Throttle's Seduction: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 7) (31 page)

Steel turned to Chaco, gesturing him to answer. He nodded. “Yep. They aren’t members of the group, but they are definitely sympathizers.”

“We gotta isolate them as soon as we get there. If there are any citizens, we do the same with them. A couple of your brothers can watch them in a back room. We don’t want anyone hurt who isn’t part of the disrespect. Understood?” Hawk said.

“We’re with you on that brother,” Steel replied.

“We don’t want anyone calling the fuckin’ badges either,” said Throttle. “We got enough shit going on in Denver.”

“Heard about that. Fuck. We were gonna go, but we had some club business that came up. Your guys going down on a murder rap?”

Hawk shrugged. “We got some lawyers trying to make sure that shit doesn’t happen. Anyway, Rock and Wheelie didn’t shoot the bastard. But we don’t want any interference with the badges tomorrow night. We don’t have to worry about the Skull Crushers, but the citizens are another story. We gotta watch them.”

Steel nodded in agreement. “We shouldn’t have a problem with that. There’s a back room we can keep them in. Anyway, the badges hate the Skull Crushers as much as we do. Since they came into the county, they’ve thrown off the balance. There’s been a long-time understanding between the badges and our club. They’ll overlook some things if we make sure certain shit doesn’t go down in their backyard. Keeping crystal and crank outta the county is one, and not beating the shit outta citizens is another. The Skull Crushers have disrupted the flow, and they’re looking to us to make it right.”

“Hell, if they could, the badges would join us in kicking the fuckers’ asses.” Chaco chuckled along with the other members.

“Sounds like we pretty much have free reign. Okay, let’s decide how this is gonna go down,” Hawk said.

The two clubs talked well into the night, strategizing. When they’d finally cemented everything, the members from both clubs walked into a large room. One of the back tables had steaming burritos, enchiladas, tamales, rice, guacamole, and chips. “Eat up and have some fun. Our club whores and hang-arounds love tasting new biker cock,” Steel said. “Enjoy.”

As Throttle sat at one of the tables, shoveling a forkful of rice in his mouth, a busty, dark-haired beauty cozied up to him. “Aren’t you a good-looking man. You wanna have some fun?” She was exactly the type of woman Throttle went for, and pre-Kimber, he’d be sucking and fucking her big tits while he finger-fucked one of the other dark-haired club girls. He wasn’t interested anymore. The petite, sassy mechanic had taken down the ripped, arrogant biker. He couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“You want me to ask some of my friends to join us?” the woman asked.

He shook his head. “I got a woman.”

A tall blonde with legs that went on for miles sat on the chair next to him. “That doesn’t seem to bother a lot of the brothers.”

Throttle knew some of the brothers like Ruben and Tigger were married, but they both had two hot chicks straddling their laps, their hands roaming over their bodies. Ruben’s old lady, Doris, let her man have his fun once in a while, claiming it kept their fourteen-year marriage better than ever. But Tigger’s old lady, Sofia, was not into sharing her husband; the only problem was Tigger was always panting over the club whores and hoodrats every chance he got. Sofia was only twenty-four years old, and she was so pretty and fragile that most of the members felt sorry for the way Tigger treated her.

“I’m one of the brothers it does bother.” He turned away, dismissing them. All he could think about was Kimber, not easy pussy from a couple of chicks who’d been around the block more times than they could count. They knew the score just like the brothers did. It didn’t matter if they were partying in Pinewood Springs or Alina, it was all the same: booze and easy sex.

“You have it bad for Kimber, don’t you?” Hawk said as he sat down. Throttle shrugged. “I know you do because you’re not even looking at the women in the room.” Hawk threw a shot back.

“Fuck. She’s all I think about, dude. I never thought I’d feel like this about a woman, but your smart-assed employee grabbed my dick bad.”

