Page 2 of Filthy Savage
“He’s already said yes. We need three names.”
“What about one of the officers?” I give a quick knock on the doorpost, turning to check the members sitting at the bar. There’s got to be one of them who can sit in for me. “Like Davies. He’s got to be perfect for a psych eval. I’ve never met anyone who’s more…chill. He sure couldn’t have a record.”
“No,” Silas barks. “We’re the leadership for both Satan’s Saints MC and for Knightsbridge. This commitment has to start and end with us.”
“Yeah, well… I’ve got to do my coffee run. Be back in twenty.”
I grin to myself as I leave, lighting up a hand-rolled cigarette. With any luck, they’ll move on to some other issue by the time I get back. Damn, if I don’t need it. Sure, this interference has everything to do with Vincent Belmont, my oldest friend since childhood, and the only influential person I know and trust implicitly. The fact that Si let Sabrina call the shots and turn down Vincent’s request for us to take him on as a Knightsbridge home security client still has me ticked off. It’s one of the simplest gigs that had come our way. Yet Sabrina got in Si’s ear and convinced him the gig was in conflict with some other clients who are already on our Knightsbridge roster.
Si would’ve probably accepted the gig, but a rumor started spreading that the attack which left Los Diablos President, Antonio Vasquez near death and injured Tate was not MC related. Some were saying that it was an order sent down from someone powerful. From old money, like the circle of people Vincent rubbed shoulders with. That gossip pushed Si’s level of trust in Vincent from barely there to nonexistent.
And now, this idea of having me undergo a psych eval. Hell, no way am I about to lie back on the couch of some over-educated, stuck up brat to go over my childhood and bring up all that crap. Not unless the brat is a sexy little number with a thing for inked up biker types like me. If that's the case, the couch will come in handy. Otherwise, fuck no.
By the time I make it to my Harley out front, my stomach is already aching from hunger and caffeine withdrawal. Finishing my smoke, I stub out the tip under the sole of my boot, crack my knuckles and climb on my bike. A short trek to Desert Java, the closest half-decent coffee house in Beaver Dam, is in order. Yes. A double shot of espresso will do the trick. The tiny mom and pop spot is just ten minutes away, so I’ll have a few minutes of me time and can feel warm desert air on my face and enjoy the open road before I have to get off the I-15 again.
I make it to Desert Java in good time, but it’s the morning rush and all the parking sport outside are taken. I end up parking my baby in a free spot behind the public library across the street. Sticking to my usual practice, I take a look inside through the front window, just in case there are any members from the Los Diablos or Mongols MC. We’re all under a strict ‘no contact’ policy these last few months. Not that their patronage at Desert Java will stop me from getting my brew, but I like to know what I’m walking into.
Well, hello.
I catch sight of the round, delicious ass of a curvy, buxom blonde who looks like she stepped out of a fifty’s pinup calendar. She’s in the middle of a lighthearted conversation with another patron while she waits in line. The stunning woman throws her head back and laughs a few times as I watch her through the window. I feel better about leaving that meeting with Si already. Picking up a sexy blonde is sure to perk me right the hell up.
All I have to do is work my magic.
Play it cool.
Enjoy the chase.
And it’s all the more interesting that she isn’t one of our MC groupies, chicks we call ‘sack demons.’ The problem with sack demons is pretty much the same reason we keep them around. They’re sweet-looking little sex kittens, but the reality is they’re easy prey. Half the time they don’t know whose dick they’re even riding. For them, any patch-wearing member will do. I bet this curvy blonde is different. Judging by her nicely put together outfit, a short-sleeved, all-black skirt suit, a white camisole that draws my eyes to her ample cleavage, leopard-print sky-high pumps and some designer handbag she probably bought for a ton of cash, she has her shit together too. Bonus points.
With a half-smirk stuck on my face, I crack my neck and head inside, keeping an eye on the woman who’s about to be my prize. Little Miss Gregarious is standing six or seven patrons ahead of me when I get to the door. Inside, the line hardly moves at all, which today I don’t mind. It gives me time to check her out among the cramped horde of people waiting around.
The little bell dings at the top of the door, and I muscle my way into the tight space with a small grunt. The blonde eventually makes it to the front of the line and puts in her order, then digs her hand into her purse, retrieving a ringing smartphone. She takes the call, but tells whoever it is to hold on. Sashaying her hips, she walks right past me, her blonde hair bouncing with every step, and that dark office suit only adding to the contrast of her creamy skin as her high heels shoes click on the tile floor. A trail of her floral perfume wafts up to my nose as she steps outside to have her conversation.
Damn, girl.
She’s fucking hot.
Definitely my type.
My eyes are locked on her for the entire phone call. Not a word she says makes it to my ear because my eyes are busy feasting on every morsel of her. I continue to eye-fuck her when she zips by me again and stops at a table that has opened up near the far corner of the shop. Smart girl, choosing to sit it out. The wait for coffee orders is killer around this time. Blondie cleans up the crap left behind by the previous patron and sits down, eyes already glued to her phone screen as she starts checking text messages or emails. I’m sure I have just the thing to get her off that phone. Were it later in the day, I might have flat out offered a dose of rough, dirty, up against a wall, back alley sex. But it isn’t even nine in the morning. Blondie doesn’t seem like the type to waltz into work with her hair messed up, or looking as though she was taking the walk of shame anywhere.
The line eases forward. At this rate, she’ll be packed up and gone before I can grab a hot cup. I’m not about to approach her empty-handed only to be forced to leave mid-prowl for my coffee order. She runs a manicured hand along the side of her gorgeous throat, and a small shiver licks down my spine. I wonder what it would be like to taste her skin there, right above her pulse point. Maybe she’s a screamer too.
A minute’s chat will be more than enough time to find out whether she’s game. I hope she is, considering the way she’s already captured my attention. When it comes to the opposite sex, I’m not the most focused man around. I like my women the way I enjoy fast food. Quick, hot, and gone within minutes. Fuck and run. That’s my style. At least is was, right up until five minutes ago.
I fold my arms and clear my throat as I inch forward in the line. Why the fuck am I acting as though I’ve had a five-year dry spell, when in fact I just tapped two sack demons at once only two days ago? I’m having the hardest time keeping my mind free from this sexy, curvy distraction. Fuck if I know why.
Not that my mind is ever calm or in a neutral state for long.
Because of one fucking night during my childhood.
One night that fucked up the rest of my life.
Those demons have a way of sticking around, playing on repeat. Without fail, the distant memory always comes back, clawing at my brain, needing, wanting, hungry to rise to the surface, no matter how much I bury them with all manner of vice. Sex, brawling, MC work, more sex, and the kinkier the better. Whatever it takes to keep my mind operating at surface level.
Casually looking on as the blonde continues to use her phone, I rub the back of my neck to forcefully push the thoughts down. Nothing I’ve tried before works to keep a lid on this shit. It eventually reaches up from the back of my mind, making my temples pound. On bad days, all the effort in the world won’t help me keep my shit together. Like right now, which is fucked up timing. I press my eyes closed and my jaw clenches. That fucking night is like chalk being dragged across the blackboard of my sub-conscience—annoying, uncomfortable and unrelenting.
“What can I get you, sir?” asks the teenager wearing a ball cap and a Desert Java uniform.
