Chapter One
Danny
It wasn't the first time I walked out of my room to find six naked women shaking their tits in the common room. Hell, it wasn't the first time this month. Or even this week.
Growing up in an MC had long since removed the shock of seeing women stripped bare in public.
I was only about eleven the first time I walked out to see two of my club uncles doing an Eiffel Tower with one of the clubwhores.
Life had been a consistent battle of trying to force these rough and tumble types of men to respect me while also needing to simultaneously accept the exploitation of the clubwhores.
It made me a hypocrite, sure, but there was also nothing I could do about it.
Besides, it wasn't like the women were forced to be clubwhores. Some chicks just liked to get down and dirty with a bunch of bikers. Sometimes many at the same time. Who was I to judge?
That was feminism at its core, wasn't it?
You do you, I do me.
"Shanny got her tits pierced," Dutch said, holding out a bottle of beer he'd taken from the fridge behind our vintage bar that the guys had haphazardly renovated with wood they'd stolen from a construction site, despite the fact that we could afford to buy some ourselves without a problem. They had to get their kicks somewhere, I guess.
"I see that," I agreed, popping off the cap as I looked over at the short, stacked blond who was shaking her giant boobs in the faces of two of the guys, her nipples hardened and sporting some shiny new surgical steel barbells.
Shanny was a flashy sort of chick. I imagined once the piercings healed, she'd find some getup that would connect her tit piercings to her navel piercing. Hell, she might even figure out how to incorporate her hood piercing as well. If nothing else, she'd get some loud—and arguably tasteless—matching jewelry to tie it all together.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Of her nipple piercings?" I asked, shooting a look at my Sergeant At Arms.
He was, objectively, a good-looking guy. I think that, after so many years working side-by-side with someone, and sometimes needing to remind them that having a pussy didn't mean he got to toss some disrespect my way made it harder for me to see him the way any woman might see any man. But he was attractive. Tall, fit, with dark brown hair and a matching scruffy beard, covered in tats, and with somewhat off-puttingly bright blue eyes.
"Yeah," Dutch said, nodding.
"I imagine it hurt," I said, shrugging.
"But you don't, you know, like them?"
"If she likes them, I like them," I said, starting to catch on.
"No, I mean, do you..."
"If you want to ask me if I eat pussy, Dutch, just ask me," I suggested, shooting him a bored look.
"Alright. Well, do you eat pussy?"
"No."
"Well, you get why I ask."
"Actually, why don't you explain to me why you asked?" I suggested, tone cool.
"It's just that you never bring anyone home."
Right.
Home.
To an old bar turned clubhouse full of outlaw bikers.
That wouldn't be a mood killer or anything.
Though, to be clear, the bar was badass. There had been a lot of choices in Navesink Bank for buildings I could have chosen. Objectively, all the others might have been more logical choices. Big warehouses or even an abandoned little strip mall. Places that would have had a lot more space for spreading out.
But when I'd seen the bar, I knew it was the only clear choice. First, because bikers belonged in bars. Second, because I figured, as we established ourselves more, we could revamp the bar, and open it up as a legitimate business. I'd bought it with its—insanely expensive—liquor license, which was hard to come by in the area. It ate through pretty much all my savings, but the gun running business was thriving. I'd needed to live on a tight budget for almost a year, just so I could continue to pay the guys what I owed them, but my coffers were slowly but surely filling back up.
And, eventually, if we opened the bar, we'd be rolling in it, while also being able to wash our illegally obtained money.
There were only a couple bars in town. One was at the back of a liquor store, and catered to old men and just about no one else. Then there was Chaz's which was the main town bar. It also happened to be owned by the Mallick family who used it—among a dozen other businesses—to wash the money they earned from loan sharking.
The competition was low.
And if we could offer something different than they did, we could really have something going for us.
I hadn't shared that plan with my men yet. I'd learned long ago to play my cards close to my vest. Not because I didn't trust my men, or because I required their approval. But one thing I learned about men, it was they were every bit as fucking chatty as women. Which meant they would spend the next year or two hatching plans for the bar before I even had any plans to open it. By the time I got around to putting things into the works, they would all have opinions, and would be all butt-hurt when I didn't go with their ideas.
It was easier to let them go on believing it was just a really neat clubhouse.
The other reason the bar was a good choice for the club was the fact that there were apartments above. Sure, they were shoeboxes, but there were six of them. And the guys didn't mind squeezing in together. For no other reason but to avoid having the cost of an apartment in the area. So they were all shacked up about five to each of the six apartments.
And I went ahead and set myself up in the basement.
Were the cinder block walls and cement floors glamorous? No. But it was private. It gave me space and silence to be able to think. The perk was that tapping into the water and plumbing hadn't been too rough, so I'd had some of the guys drop me in a private bathroom. Because sharing a bathroom with my men was, quite simply, unacceptable. I was pretty sure they didn't know how a toilet brush worked. I wasn't a neat freak by any stretch of the term, but there were just some spaces that had to be kept clean. Like your bed. And your bathroom.
So, yeah, while I did have my own private space with a walkout, Dutch was right. I never brought anyone home.
Part of that was because no man would walk into the clubhouse and not imagine I'd fucked at least half of my men. Which was a surefire way to create a dead dick. Especially if they happened to catch Grandpa naked, since the bastard had nine inches of intimidation to boast about.
It had a lot more to do with psychology than that.
See, I'd learned really early on that most men saw sex as something that was done to women, instead of something done with them.
So bringing a man back to the clubhouse, back to my room, would have them thinking that I was getting something done to me, rather than having mutual fun with a man. Which, in a messed up and mostly subconscious way, would make them see me differently than their fellow men who did the fucking.
Maybe it was me thinking about it too much.
But the one time one of the mother club's men had seen me with a man, he'd done nothing but rib me relentlessly about it for months while he went on and fucked a new clubwhore each night.
So I didn't let my men see me bring home men. Or even go home with them. I did let them see me flirt and then shoot down men because they could see that as a power move. But, in a twisted, patriarchal way, me fucking made me lose power, while they gained it by doing the same thing.