Nodding, Hawk curled up the corners of his mouth in a wide grin. “You know, I thought I’d be single my whole life. I didn’t want to settle down—easy pussy was the way I lived. You were the same. I thought we’d be like Rob and Packer—old but still banging away. Then I met Cara and she fuckin’ blew me away. I couldn’t even remember why I thought easy pussy was so great.” He threw back another shot. “Now you got bit, and after all the shit you gave me about Cara, I gotta say I’m enjoying this.”

Throttle chuckled. “I can’t believe I’m even having this pansy-assed conversation with you.”

“That’s the point, man. It feels real good when a woman enters your life. A woman who grabs hold of all of you and takes you on the wildest ride ever. Nothing fuckin’ compares to that.”

“You’re damn right about that.”

Hawk stood from the table and clasped Throttle’s shoulder. “I’m gonna call Cara and then get some sleep. We got a long twenty-four hours ahead of us.” He walked out of the room.

Shortly after Hawk left, Throttle drained his beer and made his way to one of the guest rooms in the club’s basement. He stripped off his clothes and lay on the bed, wishing like hell Kimber were there to hold. He closed his eyes and, in a matter of seconds, fell fast asleep.

*     *     *

Teasers was a
small, squat club that sat on a stretch of road five miles away from town. The windows were painted black, and a couple of low-watt lightbulbs hung over the entrance, attracting a swarm of moths that flapped their wings incessantly against them. The loud clash of black metal seeped out from the door cracks. Several Insurgents and Night Rebels positioned themselves at the back exit while the rest of the brothers entered the seedy joint.

Inside, the light was dim, but they could see a bar to one side and a stage at the other. A few tables scattered near a pool table in the back. A large sign on the bar read “Special—Tacos $1.00” in blue magic marker. “War” by Burzum played on the overhead speakers as two women moved around on the stage: one so skinny it looked like her G-string would fall off, the other with a tiny waist and huge fake tits. Under the pulsing black light, she looked grim and worn out as she danced around a pole—badly—and the skinny one looked bored as she swayed, staring at one of the ceiling panels.

The sour smell of the joint mingled with a faint scent of a Febreze-style spray that curled around Throttle’s nostrils. He noted the place had all the markings of a dive: worn carpet, cigarette burns, and patched upholstery. His assessment revealed two strippers, one bartender, and one barmaid; the rest of the patrons were Skull Crushers.

A tall man with short, spiked blond hair and two shorter men sporting the same hair color and style walked up to the newly arrived men. Sneers and numerous piercings marked their faces. The name on the tall man’s cut read “Hitler,” and he also sported a swastika patch and one that said “President.” Darting his eyes between Throttle and Hawk, his brows rose when his gaze landed on their “Insurgents” patch. His pale blue eyes darted to Steel, and Throttle swore he noticed a sliver of fear creep into the dirtbag’s eyes.

“Can we help you?” he yelled over the music.

Throttle went over to the bartender. “Turn the fuckin’ music down.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m not turning shit down.”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass good if you don’t do as I ask. We got business here.”

The bartender stared at Throttle and then threw his rag down, bent over, and fiddled with something in a cupboard. The noise level decreased, and Throttle walked back over to where Hawk stood. Two Night Rebels went behind the bar on either side of the bartender.

“That’s better,” Hawk said.

“What the fuck do you want?” Hitler asked.

“Your bottom rocker, and then my fist in your fuckin’ face.”

“You’re on our turf. You should think—”

“Fuckin’ correction, asshole. You’re on
our
turf, and that’s the problem,” Throttle hissed.

Hawk took a step toward the president. “Why the fuck you wearing the bottom rocker? You didn’t get permission from the Insurgents. You’re doing business in our state and our territory. Night Rebels are with us. You’ve been doing all kinds of shit on their turf.”

Hitler sneered at Steel. “We don’t recognize Injuns as anything but trash.”

The tension in the air hissed.

Hawk gestured to Ace and Hoss to help the two Night Rebels members, Doc and Pokey, take the citizens to the back room. They complied, pushing the four angry people out of the main area.

Hawk pushed Hitler.

The two men with him stepped forward, their shoulders thrown back, their faces distorted and blotchy, as they clenched their fists.

