Page 17 of Deserter

Fuck me, I was too young to start thinking about that. I paid my dues, got my hands dirty when needed, and had anything I wanted at my fingertips.

Why would I trade that in to be the guy in charge?

Despite what Wolverine had said, there was no way those guys would ever respect me. Most of them had served in Vietnam with Wolverine. They’d be looking for a place to stick a knife the minute I took over. They might’ve feared me, but they sure as fuck didn’t want me running things.

And that was going to make things very complicated.

“You look like you could use some company.”

I turned toward the voice and blinked until the woman shifted into focus. I came to this bar to get away, but with the low-cut peasant blouse and the absence of a bra, I was open to making an exception for her.

I downed the shot and looked her up and down again, my gaze lingering on tits that were just begging to be in my mouth. “You’re looking for trouble, am I right?”

She ignored my stare and climbed up onto the barstool next to mine. “Maybe.” She plucked a maraschino cherry from a nearby caddy and slowly sucked it into her mouth. “Maybe not.”

She pulled the stem and the red fruit reappeared with a pop. Knowing she had my full attention now; she swirled her tongue around it before sucking it back between her lips.

I growled and poured another shot, clenching my hand into a fist. I was rock hard, and the bitch was toying with me. “You know what, sweetheart? Maybe fuck off.”

Her eyes widened, and I waited for the waterworks and hasty exit. Instead, her hand dropped from the bar onto my lap. She let her fingers brush across my dick, and I gripped her wrist tightly in my fist. “You got a death wish?”

She pushed her lips into a pout. “Maybe I just came here to get fucked by a real man.”

That I didn’t expect.

I exhaled roughly and glanced around the bar. “Well, it ain’t happening here.” Her face fell before I added, “Motel, two blocks down.”

After throwing cash down on the bar, I let her lead me out to the parking lot, trying to determine how many of her there actually were. I wisely chose to leave my bike out front and let her drive.

By the time we made it into the crappy motel room, I’d shredded the buttons on her blouse with my teeth while she moaned and ground up against me.

When she leaned in for a kiss, I pushed her head down until it was level with my belt buckle. I’d tried kissing Ginger in the shower the night I became a killer. She’d pushed off and claimed that shit was reserved for old married couples and not two people having a good time.

I’d never made the mistake again.

Luckily, this chick caught on quickly and began unbuckling my belt, working my jeans down over my hips. “What’s your name?” I asked as she took me in her mouth.

She backed off and panted, “Betsy. Yours?”

“Grey.” It felt good to say it. Like I’d been meant to own that name. I gripped the back of her head and forced her to take all of me down her throat like a good girl.

She wanted a real man, she was gonna get one. I felt her throat convulse around me as she gagged and pushed against my thighs, but it only made me harder. I pulled back enough for her to suck in a breath before bringing her right back down. Tears and mascara ran from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t fight me again.

Wolverine had taught me that a woman could take anything; she just needed to be trained. I might not have been a gentleman, but I never raised a hand or inflicted pain… unless they asked for it. And there were plenty of club whores who liked being hurt almost as much as I did.

When I thought my balls would burst, I pulled out and began tearing at her clothes. “Mattress. On your back.”

Betsy did as I asked and as she lay spread out before me, I paused to fully appreciate her perfect tits and slim body. That was when I noticed the spectrum of bruising on her torso and thighs.

Images forced their way into my head, and it didn’t matter that this girl was a brunette, I saw my mother, broken and bloody, laying on the mattress in front of me.

My old man had been even more of a coward than I thought possible. From what the guys could gather, he’d stabbed her in the back at the front door. When she didn’t die immediately like he’d hoped, he’d grabbed hold of her scarf and bashed her head into the wooden frame until she stopped fighting.

It further confirmed that the death I’d given him was too good.

I could stand a lot of shit and in the two years I’d been riding with the club, I’d seen just about everything. Women’s bodies being used as punching bags never failed to set me off though.

“Who the fuck did this?”

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