CHAPTER 2
Polly
For the first time, the customer hesitated, and I saw a flicker of fear on his meaty, steroidy face. And who could blame him?
The Bonemangler was taller than any man I’d ever seen, with massive, clenched fists. He looked like he could break rocks with his teeth.
“Er—it’s quite a lot to pay,” the customer mumbled. “And—did it really need—”
“Are you planning to skip out on the damn bill?”
“Oh, I think you already put your wallet here,” I put in, tapping on the counter. “So you must’ve been willing to pay.”
The customer turned in relief, big bullets of sweat rolling down his tomato-colored face.
“Y-yes, that’s right. I wasn’t intending to skip out, sir. Here you go.”
He shoved the card at Mac.
There was a little smirk on the man in the wheelchair’s face as he folded big arms across his chest.
As soon as the card went through, the customer grabbed the receipt and practically scampered out of the office.
“Nice,” Mac said, grinning at me. He obviously knew what I’d done.
See, I was right. They were nice people here.
“What do you want?” a deep, gravelly voice growled, and I jumped to realize the Bonemangler was addressing me.
“I’m here to apply for the job,” I squeaked out.
He glared at me, then at Mac.
“You wouldn’t work,” he said shortly. “Goodbye. You two, go back to work.”
There was an aura of restrained strength about him, like if he didn’t hold himself back, he’d go crashing right through the walls.
But something about the Shop interested me. There had been a lot of wild herbs around the side, looking very unkempt, and I itched to get my hands on them.
“How do you know I’m not right for this job?” I asked indignantly. “You didn’t even interview me!”
The Bonemangler crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.
He looked over a decade older than me and felt like two full feet taller, his powerful arms covered up and down with oil stains. Each massive black work boot was the size of a small boat.
His worn black leather vest over the dirty T-shirt was covered with different patches on it and up close they seemed very bloodthirsty.
Was he in a motorcycle gang? What had I gotten myself into now?
“What exactly do you think this job entails, ma’am?”
His voice was like taking a pickaxe to some gravel, and something about it made a shiver go all the way down my body to my toes and then up again to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The Mangler spat expressively into an empty beer can, his eyes narrowed.
“Housekeeping?” I ventured. “Clerical work? Gardening? I’m a very good gardener.”
“No, it means fucking. The job is freeuse club girl for the Prez.”
His dark eyes bored into mine, one filthy finger tapping his massive bicep.
And to this day I have no idea what possessed me.
There was absolutely nothing in my life heretofore that would have prepared me for being the freeuse club girl for a motorcycle club president.
“All right,” I said.
One shaggy eyebrow raised.
“You know what freeuse means, ma’am? It means you agree to be sexually available 24-7 for me.
No matter when I want it. It means when I say drop your pants they have two seconds to get on the ground.
Standard fucking club bunny shit. You don’t like it, or anything that happens, you can leave.
I don’t want unwilling pussy. Has to be willing and wet or I don’t want it. Got that?”
“Got it.”
The idea of someone wanting me for my body was so droll and unusual that I couldn’t help being curious.
And, even though the Prez was stunningly ugly, there was something about those big oil-stained hands.
It had been a lean year since my divorce and, if I was honest, for several years before, too. But I was still a woman who wanted sex. I had birth control pills. It just always seemed too complex to manage dating as a mom.
But this could be an easy way to fulfill that craving. A grumpy man did not scare me.
What would it be like to service a big, stern MC Prez 24-7?
I was going to find out.
“Do you want me to start right now?”