Chapter 4
As I wake, I’m aware I’m sporting an uncomfortably rock-hard cock. It’s more than just the morning wood that assails most men. It’s the vestiges of the dream I’d just had and lingering memory of the woman I met last night, well, more accurately, of her ass that I’d imagined I was hammering into. When I recall her mouth came into play in some parts, my hand reaches down and squeezes the base of my throbbing cock.
Damn it. I’m a man in my forties not a schoolboy who can’t control himself. Trying to get my unruly appendage to calm down before I make a mess of my sheets, I force myself to pull my focus away from her physical attributes and instead on the fact that the woman in question is now a captive of ours. Or dead.
Nah. Something tells me whatever happened to her wasn’t fatal. Of course, that could be wishful thinking as she’s got certain attributes it would be a waste not to explore. No, she’ll be awake and… I grin, picturing how spitting mad she’ll be when we visit her this morning. Then I frown. We’d been well matched in that fight until I came down on top of her. I’d been prepared to be sent ass over tit as she got out of my hold, but instead, she’d frozen.
Why?She’d been giving me a good run for my money before she’d suddenly stopped. At the time, I’d taken it for the gift that it was rather than putting much effort into wondering why. But now, in my bed, I go back over what had occurred.
She’d frozen, paled, gone shaky. She’d tried to recover herself, but then she’d fainted. Or gone comatose.
I must have just hit her too hard. For all her skills, she’s a woman, and they’re not called the weaker sex for nothing. For a second I feel guilty, then remember she was stealing from us. If she hadn’t wanted to get punched, then she shouldn’t have been fighting. Briefly I wonder whether Legend was right, and we should have gotten her medical treatment. I consider again what if we return to find a dead body, then decide that would at least remove a complication from my life. Not only wouldn’t I have to deal with her, but I wouldn’t have to work out why just one sight of the woman made me dream about her last night.
I can’t recall hitting her hard enough to cause a concussion, unless her skull’s like an eggshell. No, what I remember is her expertly blocking punch after punch, forcing me to change my approach and come up with some decidedly ungentlemanly blows. I’d enjoyed the competition until… Again, my eyes narrow as I think back. What had caused her to go still after I’d taken the advantage and gotten her on the ground? Had something about me being on top triggered her? My cock had definitely gotten hard. Rethinking the event is not helping me now as I try to ignore that unruly appendage.
The answer hits me like the ice cold contents of a bucket of water, and the woman herself had given it to me. I’d recalled the conversation I’d all but forgotten. She’s been abused all her life.. She’d admitted a past that forced her to learn to defend herself.
Fuck, Any idea of her making reparation for her theft by way of her body may have to be put aside. I’m no rapist. I’d rather kill the bitch than force myself on her.
Shit. That only confirms that maybe I’m on the right track. But I’ll never know until she tells me the answer.
I start to plan what I’ll do when I next see her. Will I immediately let her out of her prison? Nah, where’s the fun in that? I’ll torture her with the thought she’ll never get out unless she confides exactly who she is and what she wants, and what the fuck is wrong with her. She had the audacity to steal from the club, and no one fucks with the Wretched Soulz and gets away with it. She’s got some punishment coming and I’ve just got to work out what. And it will be me that doles it out. The thought of one of my brothers laying their hands on her makes me see red.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Throwing off the sheet, I make my way to my shower, rubbing one out as soon as the water flows hot, hoping now my cock’s been relieved I can start thinking rationally. But any easing it provides me with is only fleeting. Just the thought of seeing her, of questioning her, of possibly getting my hands on her, if only to shake some sense into her has me ready to go again within moments.
At last I admit I haven’t looked forward to something as much as seeing her again in years. My heart rate speeds up, my muscles are quivering, and I’m almost as excited as the first time I put on my cut. Of course, I could be ill and on the verge of a heart attack, which would be a far more reasonable explanation other than a random bitch having gotten me riled.
Ignoring the urge to relieve my cock for a second time, I switch off the shower, dry myself, and complete the rest of my morning rituals on autopilot, my mind totally focused on her. I’m still barefooted and just zipping my jeans when a knock comes on my door.
Opening it, I find Mac who’s been a member for the past couple of years. After a year of prospecting and answering to the name Shitface, we relented and agreed on a cut down of his surname for his final road name. Though we now do have another Shitface as a prospect, it was too good a name to give up.
