Fuck my life.
“I bet you got a big ass dick hiding in those jeans, Prospect. Why don’t you let sweet Daisy suck you off, huh?”
The big prospect coughed the word, “Whore,” rather loudly, and smirked when her hand slid down my front, grabbing my junk through my jeans.
“Ooooh,” she squealed. “I was right, you’re packing some thick, strong, cock in these pants.”
I could hear the club’s voices loudly speaking behind the door. That meant Church was almost over and whatever club member Daisy belonged to, would be coming outside at any minute.
She began rubbing me even harder, leaning forward so she could whisper in my ear. “Take me to the bathroom before they get out of Church, no one has to know but you, me, and that thick ass cock of yours.” She licked my ear and proceeded to move her tongue down the slope of my neck.
When my cock began to twitch in response, I knew it was time to eject Daisy and send her packing. I grabbed her forcefully by the hair and tangled my hands in the ribbons. She moaned playfully, like she actually thought I wanted to fuck her, while a crafty smile tickled her lips at the same time.
“Take me now, Caveman,” she teased.
I untied the ribbon wrapped around one of her ponytails and dangled it in front of her face. “I know better than to fuck someone else’s Old Lady.” I grabbed her hips and gently pushed her off me just as the doors opened in the meeting room.
Daisy pouted, her lower lip jutting out like I took away her favorite lollipop. Her frown got even bigger when Guerrilla marched out of the doors and grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her on top of one of the pool tables nearby.
“Miss me, baby?” he asked, sliding open her legs and pulling her against his body. I could smell the alcohol on him from where I sat. Guerrilla was an alcoholic back when I was in the club, but from his track marks and sunken eyes, I could tell he was also a drug-addict now as well.
He was at least twice her age. It was obvious that Guerrilla liked his women young—really young. Daisy was maybe in her mid-twenties, with bright green eyes and legs for days. Guerrilla was in his late forties when I disappeared, so he had to be at least in his fifties by now. His dark hair was streaked with signs of age and hung long down past his shoulders. It was messy, dirty, and had that frizzy look where you know it hadn’t seen a brush in a very long time. His skin was covered in craters and meth pox. His nails, a bit longer than they should be, dug into the flesh of Daisy’s side as his cracked lips pestered her for affection. I watched the two of them as Guerrilla groped the hell out of poor Daisy’s breasts. She had what was supposed to be a friendly, turned-on smile on her face, but I could see right through it. She was repulsed, and I was floored that she agreed to be his Old Lady at all.
Staring at her with more scrutiny, I realized she had the same sunken eyes that he did. No wonder she stayed around; he fed her addiction like she was craving jelly beans.
I guess he caught me watching them, because his smile dropped to a scowl and he motioned to the war room. “They want your ass inside.”
Daisy watched me with attentive eyes as I walked away. Her eyes were hungry but also filled with unnecessary hostility. She was going to be trouble, I felt it in my bones.
When I entered the war room, every member of the club sat at a large oak table. Each wore the same expression: unamused scowl filled with intimidation. The rest of the prospects remained outside. They weren’t allowed in unless they were summoned.
Scythe sat at the head with a gavel in front of him. Switchblade sat to his left and there was an empty chair to the right of him. Guerrilla came up behind me and knocked my shoulder, before he took the empty seat. There was nowhere for me to sit, so I just stood awkwardly in front of them all waiting my fate.
“A bunch of these assholes are apprehensive about you joining our club. This cut isn’t something to fuck around with.” Scythe grabbed the lapel of his leather jacket, showing off the many patches that covered his front. One, the most important, carried his title of president. Below that was the club logo and name. On the other side was a new one I wasn’t familiar with. A skull with two guns crossing over it. We didn’t have that patch when Dutch was president, so I’ll have to find out what it means. “This cut is a symbol of brotherhood. Those who wear our colors, wear them with pride. We are a family. We lookout for each other. Club business is club business. Keep your fucking mouth shut and you’ll do fine. This shit ain’t for the weak, and if you fucking think you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, you’re wrong. We’re a family of fuck ups and felons, nobody fucks with the Devil’s Armada. We don’t take shit lying down, and if we need to, we come out guns cocked and loaded just like our dicks. If you’re serious about becoming one of us, then you need to show your cut the respect it deserves. Not everyone gets to wear our colors, not everyone makes it into the family. You already got a bunch of assholes that don’t fucking like you, so you may want to straighten your shit up before you get knocked the fuck out. Got me?”
“I got you.”
“You fucking address me as Prez, when you speak to me, Prospect!” Scythe’s voice increased by two decimals, and the men around him snickered.
“I got you . . . Prez.”
“Very good.” Scythe rose out of his chair and walked toward me, clapping me on the back so hard I almost coughed. “It’s settled then, boys. Let’s welcome our newest prospect. I call him Specter, but if you fucking assholes want to change it later, you can. Welcome to Devil’s Armada, Specter. Don’t fuck with the Devil if you can’t stand the flames.”
A few guys cheered, but most really didn’t give a shit. I could tell they thought I wouldn’t last very long. Little did they know, I knew everything I needed to know in order to stick around. In fact, my whole initiation into the club was unorthodox. None of these men knew me and the elders were all gone except Guerrilla and Trigger. There were only four men I recognized from when I was a member before. Scythe, Switchblade, Guerrilla, and Trigger. Everyone else was young and looked like they spent a few years in prison, and the ones who didn’t, looked like they only cared about themselves.
Scythe looked over at Switchblade who was glaring in my direction. “He tried to keep you out, but when I told him he could order you around and make your life a living hell, he changed his tune. Be in for a lot of hard work, Prospect, and knowing Switchblade, he’s gonna have a lot of shit work for you to do. He fucking hates your guts.”
“The drink last night didn’t help?”
“Nope, he still wants to kick the shit out of you.” Scythe pushed me out the door and the rest of the men followed. We stopped in front of the pool tables and waited for the rest of the men to file out of the war room.
Cipher walked up with two other men I didn’t recognize. One was shorter with slightly long, wavy curly hair, with a black bushy unkempt beard speckled with grey hair. He had a friendly smile and a lightsaber tattoo that went from his wrist down his forearm. He looked like he might have a little Latino in him, but when he spoke a thick, American drawl came out. So maybe it was just his slightly darker skin and jet-black hair that made me think that way.
He stuck out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome, Prospect, I’m Obi, Treasurer of the club. Don’t go fucking around with my money or shit won’t be pretty. Got me?” His grip got tighter.