Death Lords Motorcycle Club: Chelsea and Wrecker (The Motorcycle Clubs Series) (11 page)

“
I
t’s
a shame how you can’t shop for simple things in Fortune anymore without being exposed to trash.” Mrs. Trainor’s not-so-quiet whisper carries over two aisles of Mrs. Carmichael’s grocery store. Annie Bloom tenses beside me. We’re in the dry goods section looking at cereal and Mrs. Trainor’s probably squeezing the shit out of some loaf of bread.

“Hush up, Jessica, or those chits will hear us and you’ll be getting a visit from a Death Lord,” hisses her companion. That’s likely Mary Wilson, a blue hair. Literally, she has blue hair. She comes into the Cut-n-Curl every two weeks to get a blue rinse. It’s supposed to counter the yellowing of super-white old lady hair, but blue? Mary’s got porcelain white skin and I think the blue makes her look older than her age, but I’m not her hairdresser so I keep my opinion to myself.

I’m staying blonde as long as I can.

“Those felons don’t dare step foot on my property or I’ll be calling Chief Schmidt. You just know that they are responsible for that poor Pastor Bloom’s death. I’d cast out my daughter, too, if she was sinning with two men. It’s just not right Mary.”

Annie’s face turns beet red while her knuckles become white as she clenches the handle of the shopping cart. A former pastor’s daughter taught all her life to be nice, turn the other cheek, and do unto others nonsense, Annie freezes like hard ice cream from the back coolers of Carmichael’s Grocery.

Unlike me.

I was pushed out by a woman who preferred to seek out random strangers for sex than be bothered teaching her whelp right from wrong. I was raised by a man who was in charge of the roughest men in three counties. And I’m getting it regular from my stepbrother. I don’t have a store of good manners placing a check on my behavior.

Plus, I believe in standing up for your friends and having their backs.

“Don’t look in the mirror, Mrs. Trainor, because your green is showing and it’s not pretty,” I retort.

“It’s no big deal,” Annie whispers. “You don’t need to defend me.”

“The hell I don’t,” I answer hotly. Annie doesn’t understand, not yet, because it takes time to fully absorb that not everyone in the world exists to reject you. It’s hard when your only exposure to family is a bad one. Annie’s mom abandoned her and her dad turned out to be a neglectful shithead who tried to beat the sin of loving two men out of her. She spent twenty-two years believing she wasn’t worth more than being her dad’s assistant, a mere reflection of his supposed glory. But now she’s being loved by two hot men who’d cut off their own hands to prevent her from getting so much as a paper cut. It’s a lot to take in. “You’re family now. No one talks shit about my family.”

“You’re one to talk, Chelsea Weaver, holding hands and kissing and Lord knows what else with that brother of yours. That gang is a den of iniquity and someday the good Lord will strike you all down.” Mrs. Trainor has abandoned the bread aisle and brought her filth straight to us. I open my mouth to let her have it when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Mrs. Trainor, Grant Harrison is Chelsea’s step-brother. There is no blood relationship between the two.” Annie’s quiet but firm words send a soft glow through me, wiping out the hot rage. So she does get it. Family has each other’s back—all the time.

“They are siblings in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of God,” Mrs. Trainor proclaims. She points a quivering finger toward us. “One of these days you’ll get your due.”

“Maybe so.” I start walking. I want to get out of here. We can get cereal elsewhere. “But it won’t be because my
brother
is giving me too many orgasms.”

I brush by her, pulling Annie behind me. Mrs. Trainor hisses something but I don’t hear it because I’ve shut her out. My stomach is churning and I know I’m red in the face—part from anger and part from embarrassment, but I don’t slow down.

“I’m sorry,” Annie whispers softly as we exit into the sunshine and cold winter air. We both pull our jackets tight around our frames as we hurry to the truck. Annie must have started it with her remote back in the grocery so at least the vents are blowing out hot air when we climb inside.

“What for? I think we’re both sinners in the eyes of Mrs. Trainor.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I suppose one thing in her favor is that she doesn’t talk about you behind your back. Oh no. She shoves her insults and judgments right in your face.”