“Whatchawant?” I mumble, fastening the button to close my fly.
“Bull called me. Tried to call you?—”
Turning, I roll my eyes. My phone is on the nightstand, obviously uncharged. “What he want?”
“He went to check on the bitch you caught yesterday, but found she was gone.”
Gone?“What do you mean she’s fuckin’ gone?” I roar, my hands reaching for him and grabbing the sides of his cut. Thoughts of how I was going to get payment from her now pushed out of my head.
“Whoa. I’m just the messenger.” Mac holds up his hands and blanches.
Knowing I’m taking my anger out on the wrong person, I let him loose. “Fuck it!” I brush my hands over my bald skull. “Get out of here, Mac.”
I’m so enraged, I’m likely to do him serious damage if he doesn’t get out of my sight. I slam the door as he goes, and plant my fist against the wall. In my head, I’m envisioning how I left her secured. What did I do wrong? How the fuck did she escape? She didn’t have a phone so couldn’t have called someone to get her out of there. How could one slight woman get out of both zip ties and chains? One thing’s for certain, I’ve underestimated her. My rage is tempered slightly with admiration as my anger turns inward.
I’d been too cocky thinking I had the upper hand, and despite her fighting skills saw only the weak female who’d ended up comatose on the ground. If I hadn’t been swayed by her tits, or lack of them, and ass, maybe I’d have considered securing her better.
Well, one thing’s for sure. That will be the last we’ll see of her. She’s not likely to come thieving again. Pinching my nose and trying to take deep breaths, I try to convince myself that it’s a good thing. We’ll tighten security, make sure neither she nor anyone else could ever again steal from us, and chalk it up to an experience best left as fodder to fuel my cock in the depths of the night. Yeah, it’s a good thing. Now I don’t have to worry about punishing her, and being gone, maybe I’ll be able to forget the strange reaction I had to her.
But as I pull on my t-shirt, I wonder why I’ve got this feeling of having missed out, of lost opportunities, and that perhaps I’d have liked to know more about her, and most of all, how she felt to sink my cock into her.
I shake my head, knowing there are questions I’d have preferred answered. Like why, when she successfully got onto our premises undetected, why she didn’t try to take more expensive stuff? She could really have fucked us up if she wanted. She hadn’t even touched the petty cash left overnight. Or not yet. I make a mental note to get Bull to check. Knowing she’d paid her last visit to our premises, who knows what she’d taken with her when she escaped?
And what, exactly, had caused her to pass out? If it was my very male reaction to her, there’s a part of me that’s frustrated I’ve lost my chance to track down all the men who’d ever hurt her.
What the fuck?
I place the back of my hand against my forehead. Nope. No fever. Nothing to explain my unusual interest in someone who, if they’d been of the opposite sex, would probably already be dead, or at least regretting the day their mother gave birth to them. As for going after anyone who’d laid their hands on her, I very much doubt there’d be anything left for me to clean up if she’d gotten there first. Damn, that woman can fight. And there goes all my blood draining south.
Putting my phone on charge, I take a burner out of the drawer. I hit the keys and dial a number. As soon as it’s picked up, I snarl, “Did she steal anything else?”
Recognising my voice even without caller display, Bull responds, “Yeah. Just petty stuff like before.”
“Cash?”
“Nah. Money’s not been touched.”
That’s something at least. “Got any suggestions how we can find her?” Bull might have something I haven’t thought of. While I’m in charge, I’m not one of those men who think I’ve got all the answers.
“Legend’s digging into what he can, but we’re not hopeful we can track her. Might have to mark this one up as a loss, Prez.”
“You coming back?” I’d debated going to the shop myself, but if my men can’t pick up any clues, I wouldn’t know what I could offer. Bull, being my VP, is one of the best.
Bull seems much of the same mind. “Yeah. Not much I can do.” He pauses. “Fuckin’ shame. I wanted to see the bitch who almost got the better of you.”
“I put her on the ground,” I correct, while thinking I’d perhaps been lucky. But there was no way I was going to admit to that. Not to my VP, or anybody.
I end the call, exit my suite, and head down to the clubroom, making my way to the inner sanctum where Legend holes up. Without knocking, I open the door and step inside.
It’s gloomy in here, blinds are pulled, and the main light comes from the bluish glare from his multiple screens. Cigarette smoke fills the air, and as I inadvertently suck it into my lungs, I cough. The sound alerts him to my presence.
