Page 3 of Watcher

I put my riding gloves back on and watch the three men surround the Mercedes—assholes who don’t look old enough to drink, much less hit on women twice their age.

“Nice ride,” one of the bikers says to the blonde trying to get in on the driver's side.

“Get out of my way,” the blonde says unladylike. “Asshole.”

One of the bikers hops in the backseat.

“Hold up,” Kentucky says when I start to leave the bikes. “Let it play out.”

“Do you know who I am?” the blonde says, full of herself. The other woman, obviously a coattail rider, smirks. She’s pretty fucking hot but has nothing on the blonde.

“You’re a bitch about to climb into the backseat and suck my friend’s dick.” The biker crosses his arms and leans against the car. Men are always badasses when they have their boys with them. I’m taking the blonde in a one-on-one throw-down.

“Megan Stallone,” the woman says. “I own the Memphis Stallion’s professional baseball team.” Her friend cock’s a hip as if she’s co-owner. Something tells me there’s a lot of pussy licking going on between the two.

Kentucky and I look at each other and then back at the bikers, who appear worried. The biker in the backseat reconsiders his position and climbs out. The other two bikers move out of the way, and the two women get into the car. They pull away without another word from the bikers. We aren’t so lucky.

“What are you assholes looking at?” The big-mouth biker walks toward us between the pumps, and the other two join him. It’s not a fair fight. “Sgt at Arms and Road Captain.” He looks at me. “Sure as hell don’t look like an S A G.”

All three bikers are Prospects and about to make a rookie mistake. Kentucky winks. I shrug. “You want to call reinforcements?” I ask.

The Prospects glance at each other, the short one in the back looking a bit unsteady. He’s used to having a real backup, not two assholes trying to make a name for themselves.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Kentucky says. He moves closer to the two bikers in front. He pokes the one with the big mouth in the chest, touching his colors, the one thing a biker should never allow another person to do. The man does nothing. “You’re going to hop your candy asses back on your bikes and go back to the tree house. Otherwise, I stick one of those gas nozzles up your ass and fill you up with some unleaded. How does that fucking sound?”

“You should listen to him,” I say. “He’s from the hills of Kentucky. They eat animals off the road.”

Kentucky turns and scowls. “Fuck you.” He pokes the Prospect in the chest again. “He’s right. I’m from the hills. I eat opossums and other strange shit. Get back on your bikes and get the fuck outta here.” He lifts a nozzle from one of the pumps, and the bikers back away. Kentucky and I sit on our bikes when they’re gone, laughing.

“I wanna fuck that blonde,” I say. “You see that cameltoe she was sporting? I’d lose my whole fucking head up in that.”

Kentucky stops laughing. “Don’t even fucking think about it. That shit will get you killed.”

“Man’s gotta die sometime.” I start my bike, and Kentucky calls the Memphis chapter.

The blonde at the bar, the redhead in the picture Kentucky showed me, and the blonde in the convertible. Too much pussy and not enough time. An intelligent man would take a shot at Juicy instead of the other blonde or the redhead. But I’ve never been called smart, especially when my dick is involved.

“Picking up the guns after the roller derby bout,” Kentucky says, putting away his phone. “You okay?”

“Of course.”

“You still thinking about that blonde in the convertible?” Kentucky starts his bike. “Better get your mind off that shit. I reckon her old man will have a hissy fit if he finds you anywhere near his piece.”

“Where do you learn shit like that?”

Kentucky smiles. “My granddaddy. When he wasn’t in the coal mines, I was on his lap listening to stories as far-fetched as you having a shot at the blonde in the convertible.”

“We’ll see about that.”

We pull from the station and I have three women on my mind. Two of the three could get me killed.

2

Jessica

I’m a spoiled brat. Aren’t most 18-year-old daughters of billionaires? I get what I want from who I want, when, and how I want. My yearly allowance is bigger than most multi-millionaires bank accounts. Some say I’m an entitled little bitch who lives off privilege. So. People who say they wouldn’t act like me are the same people who secretly envy people like me.

When I leave the house, I see my stepmother and her friend Winnie pulling to the house. The gold digger steps from her convertible Mercedes with a dozen bags from Memphis’ most luxurious stores. Half the shit will be hanging in a thrift store in six months. Stepmommy dearest doesn’t know it, but a few weeks ago, I saw her and Winnie fucking like two pairs of scissors in the guesthouse while Daddy was on the West Coast with the Memphis Stallions. At 85 years old, I didn’t want to break my father’s heart, so I kept my mouth shut. I don’t doubt she has dick on the side somewhere as well.

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