Page 45 of Beautifully Wounded

My heart races and I suck in a deep breath and step outside, forcing myself to ignore the fact this douche of a guy is busy having sex right in front of me.

“Brody. Where’s Ringo?”

My words have him grunting again while waving a dismissive hand at me. “Prez’s room.”

“Where is that?” I snap, my eyes darting around even as I keep my head cast down, hoping to avoid becoming an interest to anyone watching on.

“Across the lot.” He grunts, before slapping the woman’s arse. “The main house by the pool.”

I gulp.

Across the lot. He means this courtyard packed with bikers and practically naked women.

The phone starts ringing again, and a quick glance shows‘IMPORTANT’flashing across the screen again, so I flick it to silent and hurry forward into the crowd of people.

12

No matter how many fucking times I tell Smitty that I’m not interested in the fucking Doxy girls, he still insists on parading them and their so-called skills in front of me. My gaze travels over Wendy, one of the more senior Doxies who has spread herself out on the table before me, legs wide, muff bare, her fingers sinking inside herself as she moans like it actually feels good.

Maybe it does. Who fucking knows, but it’s of no interest to me.

“We are going to help the Marx crew break into the warehouse north of the city,” my Prez mutters, his eyes dropping to his lap as Celina, one of his personal Doxies, grinds her bare arse over his hard-on hidden behind his jeans.

Thank fuck.

I’ve seen his dick enough over the years, and I really don’t want to see that fucking thing tonight.

“The Triad warehouse?” I ask, my brows shooting high.

“Yep. Those fuckers have the state’s supply of dunny roll. It’s about fucking time they share.”

I chuckle. “Not just that. I’m certain they are behind the haul of PPE gear stolen last year.”

Smitty nods, his hands gripping Celina’s hips as he grinds up against her, while Molly, his real queen, an eight-year-old rottweiler, sits by his feet. “Yeah, those fuckers are stealing our business.”

It’s fucking true. They are.

In a time where people are forced to remain locked inside their homes, our regular trade of drugs and guns has practically dried up. We’ve had to think fucking quick, and what everyone was after became what we traded in. Essential items. Medical resources. And fucking dunny roll. Who would have thought toilet paper would become so fucking valuable?

A loud moan floats from Wendy, like she’s trying to gain my attention as I lounge back in the chair and sip my fucking Sarsaparilla.

Yep, just like every other time there’s a celebration in the MC, I’m on the hard stuff. The guys used to give me shit over it years ago, like my decision not to intoxicate myself with drugs and alcohol somehow made me weak, but when they realised that in fact, while they were all fucking useless, I was still on my game, alert, present and ready just like a sergeant-in-arms should be.

A role I take fucking seriously.

After all, I’m basically the closest thing to law these men have. We have rules and bylaws, and it’s my job to fucking ensure the members adhere to them.

Fucking pity I’m the one who has broken the rules by involving other members in a personal job and then sneaking an outsider into our compound.

Fuck.

“Ringo. You look hungry,” Wendy purrs, spreading her legs so wide that her feet now hug the outside of the table. “Come a little closer and have a taste.”

For fuck’s sake, why does Smitty insist on humiliating the Doxies like this in front of me?

She knows, and he fucking knows, I’ll reject her. It’s not like after three fucking years of saying no that I’m just going to suddenly change my fucking mind and want to fuck one of them.

I go to shoot my Prez a fucking glare to remind him I’m not into this shit, when I notice his frown, his eyes taking in something behind me.

---