Throttle shoved them, and one of them fell to the right.

The rest of the Skull Crushers came over, some carrying pool cues, all of them taking out their chains and knives. Throttle and the others kept their eyes peeled for any handguns, knowing that if anyone drew, the scene would turn from a violent fight to a bloodbath.

Most of the Insurgents and Night Rebels had thick rings with their insignia on them on all of their fingers. They provided the same effect as brass knuckles. In Throttle’s estimation there were about fifteen Skull Crushers and, with the two clubs combined, there were about twenty on his side. His blood was pumping as adrenaline shot through him in anticipation of the fight. Each and every time a rumble was about to begin, he’d get a real big charge which fueled him throughout the fight.

“We’re gonna let you off with a warning. Don’t ever wear a ‘Colorado’ bottom rocker. Just remember, next time you’re all fuckin’ dead.”

Like lightning, Hawk punched Hitler’s face.

One of the Skull Crushers slammed his fist into Throttle’s back. Rage surged through him.

He whirled around, grabbed the fucker by his T-shirt, and forced him down. He could hear the rasp of ripping material. Once on the ground, the Skull Crusher slammed his brass knuckles into Throttle’s shin.

He lifted his steel-toed boot and pummeled the guy with it.

Black metal music thumped as the men shoved, kicked, stomped, and punched each other. Rough hands pulled at cuts and T-shirts. From the other side of the room, Throttle saw three guys attacking Tigger as he lay on the ground.

Rushing over and leaping like a panther, Throttle landed on one of the Skull Crushers’ back. He smashed his industrial flashlight over the man’s head, his blood sticky and warm on Throttle’s fingers.

In that moment, from the right, a fist of metal crashed against him. “Fuck!” His voice was tight with rage, his tongue soaked in the taste of blood.

He swung around and sank his balled fist into his attacker’s gut.

The Skull Crusher grunted, then fell to his knees.

Throttle lifted his leg and shoved his foot into the man’s face. He heard the crunch of bone. “You fuckin’ asshole!”

He swung around and met the crazed gaze of a burly, tall man.

“We’re going to teach you a lesson, you fuckin’ pieces of trash. When we’re done, we’ll be wearing whatever the hell we want on our patch!” The Skull Crusher’s balled fist collided with Throttle’s cheekbone.

His head flailed like a branch caught in the wind. As he staggered backward, he nearly fell over the table. Red spilled out from his open wound.

The Skull Crusher came in for round two.

Regaining his balance, Throttle bent low and then came up high, clipping the burly man in his Adam’s apple. The man howled, then dropped to the floor, where Throttle whacked the back of his back with the flashlight. Hard. Then he turned the Skull Crusher over and punched him in the face, snapping his nose into a mangled mess.

The fight lasted only six minutes, but the stench of sweat, urine, and rusting iron permeated the joint. Pools of red were scattered around the room, flies already buzzing above them. Throttle, bruised and cut, stumbled over to the bar where the others wiped off the remnants of the brawl.

All the Skull Crushers had been subdued and their cuts ripped from them. Jerry took them and sliced off the bottom rockers with his hunting knife. “Let’s burn these.”

Hawk nodded, and several members of the two clubs hollered as Jerry doused them in lighter fluid from behind the bar and lit them up. Many of the members looked like they’d been thrown through a windshield at a high speed. The swelling of cheeks, broken noses, busted lips, and black eyes began to appear.

After the bottom rockers were burned, Hawk went over to Hitler who lay on the ground, holding his battered head and face in his hands. “You ever wear a ‘Colorado’ rocker again, you’re fuckin’ dead. You get the fuck out of this county. If you don’t, we’ll blow up your goddamned clubhouse.”

Throttle kicked him in the ribs. “Now you’ve been fuckin’ told.”

The two clubs shuffled out of the bar. Hawk gave some money to the bartender to cover the cost of damages and cleanup; then they revved their Harleys and headed back to the Night Rebels’ clubhouse. They’d need plenty of whiskey, the club girls to clean and patch them up, and the doctor on call to stitch up the wounds.