Page 3 of O'Mega's Revenge
“All the more reason we need to make an appearance. No one fucks with us. We’re bitches who do and go wherever the fuck we want.”
Missile was going to get us killed one of these days.
She turned to Trot.
“Prez, listen, we let these guys think they got the upper hand, they won’t respect us anymore.”
“They don’t respect us now,” Quick pointed out.
“Oh, now there’s where you’re wrong.” Trot straightened her posture and held up a finger.
Margaret stepped in, “Hold on to that. I’m making a call.” She pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through her contact list. As she waited for the recipient to pick up, she glanced at me to ask a question.
“Kush is retiring?”
I nodded.
“That means Wolf is going to be VP.” She let that bombshell drop as whoever she was calling picked up.
“Hey, Jelly? What’s this I hear the Kushman is giving up the road? He get the arthritis or something? Does he need some of my magic carpet mix?” She listened for a moment and made a few nods with accompanying sounds.
“No, probably needs the heavy shit then. Too bad it makes your pecker limp.”
Another pause. We all waited as Margaret laughed at something Jelly said.
It was a trip watching her work. Knowing exactly which carrots to dangle to get answers the rest of us mere mortals would never pry out of such an insular group like the Destroyers. Jelly was one of the old ladies I’d mentioned. Her man was cool. Barely did a thing without Jelly on the back of his bike. It probably helped that she still rocked corsets and leather like a twenty-something.
“Sure thing. I’ll send a couple of my girls up with it. Tell sweet Kushie to get his ass down here and dust out my cobwebs when he sobers up.”
She laughed at something Jelly said and said her goodbyes.
“You’re in.”
Missile whooped and tried to get high fives again.
My stomach twisted. What if I showed up there and Wolf was already paired up with one of the girls the club kept around? Or worse, what if he was with a hooker?
Another thought made me want to vomit. What if he hired the hookers?
I didn’t want to think about that.
Missile dragged me upstairs, and we found the hot pink skirt. Luckily, it didn’t have mud on it. I pulled out a pair of black riding leathers.
“You are not wearing those.”
“Yes, I am.” I wasn’t going to court road rash for the sake of fashion.
“Wolf doesn’t have easy access in those. Wear the chaps with those tear-away panties and give your girls a boost. Not that they need much boosting.”
On the contrary, big boobs meant major issues with sagging. Back pain, looking twenty pounds heavier than anyone your same size, and lots of unwanted attention.
“I am not wearing tear-away panties to a Destroyers party.” Oh hell no. I liked sex, but only with one guy, not a whole room full.
“Live a little.” She wiggled on the pink skirt. It fit her a hell of a lot better than it did on me. It actually covered her ass and the fact she wasn’t wearing underwear.
“You are going to wear underwear, right?” My doubts about this whole operation were growing by the second. She’d layered the hot pink skirt with a chain mail crop top that was accented with rows of differently shaped mirrors. Missile was a walking, talking disco ball with bits of her deeply tanned skin peeking out of places they shouldn’t be peeking out of.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a prude?”