Annie restarts the truck, the engine having turned off when we opened the doors. “That’s true. You going to tell Wrecker?”

Wrecker’s my man, my step-brother, my partner in crime, my one true love.

“Yeah. You gotta tell Michigan and Easy too because this is a small town and people will be racing to tell others about the scene that just went down. They’ll want to hear it from you and will be hurt if you don’t tell them.”

“I just hate making them worry.” She nibbles on her lip.

“Trust me. You can’t stop them from worrying. The most you can do is tell the story your own way, making sure that they understand that you don’t need action from them other than a few hugs and kisses.” My gaze falls to Annie’s round belly that bumps up against the steering wheel. “Unless you want them to do something about it.”

“Oh goodness, no. We don’t need that kind of trouble,” she exclaims.

“I hear you.” The last thing either of us needs is our Death Lords Motorcycle men to mount up and wreak havoc on our behalf. The law in Fortune doesn’t like the Death Lords and would love to see each member put behind bars. In Wrecker’s case, that would be his second time and I just know he wouldn’t survive another stint in prison.

“
Y
ou got
something to tell me?” Grant “Wrecker” Harrison says almost before the door of our new apartment closes behind him. We’d moved into the small one bedroom unit above the Cut-n-Curl just days before. I’d intended to buy a bunch of staples at Carmichael’s to fill our shelves but Mrs. Trainor put a spoke in that plan. I ended up driving to the Wal-Mart thirty miles away in Dixon to get our groceries.

“That I love you?” I say not looking up from the sauce I’ve been simmering for the last couple of hours. I hear a thunk as he removes his boots and a tinkle of keys as he tosses them on the counter.

“I know you love me, but I’m talking about what went down at Carmichael’s today and you know it.” His hands wrap around my hips and he tucks his chin into the crook of my neck.

“Since you already heard about it, what’s there to say?” I’m not taking the advice I parceled out to Annie because I want to know what the rumor mill is saying.

“People I don’t care about are talking shit. You’re the only one who matters to me.” His warm breath tickles my skin and displaces a few strands of hair. I press back, enjoying the feel of his big frame against mine.

“Mrs. Trainor spouted off some nonsense; Annie and I left. End of story.” I’m going to defend my man and one of the ways to do that is to not let him know how much Mrs. Trainor’s comments sting otherwise I fear what he’d do in retaliation. I don’t fear his methods but what kind of retribution the law would mete out in response.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, sounding doubtful.

I pin a smile on my face and turn around to show him how unconcerned I am. “I’m real good, honey.”

He raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “That right? Because I heard that there was blue hair flying and finger pointing and voices shouting.”

“Did you get that from Mrs. Carmichael or was that distilled through the good-old Fortune tin can telephone chain?”

“I heard it from Michigan who heard it from Annie. She called him right away, unlike someone I know.” He breaks off a piece of the garlic bread that’s cooling on the cutting board. The timer for the noodles dings. He jostles me out of the way and dumps the big pot of pasta and hot water into the waiting strainer. “I know you’re tough but even tough girls can get their feelings hurt.”

I busy myself with the plates and silverware.

“What could you do even if my feelings were hurt? Go egg Mrs. Trainor’s big house on the golf course? Maybe shove some shrimp into her air vents? Hurt feelings will heal over, but if you violate the terms of your parole, you’ll get sent back to Oak Park Heights for the rest of your sentence. I can live with hurt feelings. I can’t live without you. And Chief Schmidt is dying to punish one of you Death Lords.” The dinner plates hit the oak table harder than I intend. I wince at the sharp sound and close my eyes, praying for a little patience. “I hate small towns.”

Grant carries the bowl of steaming pasta in one hand and the sauce in the other and sets the two dishes carefully on the table. His big hands tug me against his chest. I place my ear against his heart and breathe in his warm male scent. Inside the circle of his arms, I feel like there isn’t an arrow that can reach me.

“All small towns or one in particular?” He strokes my back, tunneling up underneath the heavy sweatshirt I have on.

“All of them,” I mumble into his flannel shirt.

