest to, the one he trusted most in the club. When Cox was out on club business, Hacker was the man he most often took with him.

Hacker gave a hug to each man at the table before he sat. He greeted me with a lift of his hand and said my name. “Hey, Hacker,” I said. Sometimes people called him ‘Hacks.’ He didn’t like that, so I didn’t do it.

Bogart lifted a shot glass and said, “Here’s to the successful partnership of our two clubs. Let’s make it the first of many.” Someone said something about
hands across the water
. The Norwegians drank, but they didn’t say anything.

Two prospects were at the table with us. Cap was young, good-looking with an easy smile. Toned and muscular and a promising prospect, by what Cox had told me. He had his head shaved into patterns.

I remember Cap said that when he earned his top rocker, got the patch as a full member of the club, then he’d get the
Savage MC
colors tattooed on his head. Somebody said there might have to be a council meeting on it, because that had never come up before.

Beanie, the other prospect was more broad and round, with his black hair in a short marines style cut, but with little red, white and blue points. Among the older bikers, these two prospects looked like a new generation, like a step for the evolution of the club.

Talk at the table was some bragging, some bonding and some one-upmanship, like it always was, only tonight, with foreign guests, it was all on a more intense level.
 

Turns out the Norwegians weren’t too crazy about our bourbon, and they pulled out bottles of some thick, clear, totally lethal stuff called
Aqua-Vite
. They were pretty happy with the clubhouse girls, though.

Those Scandinavians, they loved to tell tales. Whatever they wanted to say, it came out piece by piece, like a drama. A really long drama in seven series’ of thirteen episodes. Jurgen was talking,
 

“American sanctions, they are efficient and professional. They’re done, almost always like the mob do it. Tidy, close up assassination. Head shots, two bullets. One front to back, one in the side, left to right.”

Cap asked him, “Is it the same if they’re back to front instead and – the other way, which was it? Right to – I mean, does it...?”

“Ja,” said Jurgen, “has to be the right way. And it matters what order they’re fired in.” Everybody could see that Jurgen was pulling the prospect’s chain,

“But still you have to say the special spell. Or they’ll come back to haunt you.”

Cap was pale.

Everybody laughed, drank and slapped Cap on the back. He just looked around, confused.

Beanie said to Jurgen, “You guys must never have seen any of Butcher’s work,” and the atmosphere at the table chilled before he finished the sentence, “He’s not neat and professional he’s more... what would you say, Bogart?”

“Jurgen and Bent knew Butcher in Iraq, and they’re probably as happy to forget about him as we would be,” and he gave Beanie a long look.

Jurgen picked up and went on, “Ja, but Scandinavians, our culture goes back to the ancient times. Times when we carried civilization across the seas and oceans. We still kill in the old ways.”

Cap was laughing, “By ‘civilization’ you mean the looting, raping and pillaging that the Vikings are so famous for.”

Jurgen’s smile melted away and his voice flattened out, “Don’t fucking call us Vikings, yank,” and Bent’s hand was on a huge, wide hunting knife in his belt. It looked about a hundred years old.

Cox changed the subject, told Bent that he wasn’t too clear on Scandinavian geography. Bent said, “Okay, brother, it’s no problem. I’ll tell you this once and you’re never going to forget,”

These Norwegians were quick to anger and hard to read. I couldn’t tell if he was getting ready to tell a long Viking saga or if he was about to pull a gun.

“Here it is, okay, next time you look on a map, Scandinavia is Europe’s cock, alright? Norway is the top half and Sweden is the bottom half.”

Jurgen joined in, “Norway is the helmet. Sweden is the saggy foreskin.”

Laughing hard, Bent said, “and Finland is the ball sack.”

Cox, Bogart and Hacker laughed too. Bogart said, “What’s Denmark?”

Bent and Jurgen looked at each other very seriously, then turned back to Bogart and said together, “Spunk.” There were back slaps all round, and another round of bourbon refills.

I heard Jurgen tell Hacker, “This run is worth it for only the smoke. If we come here and we get only the smoke, I’m happy. There is nothing in Europe like this good, fresh grass. Almost everything is either dry African shit or that indoor grown skunk.”

Bent leaned across the table, “Ja, bloody Dutch hydroponic crap, grown in plastic tomato tunnels by piggy-eyed geeks.”

From the next table over, I caught Lump’s voice. Lump was short, but big and round. He always claimed he was
all paratrooper muscle
, although I couldn’t see what kinds of exercise would build that much stomach and ass muscle.

Even for a biker, Lump was, to say the least, insensitive, and he was holding court with Chiz, big, bald and bulging, and Mo. Stoned, bearded Mo. Maybe Lump was making a show for them. The older and more senior bikers, they often get around a couple of drinks and they love to be giving out their wisdom and instruction to whoever will listen.
 

Lump was the only charter member apart from Bogart who wasn’t dead or in jail. Not counting Butcher, of course. The rasp of Lump’s voice sawed through the air, “Damnit, man, their English. I can’t hardly understand a word they say,”

Chiz joined in, “Even their names, man. ‘Trols,’ ‘Bent,’ what the fuck?” then their voices were rising,
 

“What about ‘Snori’?”

Chiz said, “‘Trols,’ man, I mean, really, ‘Trols’?”

