Page 6 of Savage Outlaw

It’s not money he’s thinking about as he lounges his long body on one of the banged up couches in the main area. SportsCenter as usual was playing on the mounted TV. Someone would have a shit fit if the channel changed. Luxe tried one time and almost caused a divorce between her and Grinder.

He’s not even thinking about the coffee as he drains his cup and sets it aside on the table. One of the obedient prospects will swing by soon and hook it up like the mess was never there. Good boys. They’ll need more soon when they patch in, because Butcher is not being a dogsbody around this place.

He’d volunteer Preacher first.

His head isn’t even in the idea of getting laid tonight at the party.

He never got how a party sprung up out of nowhere. But they did every weekend. Like magic, booze and food, music and a sea of bodies appear inside the clubhouse. Mostly it was so the prospects could get laid. Nearly all of the patched brothers had old lady’s now. Brothers from out of town sometimes turn up if it’s a special occasion. There was a riot of a celebration months back, toasting the death of the Russian and Rider’s recovery from being shot.

Eight months to be exact, if he was counting.

Around the time he fuckedher—the one he needed out of his brain—like a mad man in their motel room. And then watched her drive away as always.

He knew more than most how hard it is to forget someone. To push those feelings to the cavern of his skull and let someone else in.

If only he fucking could.

There’s pussy on offer at the club.

Outside of the club.

He could get it anywhere he needed it and Butcher needed it.

In his mouth, on his fingers, wrapped tight as a goddamn fist around his dick.

Groaning as he rubbed a hand down his face, he did this to himself.

A goddamn weak simpleton or an addict. His OCD kicked in by allowing himself a moment to indulge before tucking it away neatly.

He let himself think about that cock-hungry girl and how Roux-starved he felt most days. And then he stopped.

He was good at it, after all.

The party that night at the RSMC wasn’t so much a wild one but it was loud and busy.

Brothers and their old ladies were in attendance, which meant people had to be on somewhat good behavior. No orgies. Not that he cared. He hadn’t been in a threesome since he was seventeen. He hated waiting for his turn, so he discovered early on it wasn’t for him.

Propped up against the bar, making his way through a platter of hot sauce wings and half listening to Snake and Grinder arguing about which was better; Gangs of London or Peaky Blinders, he caught sight of Arson in the corner. The moan traveled over the deafening sounds of music. He was holding a blonde chick up by the ass while her legs wound around him. They were doing some serious face sucking. Her teeny outfit looked painted on, her ass spilling out into Arson’s hands, her shirt already opened.

If he’d been in the mood to get his own pussy, seeing them going at it would have put lust in his body.

He slurped on his beer instead and took his eyes away.

It was four hours later, after a cutthroat game of pool with Reaper, that Butcher saw Arson again. This time throwing his guts up in the bathroom.

How the guy managed to stay standing was anyone’s guess.

Butcher grabbed him by the arms and helped him to his room.

The guy fell on the bed and sighed. “Fuck.”

“Buddy, why the fuck you keep doing this to yourself?”

As the medical man for the club, there wasn’t much Butcher could do for him other than put a bowl by his bed and hope Arson didn’t choke in his sleep. This wasn’t the first time he or the other brothers had put Arson to bed. Or dug him out of a mess due to booze.

It was getting out of hand a year ago, now it was worse.

Booze crept in and fucked a person up faster than anything else. Powder up the nose included. Butcher hoped it was only the liquor Arson was hammering because it’s a hole that kept digging deeper for him.

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