Damn it.
“Church ain’t gonna agree to this asshole being part of the club, not if I have anything to do with it,” Switchblade said as he moved toward the back of the bar. He instantly started walking toward me, but I put my hand up to stop him.
“Fuck you, Switchblade. You know better than to come back here,” I snapped at him.
Switchblade glared at me and decided to return his attention back to Specter. He walked straight up to him, invading his personal bubble, and loomed over him like a Neanderthal. “So, you wanna be in the Armada, huh, bitch? You do know that a prospect has gotta do whatever we want. That means if I ask you to suck my dick, you gotta drop to your knees and open that big mouth of yours like the bitch you are.”
My mouth dropped in tandem with everyone else’s in the room. All eyes were on Specter and Switchblade, and despite the fish-gaping shock on everyone’s face, Specter seemed unfazed. He didn’t even look up.
But he did smirk.
“What the fuck is so funny? You like the idea of sucking my cock, don’t you, you sick fuck?”
“On the contrary, Friend. I’m laughing because I watch a lot of shows on Animal Planet. I recently watched a show that featured the Silverback Gorilla and learned some interesting information that explains a lot about you. On the outside, the male Silverback Gorilla is king of the jungle. He’s strong—tough, but it turns out that the male Silverback Gorilla is the animal kingdom’s version of a souped-up Ford truck. That big and bad exterior is nothing more than a desperate compensation for the lack of penis size on such a large and powerful beast.” Specter looked down at Switchblade’s crotch and grimaced. “Judging by the lack of bulge in those bitch-ass skinny jeans you’re wearing, I’m gonna say that you and the Silverback Gorilla have a lot in common, Switchblade. If I actually thought I could find your tiny dick somewhere behind that zipper, I might consider helping your sad cock out because God knows, no one else has been able to find it recently. Unfortunately for you, I left my magnifying glass back at home, and don’t feel like sleuthing it up like Sherlock Holmes this late in the afternoon. So, why don’t you do us both a favor and stop pounding on your chest like an ape, and sit down and have a drink with me?”
Silence. Pure, perfect silence.
Switchblade had nothing—no smartass comeback. Hell, he didn’t even cuss. You could see the rage in his eyes, but he was also silently stunned. He was probably thinking about grabbing his knife and pulling it on Specter, but he was in too much shock to even do that. Nobody had ever talked to Switchblade like that before.
“Screw you, man. I don’t have a small dick.”
Specter lifted an eyebrow, reveling in the small victory as Switchblade plopped down in the chair next to him and relented.
Specter slid him a shot glass of whiskey and Switchblade reluctantly grabbed it, throwing it back in one large gulp. After he was done, he wiped his mouth and slammed the glass on the bar top. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he asked Jimmy, who was still babying his eye with the towel of ice.
Specter turned toward Switchblade and outstretched his hand. “Your president just named me Specter, and I’m your newest Armada prospect.”
Chapter Ten
Specter
It took less than a day for Scythe to call Church and vote on whether I would prospect the Armada. They had me wait outside. A few other prospects that I didn’t bother getting names from, were watching me like curious kittens. I know they were put on babysitting duty, but it was kind of hilarious how they admired me from afar.
“I can’t believe he knocked a knife out of Switchblade’s hand,” the smaller one whispered.
The other guy standing guard looked at me and spit at the ground, his eyes bore through me as an angry scowl curved his lips. He was covered in a maze of tattoos and looked like he had been mauled by a chihuahua with all the meth scars and scratches across his face. I could tell, just by his cheery demeanor, that he probably did time recently. “He doesn’t look so fucking tough,” the big guy added, spitting on the ground again. “I bet I could fucking take his ass.”
I bet he couldn’t.
The door to the compound opened, and a few women in scantily clad clothing came waltzing in. I could sense a sweetbutt from a mile away, so the second they walked in, I knew I was in trouble.
The Armada sweetbutt was like a crafty lioness. She stalked her prey carefully, camouflaging into the background as she analyzed every member’s move until she found the perfect meal to sink her teeth into. The little ones, prospects like me, were usually pounced on first; catching them when they were still fighting for scraps with the other weaklings not yet ready to advance the ranks. It was easier to become an Old Lady that way—tie down the cub before he turned into the ruler of the pride. But everyone knew that a true sweetbutt kept her options open as wide as her legs, giving herself up to every proud lion that ruled the pride with a pack of lionesses rolling around at his feet. Yeah, I wasn’t a fucking lion yet, but that wasn’t going to stop a sweetbutt from tackling me from behind and staking her claim on me.
The sweetbutts looked over at me and giggled.
I wonder if any of them are Dusty?
It was a brief thought that invaded my mind, but none of them looked very old, and Filly had given me zero information other than her name to go by. Dusty could literally be any female that hung around the club.
Almost immediately, one of the women had her eyes set on me. She strolled across the room; her big ass titties bounced obnoxiously in the short, green, plaid shirt that she was wearing. The shirt happened to be tied just above her belly button, revealing a hidden daisy tattoo that barely peeked out from behind the shorty-shorts riding up her sexy, milky-white thighs. From the size of the daisy and its location, this girl was not Dusty.
Her hair was pulled back in identical, short, auburn pigtails that were curled under and adorned with red ribbons. The red ribbons in her hair signified that she was someone’s Old Lady, and judging by the mischievous gleam in her eye, she thought I had no idea what those ribbons meant. When a woman got dubbed as someone’s Old Lady, they were given leathers that stated, “property of” and then had the members name she belonged to scrawled across the back. Some girls chose not to wear their leathers that tethered them to a club member; which was fine, but if they chose not to wear it, then they had to have red ribbons in their hair so other members knew she was off limits. Club rules. By this girl’s sexy saunter, I could tell she was the type of woman that didn’t like to be tied down to anyone and her current stride screamed that she was currently seeking out another lion to claim.
“Hey there, Handsome. What’s your name?” She tickled her fingers up my forearms and pushed her tits out so I could see down her shirt. Behind my sunglasses I glanced down briefly, but there was no way anyone could see where my eyes were wandering. As far as everyone else knew, my eyes were trained on the club crest pinned against the wall. My expression remained emotionless and disengaged, and that seemed to only fuel her flirtations more.
“I’m Daisy,” she told me a little too sweetly.
“Potential prospect,” was all I gave her in response. That should’ve been enough, but Daisy was persistent and way too fucking bold. She fucking crawled onto my lap and straddled me like a professional stripper ready to give me a lap dance, and then the little flirt started squirming.