Page 19 of Chaos
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do or how I’m expected to behave. The last party I went to was Jenny Donnelly’s birthday sleepover in sixth grade. We did each other’s hair and talked about kissing boys. I don’t have a clue what goes on at biker parties.
Fortunately, Mama Pat leans over and explains. “He’s gotta do shots with the brothers. It's tradition after claiming an ol’ lady.”
Her warm hand guides me by the elbow to a table in the corner. "C'mon, child. Come sit with me."
I sink into the chair beside her, watching as across the room someone lines up shot glasses in front of Chaos and several other men.
"You look overwhelmed," Mama Pat observes. Her voice is kind. "I'm gonna tell you some rules of the club and I’ll answer any questions you have.”
Questions? Where do I start?
I watch Chaos throw back a shot, his throat working as he swallows. "I don't even know what to ask. This is all so foreign to me.”
"I was an ol' lady myself," Mama Pat continues. “Still am, I guess, in the eyes of the club. My husband, Reaper, died eight years ago. Motorcycle accident." Her voice softens. “I’m an accountant by trade, and now I keep the books for the club as well as helping out where I can."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, baby." She squeezes my hand. "These parties can get raucous. My old bones can't handle the party life anymore—I just came to see my son."
"Your son?"
"Demon." Pride fills her voice. “The one celebrating his twenty-eighth win tonight."
I glance up at the intimidating man with the intense eyes and air of controlled violence. He’s standing near Chaos, laughing and drinking. “He's your son?"
"Surprised?" She chuckles. "Don't let that brutal exterior fool you. He's a good boy. They all are, in their own way."
Another round of shots goes up on the bar, and I watch Chaos throw his head back, laughing at something someone says.
“I’ve known Jace since he was in diapers," Mama Pat says, following my gaze. "Jace came up hard. His daddy was a member here and got killed when Jace was just a little thing. His mama was drowning in grief and ended up marrying the club president—a mean bastard named Razor who treated that boy something awful."
My chest tightens. I picture Jace as a young boy being abused and mistreated by a big, gruff biker.
"When Razor was killed by a rival club, Jace was twenty-two. Took over as president and turned this club around. Built it into something strong, something that actually takes care of people instead of just taking from them." She shakes her head. "His mama would be proud. She and I were close, you know. Best friends."
"You were friends with his mother?"
"Sure was. Back in the day, we had a great group of ol' ladies. We leaned on each other, supported each other through the rough times." Her expression turns wistful. "But now...well, most of them are gone. Moved away or passed on. I keep hoping some of these other boys will settle down, claim ol' ladies. Build that community back up."
I glance around the room, noticing for the first time how all the women are either dressed in barely-there outfits or in various states of undress.
As if reading my mind, Mama Pat nods toward a blonde in a leather bra and mini skirt currently draping herself over one of the guys at the pool table. "Those are club girls. Cut sluts, some call them, though I don't care for the term."
Cut sluts. That’s what Chaos called them.
"They service the brothers. Keep them happy." She says it matter-of-factly. "It's part of the lifestyle. It doesn’t mean anything beyond physical release."
My stomach twists as I watch another scantily-clad woman—this one a redhead—whisper something in Fury's ear.
"Now, I know that probably sounds awful to you," Mama Pat continues. "And I know that club life can sound old-fashioned, patriarchal—all the talk about women being property and obeying their men." She turns to look at me directly. "But don't let that deter you, baby. Any one of these boys would lay downtheir life for you without a second of hesitation. That's the flip side of being claimed. You're protected. Cherished. Valued beyond measure."
"I don't know if I can do this." The confession spills out before I can stop it. "I don't know how to be an ol' lady. I don't know the rules or the culture or?—"
"You'll learn." She pats my hand again. "And you got me to help you. Plus, something tells me you're stronger than you think."
I look up, finding Chaos's eyes on me from across the room. Even from this distance, I can see the heat in his gaze. Someone—Demon, I think—says something that makes him grin, but his eyes never leave mine.
Another round of shots. How many is that? Chaos's grin gets goofier, his movements looser. He's drunk.
