“Rooster, you think you can pull your tongue out of your girl’s pussy long enough to party with us tonight?” T-Bone shakes with laughter.
My upper lip curls into a snarl.
“He ain’t wrong.” Jigsaw wiggles his tongue at me and adds some disgusting sloppy noises to draw the attention away from me gettin’ ready to pop T-Bone in the jaw for talkin’ about my girl that way.
Brothers around the table laugh and lob some insults at Jiggy. He grins and takes it in stride.
“Pussy patch!” a brother everyone calls Boots shouts. He slams his fist against the wood plank table. “That should be our next challenge patch.”
I roll my eyes Jigsaw’s way. “Look what you started.”
“Technically, it was T-Bone.”
Guys start banging their fists on the table while chanting “Pussy patch!”
Ice glances down and chuckles under his breath. “Jesus Christ.” He flicks a look at his VP. “That what you wanna spend your time doing?”
Farmer sits forward and slowly rubs his palms together. “Yeah. We can have a little cat face patch made up.”
“You wanna wear a fuckin’ kitty cat on your cut?” someone shouts.
“Fuckin’ A.” Pants punches his fist in the air. “Great fucking story when someone finds the balls to ask one of us.”
I don’t think their definition of ‘great story’ is the same as mine, but whatever. Not my club. Not my problem.
While the organization as a whole has its rules for certain patches, other decorative—or frivolous—patches are up to individual charters to decide. Each still needs to be earned or given to a brother. Can’t just decide you feel like stitching something cute on your cut for shits and giggles. It’s gotta mean something.
Even if it’s something filthy. Hell, especially if it’s filthy. The dirtier the story behind the patch, the better. Hence the old MC urban legends about “red wing” patches. Bikers are notoriously fond of sharing stories to mindfuck civilians.
“Listen up!” T-Bone slaps his palm against the table to get everyone’s attention. “These are the rules. Every day for thirty days, you gotta eat some cat.”
“Not a few token licks,” Boots adds. “You need to get the lucky lady off for it to count.”
“Thirty days?” Wings asks.
“What’s wrong, bro?” Boots taunts. “Weak tongue?”
“Fuck off.” Wings reaches below the table, I’m guessing to grab his dick. Thankfully I’m not close enough to verify. “Where’s my patch for gettin’ my dick sucked thirty days straight?”
“In your dreams,” Pants zings back.
“Question.” Wings punches his fist in the air like that eager kid in class you always wanted to punch in the face. “Does it have to be thirty days in a row? Or can we like double-up on days?”
I drop my head and rub my temples. Do I really need to be here for this?
The guys argue the merits of thirty days or thirty acts of oral culminating in an actual orgasm. Someone else asks about thirty times in one day, which Boots determines should be its own separate patch.
Once that discussion is finished—thirty days in a row is determined to be the harder challenge—T-Bone raises his hand in the air. “Dibs on Shonda.”
Brothers around the room groan.
“No way!” Boots pulls himself out of his chair and leans over the table so he can glare daggers at T-Bone.
“They take their pussy seriously here,” Jigsaw whispers to me.
“Apparently.”
“You can’t call dibs,” Boots argues. “There ain’t enough girls to go around as it is.”
Someone at the end of the table lifts a hand in the air. “Prez, is Anya—”
“No,” Ice snarls before the question’s even out. The brother who asked puts his hand down fast. After a second or two, Ice wipes the vicious expression off his face and adds in a milder tone, “Not unless you wanna film it for her site.”
At least six guys raise their grubby paws. “Fuck yeah, I don’t mind having the whole world watch me—”
“Settle the fuck down. Anya’s off-limits.” Pants glances at Ice who doesn’t respond one way or another. “She’s not free ass. End of story.” As SAA Pants’ word is law and no one else so much as breathes Anya’s name again.
“We should do two patches,” Raze says. “Black cat if it’s a different girl every night. White cat if it’s the same chick.”
“Don’t feel like explaining to the Mrs. where your tongue’s been?” T-Bone asks.
“Eat my ass.”
“That’s good. Maybe black cats with different color eyes.” Boots is fully immersed in this idea now. He rubs his hands together and reaches for a notepad and pencil from the center of the table. “We’ll pass out punch cards.” He lifts his hand in the air, opening and closing it a few times. “I’ll hand out heart-shaped hole punchers to the girls.” He glances up and sweeps his stern stare over everyone in the room. “No fucking cheating. No honorable brother wears a patch he didn’t earn.”
That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. I cover my face with my hands and fucking lose it. “Virginia is for lovers, all right,” I spit out through my laughter.
“Anyone planning to warn the local ladies what’s about to go down?” Murphy snickers at his little pun.
I hold out my fist for a bump. “Nice one.”
Wrath’s squinting at the ceiling like he’s trying to do some quick calculations. “Make me up a lion patch.” He holds his hands out a few feet apart. “Got at least fourteen hundred days stacked up.”
“Yeahhhhh.” Wings draws out the word slowly, adding in a dirty eyebrow wiggle. “If my girl looked like yours, I’d never let her out of bed.”
Wrath’s glacial stare lands on the Virginia charter’s road captain. “Careful.” His low, rumbling voice holds a world of threat.
Wings swallows hard and drops his pervy attitude. “Just payin’ your ol’ lady a compliment.”
I lean over and whisper in Murphy’s ear. “You have to earn that patch, bro. Teller’s head’ll explode every time he sees it.”
Nodding at my suggestion, Murphy covers his mouth with his hand and chuckles.
Should I be stirring the shit? Probably not. Can’t seem to help myself, though. I love Teller, but his brotherly-love-hate-rivalry thing with his little sister’s husband is one of my favorite things about hanging out with the upstate charter.
“Wives shouldn’t count,” T-Bone says. “They’ll punch those cards no matter what.”
Raze leans forward. “Have you met Allison? She’ll hold my feet to the fire on this.”
“Or your tongue on her clit,” Hustler adds from somewhere way at the end of the table.
“That too.” Raze lifts a middle finger at Hustler.
T-Bone holds out his arms like the gracious host he is. “New York, you’re all obviously invited to participate. You can mail your cards in when the thirty days are up.”
“Hard pass,” Dex says. “But thanks.”