Page 4 of The Biker and the Professor
Nero
“You need somepussy, man,” Scratch, my brother in more ways than one says, clapping me hard on the back before he drops down on the stool next to me.
Taking a drag of Menthol Marlboro, I slide him a glance. “And you need to get a checkup before your dick rots. Been slutting it up like there’s about to be a drought or something.”
“At least I’m not rolling ‘round here a miserable ball of tension like you are.” He signals the barman for a beer. “Seriously, man, grab a Club Cat, stick your dick in, and release some of that. For shit’s sake.”
Scratch is the closest thing I’ve got to a brother. Half-Samoan and four years older than me, we grew up together in the same foster family, starved and abused with six other kids by our piece-of-shit foster parents. They kept us for the paychecks, squandered it all on gambling and alcohol. What groceries they did bother to buy was just never enough to feed all of us.
Scratch and I, being the oldest of the bunch, used to be on the streets hustling, doing all sorts of odd jobs. We’ve always looked bigger, older than our age, so folks believed us when I said I was fifteen, even though I was twelve, and when Scratch said he was nineteen, even though he was sixteen. It was either that or die in that wretched house.
Our foster sister, Kendra, a year younger than me, would fight to come along with us. She proved herself to us, that she was tough as nails and just as capable as we were. We became a triple-braided rope. Survivors. Inseparable.
A week before his eighteenth birthday, Scratch left home and joined the Den of Heathens MC as a Prospect and found a new family of brothers. I felt jealous and abandoned. But by association, they allowed me to hang around, gave my virgin fourteen-year-old self busty older women to bang, beer to drink, weed to smoke. The compound became my home.
At fifteen, Judge gave me a job at his auto repair establishment, The Metal House. That was the start of my mechanic apprenticeship. By then Scratch had earned his patch and was voted in.
At seventeen, although I wasn’t yet of age, Judge became my sponsor and brought me into the MC as a prospect. A month after my eighteenth birthday, I earned my patch and was voted in. I became an official brother.
Kendra was a whiz at number-crunching, so Scratch and I came together and paid for an accounting course to get her certified, which eventually landed her a job with Judge as a bookkeeper at The Metal House.
Now all three of us are a part of the DoH MC family.
The men of the club are my brothers, but Scratch is mybrother. The only fool who can say whatever the hell he wants to me without getting his face bashed in.
“Done messin’ around with these Club Cats. Too easy,” I tell him. “Got my eye on something sweet and classy.”
This gets his attention. “Huh,” he drags with intrigue. “Pray, tell me all about this classy tail.”
Like hell. She’s mine. My secret to keep, and I’m not sharing her with anyone. Not even Scratch.
When I don’t respond and take a long pull of my smoke instead, he nods in understanding. “Ah, I see. This is ‘potential ole lady’ kind of ass.” He takes a swig of beer. “Does she at leastknowyou’ve marked her?”
“She’s smart.” I knock ash from my cancer stick. “If she hasn’t yet, she will. Soon enough.”
Scratch throws his head back and laughs. “Man, you’re one psycho son of a bitch.”
“Says the man who’s gotta have his blood drawn to get off,” I shoot back.
Dude’s into some sick shit. Always got a scratch, cut, or welt somewhere that some chick gave to him, as big and muscle-bound as he is. Hence the alias “Scratch.” I’ve had enough orgies with the guy to know he’s seriously jacked in the head.
Kendra comes smashing in between us just then. “Hey, dickwads.”
“Goddammit, sis,” Scratch groans, rubbing his shoulder. “You made of steel or something?”
“Nope. I’ve been weight-training with Judge.” She flexes her arms and kisses each of her biceps. “A few more weeks and I’ll be ripped.”
“Why?” I ask dully, taking in her jet-black hair, heavy-lined silver eyes, and puffy lips covered with black lipstick.
“Why do I wanna be ripped?” she asks. When I shrug in response, she fixes her hands on her hips and replies with sass, “Because Ican.”
“You think dudes are attracted to ‘ripped’ chicks?” Scratch asks her.
“I don’t give a shit what dudes are attracted to. I’m doing this forme.”
Scratch shrugs in surrender. “Suit yourself. Don’t come running to me when you can’t get any guys to dick you.”
“As a matter of fact,” she starts smugly, “that’s what I came to talk to you about.”