If I could hear it well enough, then so could Jurgen and Bent. I was thinking about shifting location when I saw that Cox and Hacker were already looking to move, too. We all got up, just as Jurgen and Bent were moving to the next table.

Lump was saying, “Man, whoever heard of an angel called ‘Bent’?”

Jurgen was standing behind Lump’s chair. “What was that, brother?”

Lump didn’t look around but he wiggled a finger in his ear as he said, “Some kind of a noise, but I can’t make out if it’s words or not.”

Beanie and Cap laughed. Bent broke a chair across Lump’s back and asked quietly, “Can you hear any better now?” Lump stood up slowly and turned.

“Yeah, I know what that meant,” he said, swinging a Jack Daniels bottle at Bent. The two prospects were out of their chairs. From the far side of the room, Snori and Trols couldn’t get their dicks out of that little redhead fast enough, and they were bustling across the room and trying to shove their cocks back in their pants at the same time.

Hacker and Cox and I were over by the wall, and the two men started back towards the growing eruption of chair legs and fists. Bogart was headed our way and he held a hand up to them. “Let everybody have a good time. Don’t step in unless somebody is really going to get hurt.”

Hacker and Cox both looked the way that a puppy looks if you take his smelly rubber toy away. Bogart said, “Burden of responsibility, boys. The
Kaos Anarki MC
are our honored guests, and we’re management.”

Cox took me into the far corner. I thought it was an odd moment to get romantic, but I was OK with it. He held my chin with his thumb and forefinger. Feeling him close, my breasts pressed against his shirt.
 

He said, “Nikka, I told the Norwegians that you were my old lady to save you being passed around.” My face must have fallen, I must have looked very disappointed when he told me that, but Cox misunderstood the reason for it.

His eyes flashed and I knew right away that he’d misread me. I touched his arm, but he shrugged my hand away. His voice was hard, “If you
wanted
to be passed around, then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your party.”

I reached for his arm again and I was starting to speak, “Cox no, I...” but he was gone.
 

I was alone in a room full of fighting bikers and miserable as mud in the rain. Daddy used to say that and I never knew what it meant. Not until now, now I think I got it.

I took a shot of bourbon and a spliff outside, sat on the stoop. Listened to the noise, watched the clouds over the moon. I never took anything seriously my whole life. Not until I met Cox. Could that stupid misunderstanding really be enough to fuck our beautiful thing up so bad?

As the noise inside the clubhouse changed in pitch, it sounded as though the fight was moving into a bro-hug phase. Snori and Trols came out and sat beside me. At first I was glad of the company, and I thought that by being welcoming to the guests I could be some use to the club.

It quickly became apparent that they wanted me to be a lot more welcoming than I had it in my mind to be. I stood up to go back into the clubhouse, knowing that I shouldn’t have wandered outside without Cox.

Snori stood in front of me, his red beard hanging over his big barrel chest was right in my face. From behind me Trols said, “Don’t go. We just want to have a little fun, you know? Come on, be nice.” Trols was smaller, pretty wiry, had a pinched voice and a pointy face with his black porn-star droopy mustache. Matched his slicked back black hair. He said, “Come on, be nice.”
 

It would be a bad plan to be rude to the club’s guests but, since Cox had pronounced me his old lady, Snori and Trols were stomping on the club rules and its hospitality by coming on to me. Maybe neither Jurgen nor Bent had told them. Without too much of a smile I said, “I’m with Cox.”

Snori said, “Oh we heard something about it.” And Trols chimed in,

“Didn’t seem like it was too official, though.”

I said, “Maybe you’d like to check with Cox. I’ll see if I can find him.”

Snori’s big paw held my arm. Lifted me enough to hurt my shoulder. His wiry beard scraped against my ear and he said, “No need for that. I told you we only wanted some fun.”

Trols crowded in closer and I heard him say, “You are overreacting, little girly.” Against my thigh I felt the cold touch of that evil blade in his belt.

And then Snori’s voice was close enough to feel his breath on my neck. My shoulder felt like it would rip apart as he lifted me a little higher, “You don’t want to be rude to the club’s guests, sugar tits.” Snori’s other big hand helped itself to a tour up my skirt and into my panties.
 

The noise from inside the clubhouse rose as the door opened. Cap, one of the prospects came out and said, “Ah, Nikka, Cox is looking for you.” Snori let go. Snori and Trols narrowed their eyes at me as I scurried back in. I touched Cap on his arm as I passed.

Signs and Signifiers

It took me a while to find Cox. When I did find him, I had the distinct impression he hadn’t been looking for me, that was just Cap being a hero. Cox looked distinctly like he had recently unentangled himself from the redhead who’d given Snori and Trols their big welcome.

As far as I could tell, she was wearing heels, sweat, beer and cum.

Crash This Train

I tried to talk to Cox, but he avoided me. I spent about an hour, padding around after him like that, him sliding away. In the end, I got bored and decided to drive home.

On my way home I got stopped by officer Drebben. He found a half-smoked joint and enough coke for about a quarter of a line in my glove box. I felt a complete idiot because I’m damned sure I didn’t have to let him search it. Being the police chief’s daughter, I got sloppy, thinking Daddy would just show up and make it all go away.