Page 9 of Sold to the Bikers
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I'm starting to really dislike this fucker. Quickshot gives me a tiny nod of encouragement, and it’s all I need. “If you had anything good, you’d show it.”
His jaw ticks. “You think you’re hot shit, but in a year you’re going to be begging for my sloppy seconds, asshole. We’re not going to be your punching bag for long.”
Quickshot shrugs. "Put up or shut up. We were sent to find out if it’s worth working with you or not, and right now? I’m thinking not. Let’s go. I’m sure Cain will be happy to know you personally fucked this chance.” The Unwanted president isn’t exactly known for his fucking graciousness.
"Wait!" The Unwanted glances towards the wide wall. "Gimme a sec.”
We give each other a brief look when he scurries off. Quickshot nods his head in the guy's direction. “What do you want to bet he magically finds room for us?”
He does.
When he escorts us to the back, the crowd parts so fast they should call me fucking Moses. He brings us through a door after a brief nod at the guys watching it. They step aside to let us through, but not without some ugly-ass glowers. We're not welcome here, but they aren’t so confident that they can turn down the chance to work with us, either. Good to know.
The new room is in arguably better condition than the one we left. Doesn't look as fucking moldy at least. Probably their common room, with a bar at one end, a big Unwanted flag hanging on one of the walls, and a couple of pool tables in the back. The crowd's thick here too, but not like the other room, and it smells more like money. There’s even some suits around, and members I recognize from other clubs who all make sure to look away as soon as they notice my attention. More than anything, this room feels more like business. Maybe we're about to see what this shit's all about.
At the far end of the room, there's a stage, and on it stands a wiry old biker with a leather hat, running his mouth as he describes a clear box filled with plastic bags on the table next to him. "Twenty one-kilo bricks, fresh from Colombia. Tested pure this morning. Do I hear a fucking bid? This is good shit. Low bids don’t get invited back."
Fuck. I’m no expert, but even at wholesale prices that's easily a couple hundred grand of product. From the stack behind him, there'll be more lots too. Where the fuck does a little club like this get their hands on that kind of shit, and so fucking much of it? Eagle-eye’s going to want to know that this is about to hit the streets. We’re no angels, but this is our turf. We don’t want this kind of shit flooding our neighborhoods.
I lean over to whisper to my brother when I spot the most gorgeous fucking woman I’ve seen in my life headed our way. She’s got dirty blonde hair falling over her shoulders in golden waves, a cute little nose, lips that I wanna see wrapped around my cock and big, deep blue eyes that widen when she spots me. The Unwanted tank top she's wearing only barely covers her big tits, her bra pushing them into the kind of cleavage I want to slide my cock through, and her skirt's so fucking short, it rides the tops of her thighs and teases us with the shadow of heaven with every step. I can't even remember the last time I wanted to just grab a woman and throw her down on a table to fuck her senseless.
Forget the auction. How the fuck does a bunch of slobs like the Unwanted attract sluts like that? Maybe she belongs to the asshole following behind her, but the way she spotted us and started our way makes me think not. Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my dick on it.
Before she gets here, some big meathead steps into her way. "Fuck, they let you out to play with us? This club’s fucking generous."
He grabs her ass with one hand, and her tit with his other, pulling her close. A look of disgust flashes across her pretty face, and as her skirt slips up, it's obvious she's got nothing on under. I’m all for a little rough play, but she obviously doesn’t want it. It makes me want to tear off the hand that’s daring to touch her.
She sends a frightened look towards the guy following her, who doesn’t seem to care. “Let me go!”
It takes everything in me not to step in, but this isn’t our club, and she’s not my woman. Not my business. But when she cowers from his touch and struggles away, I just can’t stay still. Story of my fucking life. Badass always says I need to think before I act, but there's a reason they fucking call me Animal.
My arm goes around his throat, cutting off his air while the other goes under his jaw, forcing him to look up. "What the f—" he starts before I squeeze harder.
"Hands off the lady or I'm going to rip your fucking head off," I hiss into his ear. "She told you to let her be." She looks like a club slut, sure, but they’re there because they want to be, and she looks anything but willing.
His face goes slightly green, but I'm not going to fucking let up until he does. When he lets go, she stumbles backwards into Badass, who’s there to make sure she doesn’t fall, and give her the chance to pull her clothes back into place. A few people glance our way, but no one seems particularly eager to help the fucker. It might have to do with Quickshot fiddling with the grip of his gun, or maybe no one gives a fuck.
"What the fuck is this shit? I told you to keep an eye on her." A big bruiser of an Unwanted pushes through the crowd. I don't know a lot of them, but I know him. Crusher, their chief officer. As ugly as he is brutal. He grabs the girl's arm and pulls her away from us. "If you're gonna fight, then take it the fuck outside. I don’t care who you fucking are. If you want a shot at uh… Sugar, you’re going to have to wait and bid like everyone else."
Bid? What the fuck?
The girl looks at me with pleading blue eyes and despair written across her face as he drags her away. The pieces fall into place, some of them anyway. She’s that girl from the other night. The one at the Eagles’ Roost, looking for her sister. The one with the soft fucking lips. What the fuck is she doing here?
No fucking way she’s one of their sluts. She’s way too good for them. And selling? Something’s off. Seriously off.
“You recognize her too, right?”
Badass nods. "Did he say what I thought he said?" His question is quiet enough that only we hear it. "You think they’re keeping a stable here? Eagle-eye's going to fucking go mental on these assholes if they’re trafficking."
Quickshot’s expression might as well be carved in stone, and he has that look that says he’s calculating angles and chances in his head, deciding who to shoot first. “When she was at the Eagles’ Roost, maybe she was checking things out.”
“No way. She was there for her sister and left right after. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I don’t like it. Let’s grab her and run,” I suggest.
He shakes his head. "Stand down. We can’t help anyone if we’re dead, and as much as I hate to say it, there are more of these fuckers than there are us. Eagle-eye needs to hear about this, and we’ll be back. Memorize their faces, because they’re dead men walking."
A low growl of agreement is all I manage to get out. I can’t take my eyes off the girl. What did he call her? Sugar? That’s about as fucking likely to be on her birth certificate as Animal is on mine, but it’s all I’ve got to go on. I didn’t give a shit about the drugs, but I'm not letting my eyes off the auction now. “I’m not fucking leaving her here.”
"Sold! And don’t forget to register these with the appropriate authorities!" yells the old biker running the auction, getting a round of laughter. Someone just scored a crate of stolen semi-autos, and as the crate's cleared away, Crusher pulls Sugar up on the stage. "We've got a special treat for you guys tonight. Last lot of the evening."