“Prez.” He stubs out his cigarette. He glances down at his screen, then up again, his eyes narrowed. “She got away.”
“I heard.” Pulling out a chair, I sit down. “Any clues?”
He rakes his hands through his shaggy hair. “Been doing whatever the fuck I can. Don’t like losing her, Prez.”
You and me both.
He points to a screen. “Been tapping into whatever CCTV I can find. All I can tell you is that she left on foot. Went around to the back near that telegraph pole where presumably she’d had some kit stashed.” He turns the screen around, and I see the woman reappear, and she’s sliding something into her pocket. “I’ve looked everywhere for a bike, car, scooter, any fuckin’ mode of transport she might have used, but I’ve not been able to find anything.” He taps at his keyboard for a moment. “It was quiet that night, so I’m searching all the cameras I can find on the roads leading away from the shop. If I see anything, I’ll try and track it down. Maybe a process of elimination, but anything will help.”
It sounds like a lot of work, but I’m grateful he’s doing it. Seems, he too, wants her found. But then, that’s Legend. He’s like a dog with a bone when he’s got a lead to follow, and he keeps gnawing until it’s done. Satisfied he’s doing all he can, I start to stand.
“Well, I’ll be buggered.”
I pause half bent. “What you got?”
He turns the monitor around to face me. There, approaching a junction is a hooded figure exactly like our thief. I watch as he taps and advances the footage. She crosses over, then proceeds down the darkened road leading away from the suburbs.
“She is on foot,” he says, unnecessarily.
“Where the fuck is she going?” I ask, probably rhetorically.
But Ledge answers me anyway. “There’s nothing down there for miles.” He pulls up a map. “She’s already a mile away from the shop. If she had a vehicle, she’d surely have hidden it closer.” He continues studying the map. I watch him and see the instant his eyes widen. “The only place down there is a small farm. Harold McPherson’s place. After that, there’s nothing but scrub and desert for fuckin’ miles.”
My eyes meet his. As realisation sets in, both of us start grinning broadly. “That’s the fucker who wanted us to restore a motorcycle.”
It was. He’d approached us sometime back about a restoration project. But after being told how much it would cost, we hadn’t seen him again.
“Could be a coincidence.” I’m trying not to get my hopes up.
“Worth checking out. Want me to go see McPherson?”
My normal response would be, yeah, and take so and so with you. But I want, need, to go myself. Simply because I’ve nothing else on, I rationalise, and, of course, I want to get justice for the club. I deny that it’s because I’ve any particular interest in catching up with the woman again. Yeah. Right.
“I’ll come with you,” I state. Seeing him widening his eyes, I pull myself straight and head for the door.
He’s right on my heels as we enter the clubroom.
“Unck Caz!” a piercing voice shouts.
Knowing what’s coming, I sink into a crouch, catching the little tyke before she can crash into me. I tickle her before asking, “What you up to, Maria?”
She giggles then pulls back. “’elping Momma.”
“Well, get into the kitchen and help Momma and stop making a nuisance of yourself.” Her father, StoryTeller, approaches and admonishes her.
“Unck Caz lubs me.”
“Unck Caz,” I stop myself, realising I’m copying her, cough, then try again. “Uncle Chaz has places to be, honey.”
Sorry, mouths StoryTeller, but his laughing eyes don’t show any apology.
“Come on, trouble. Let’s go find your Mommy.” Pothead, who’s got a soft spot for StoryTeller’s little daughter, holds out his hand to her.
Seeing StoryTeller gives me an idea. Though he’s been grounded to the clubhouse for the last three years, he was previously a nomad, my travelling enforcer. If we find the mystery woman, this time, I won’t be underestimating her.
“Up for a ride, StoryTeller?”
“This got anything to do with the excitement last night?” He raises an eyebrow.
It’s obviously common knowledge which doesn’t surprise me. It’s hard to keep any secrets around here. “Yeah. We think we might be able to find the bitch.”
He grins. “I’m all up for meeting the broad who got the better of you.”
“She didn’t get the better of me,” I growl, turning my back on him and exiting the clubroom, ignoring the snorts of laughter from the man behind me.
I go to my bike, wait for the others to get to their rides, then start my engine. In less than ten minutes, we arrive at the small ranch house that sits in the midst of a small farm.
