Page 1 of O'Mega's Revenge
Chapter One
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” I tossed my keys at the farthest wall as I entered the rambling farmhouse the club owned. My helmet would have been next, except I’d paid too damn much for the custom Predator modification and didn’t have that kind of money to burn.
The peanut gallery, aka two road sisters from the Devil’s Handmaidens MC — MC being short for motorcycle club — had to comment on my distress.
“What’s got your panties in a wad now?” Missile, god love her, had no filter. At least Quick did.
“What’s wrong, Tits?” And no, she wasn’t being vulgar— that was my road name. I’d shown up on the DHMC doorstep years back with nothing except a lot of trauma and a rack that turned heads. It didn’t help that my real last name, McGee, was a walking bullseye with a soundtrack to match.
“The bastard.” My other name for the boyfriend. The girls knew.
“Oh.” Quick nodded as if she already knew what my on-again, off-again, sort-of-on, lover had done to get me angry this time.
“What’s the big bad wolf done now?”
Did I mention he had a road name, too?Of course not. Wolf wasn’t the type of guy you idly gossiped about. Point one, I didn’t indulge in such things, at least when it came to the quagmire that was my sex life with Wolf, and two, the less I talked about Wolf, the better everyone in earshot was. He ran with another motorcycle club, but walked on the other side of the line between good, not so good, and really really awful.
See, a long time ago, there was no difference in the clubs. All riders could belong, and they mostly got along. But there was this teeny-tiny percentage, one percent, maybe, who couldn’t get along. They broke laws and broke heads. They loved doing both. It gave the rest of the riders bad reputations. Therefore, the American Motorcycle Association disavowed the raucous one percent, and a new breed of alpha-hole was born.
They took pride in being one-percenters.
Something that probably wasn’t good to talk about around the non-initiated. But brass tacks? There are good people, not good people, and all sorts of shades of folks in-between. The DHMC was for the most part, good people. But we also were the type of good that took on the downright evil people. Those predators that took their enjoyment out on the helpless or the weak. Horrible sorts like pedophiles and rapists. Being in this rarefied circle of women who rode, and had reason to kick ass once in a while meant walking a very gray line between being truly good and fucking up someone’s shit.
Wolf, on the other hand, could technically be counted in the “not so good” people category, but at least he kept his illegal shit away from the areas my sisters and I hit hard. But being where he was, doing what he was, he rubbed elbows with some real dubious elements. When he did, and if they pissed him off, he told me. In turn, I told the girls, and we handled it. That part of our relationship worked. It worked really well.
Also, the chemistry between us rocketed off the charts. I swore that man could blink and make it look sexy as sin. It was like he had hardwired me to be tuned into all thingsWolf.
But…
He lived in central Pennsylvania, over an hour away, and ran with a club where the old guard insisted that women had three places. Position one was on their knees, sucking anyone with a dick off. The “gash” they used like tissue. Then there were “mamas” — women worthy of consideration as breeding material. And finally, “old lady.” The explanation of that term could take forever because it all depended on the biker, again, a man, to define it. Some of them claimed it meant something revered. The Yin to their Yang. The cream in their coffee, the sugar to their spice, etc. But some of them treated their old ladies like dirt. In truth, the only difference between gash, mama, and old lady was how much money divorce court was going to cost you.
I wasn’t gash. And I would never be someone’s mama. That meant the only place I’d fit was in the last category, which would never, ever happen. See, in order to be an old lady, I would have to give up the DHMC.
That wasn’t possible. With my past, I needed these women, their mission to save women and children from traffickers, the sisterhood who understood how broken I was yet let me rant at stupid things.
Like not being invited to a biker party.
“Their VP is retiring, and I’m not invited.”
“I thought they liked you,” Quick said.
Missile wasn’t as nice, and spoke over Quick. “Those bastards. I bet they ordered a bunch of hookers, and Wolf doesn’t want you finding out.”
Did I mention her broken filter?The trouble was, it was exactly what I suspected was going on. Being in a long-distance relationship was hard. Too many opportunities to cheat.
At least on his part.
The last proposition I had was from an angry motorist who made fun of my bike, then asked me how much I charged per hour. It took every ounce of self-control not to scrape a groove down the length of his Beemer. Instead, I quite succinctly told him, “You couldn’t afford an hour with me.”
Despite the fancy car, he didn’t have “it.” That defining aura that signaled “ultra-rich” rather than “nouveau rich.” Something about the hair, the clothes, or the quality of his veneers spoke to humble roots and deep debt rather than a foundation of wealth that could buy and sell humans like commodities. I’d seen that strata once.
It left me scarred and hateful. A deep-seated anger that never left because it made me realize that there is no such thing as “society” or “social conscience.” There are people out there who make a mockery of compassion.
“He wouldn’t do that.” Quick defended Wolf, breaking me out of my mental nit-picking of trauma.
“He runs a strip club, for fuck’s sake.”
“And does he ever take advantage of those girls? No.” Quick continued to pick apart Missile’s assumptions.