Immediately after our engines are switched off, I hear the gentle mooing of cows, the cackle of hens, and the barking of a dog. A grey-haired man pushing a shit-laden wheelbarrow comes around from the side of the barn. As he sees us, his eyes widen comically.
No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.For some reason, the Monty Python words go through my mind, and I chuckle. I expect finding Wretched Soulz on your doorstep is just as chilling. Especially if you’re hiding anything.
Leaving his wheelbarrow behind, with short nervous steps, he approaches us. “Uhm. Can I help you, fellas?” His brow creases as though he’s searching for a reason for our visit. “Got some fresh eggs if that’s what you need.”
“Don’t need produce, old man.” I swing my leg off my bike.
“Not fuckin’ old,” he murmurs with a frown, but his expression changes to one of unease as he sees StoryTeller and Legend also dismount.
“We’re here about the motorcycle you talked to us about.”
It takes a moment for the penny to drop. Well, it had been a year or so back he approached us. Now his eyes narrow. “Couldn’t afford your prices then, can’t now. If you’re touting for business, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He makes as if he’s going to turn away.
I take a step closer to him. “Not hurting for business, but turns out we could make some space. Come to renegotiate.”
Cautious eyes return my stare. “What do you really want?”
Okay, so he’s not buying my story which in itself makes me suspicious. I can’t imagine Harold’s got anybody else to restore that pile of junk, not at a cost he could afford. Unless, either it’s no longer a priority, or he’s got someone else to do it. And on the cheap. Momentarily, I wonder who the woman was stealing parts for. It wouldn’t be Harold himself. He’d said a year back he was no mechanic. Has she got a man?Is it him who’s fixing Harold’s bike? Stamping down the irrational twinge of jealousy, reminiscent of how I felt last night, I clear the red from my eyes, force a friendly smile onto my face, and concentrate on reeling him in.
“As I recall, we didn’t actually look at your bike. Just gave you an estimate off the top of our heads. Why not show it to us and we’ll see if we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement?” I keep my tone casual.
“Not much to see.” He huffs. “I told you it was a mess.”
“Nevertheless. As one biker to another, why don’t you show us what you got?”
It’s impossible for any of us to miss the nervous look he sends toward one of the barns. StoryTeller walks past me and starts to head that way.
“Hey, this is private property.” Harold runs after StoryTeller, but he’s brushed out of the way. He turns to me, looking like he’s about to complain, but withers under my glare.
Likewise ignoring him, Legend and I follow StoryTeller. Harold comes along, snapping at our heels, moaning all the way—shit like how he’s too busy and ain’t got time for this now. He even tries to block our progress, but my arm pushes him aside.
The barn door is old, misshapen, and takes a hefty pull to finally open with a protesting squeak, sending a hen fluttering up with an indignant squawk. As soon as sunlight hits the interior, one of my objectives can be seen, the Fat Boy. It’s not quite the disaster I’d been expecting, and it certainly looks like someone’s been doing some work on it. However, there’s no sign of whoever that is, or the woman I’m seeking.
Pressing my lips together, I step forward. Last time I’d heard of this bike, it was little more than a frame. Now, while on stands rather than wheels, it has a V-Twin engine attached. While nowhere near done, it’s in the process of being lovingly restored. As a professional, I can admire the work.
“You doing this yourself?” I swing around to see Harold’s face.
He blinks twice before saying, “Can’t afford anyone else to do it.”
I note his answer could be taken in more than one way. StoryTeller bends to take a closer look, then catches my eye and grins. When he beckons me over, I look down. There’s a rusted part which was one of the ones listed as being missing from our scrap pile.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Harold’s fixing his bike with parts from our shop. My question is, whoever was undertaking the work, why had they gotten the woman doing his thieving for them? What hold did they have to make her do it?
It’s time, I decide, to take off my kid gloves.
Suddenly, I have a hand around his neck and Harold pressed against the wall. “You think you could steal from the Soulz and get away with it?”
“What?” he blusters. “I’ve stolen nothing in my life.”
“StoryTeller,” I start without taking my eyes off the man I have restrained. “Take that fuckin’ engine apart and remove anything that came from our shop.”
“You can’t do that!” Harold cries out. “That’s weeks of work. And the parts are all mine.”
“Liar.” Now it’s my forearm pressed against his throat, crushing his airway and his face starts to turn red.
“No, no. Not lying,” he manages to spit out.
It’s then that I hear the sound of a gun being cocked. “Leave him alone. It’s not him you want.”