“It’s all going to work out. Even the stuff with Schmidthead. We’re working an angle and I don’t think he’ll be around much longer.” He sounds confident so it must be Death Lords stuff. I don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss sometimes.

I take one more deep sniff, sucking as much of Grant inside me as possible, and then push away. I run a shaky hand through my hair. “I’m done having a pity party. We can eat now.”

Grant looks me over and then nods. He knows me well enough that pressing me for any more discussion on this matter won’t end in a good place for either of us.

“You still thinking about taking those classes up in Minneapolis?” he asks as we eat.

“No, I don’t want to drive three hours every day. And it’d be so expensive because I’d be gone all day, not making any money, just spending it on classes, food, and gas. Not to mention the godawful parking situation. Besides, no one around here even cares if you have a beauty certificate.”

“We’ve got enough saved that your course expenses will be covered if you want to go.” His tone is mild, but there’s steel behind the words. Grant doesn’t like talking about our money situation, or lack thereof. He’s got his salary from Wheels Up, the custom auto shop he works at, and about three years’ worth of Death Lords income that was paid into his accounts while he was incarcerated. He should not be spending that money on me.

“I’m not fully sure of what I want to do,” I tell him honestly. “And so I’m not keen on spending ten grand on something I’m thinking
might
be interesting.”

“It’s there if you want it,” he replies quietly. “It’s our money; not just mine.”

God, I love him. “You want a blow job tonight,” I tease, wanting to lighten the mood, “because that’s the type of language that nets you a blow job.”

He snorts. “Baby, you’d give me a blow job if I looked at you crosswise.”

So true. After three long years of celibacy and loneliness, I can’t get enough of him. Thank goodness, it’s the same with him. A hot look enters his eyes and I know that the main course is over because Grant is ready for dessert.

C
helsea’s
sad eyes make me want to break something but I know that will only make matters worse. I swallow my pride and my protective instincts. She’s damn right that I can’t do much about Mrs. Trainor even if I wanted to. I have one more year of probation and then my entire sentence will have been met. We just have to make it one more year.

The one sure way I know to make her eyes shine is to fuck her until all the sadness she has is replaced with orgasmic glee. I push the dishes to the side and pick Chelsea up and set her on the edge of the table.

“I don’t think we’ve had sex here yet. Up,” I order. She lifts her ass and I slide her sweat pants off. “You need to keep the heat up in here.”

I run a finger along the collar of her loose fitting sweater. She shivers under the light touch.

Her skin is pale from the lack of sun. She changes with the seasons. Summer she is golden and rosy but winter always makes her skin look pearly and pink.

“Why?” It’s a breathy whisper. She arches her neck back to expose more of her skin. She’s like a cat, begging for more petting.
Not to worry little pussy, I’ll give you everything you need.

“Because that way you can be naked and ready at all times.”

“I’m always ready for you.” She juts her hips toward me.

That’s right kitten. Show me what you got.

I push the cotton of her panties aside and slide two fingers against her wet heat. “One of my favorite things about you, baby.”

She scoots closer, wanting my fingers to do something other than dance around her sensitive flesh. But this is my show right now and tonight she’ll get what I want to give her, when I want to give it to her. Because she needs to be able to concentrate on something other than what the bitch Trainor thinks or what anyone else has to say about our relationship. We both know it’s right and that’s all that matters.

“What else do you like?” she asks provocatively.

“Your tits.” I whip the sweater over her head with one hand. Her round, high breasts bounce in front of me. Her nipples are already tight and begging for my mouth. I capture one and suck hard. She arches toward me and I drive my fingers into her tight, drenched channel.

My hard-on beats insistently against my jeans. It wants out of the denim and inside her pussy. Ignoring the ache, I jack her harder, all the while lavishing her tits with long draws of my mouth that have her clawing at my scalp. The dishes rattle on the table as her body jerks along the surface.

“Harder, Grant,” she moans. She’s the only one who calls me Grant. Even my old man calls me by my road name, Wrecker. But it sounds right coming from her. It’s her way of claiming me. Before the club had me, before prison, before it all, I was
her
Grant. Her protector since she was fourteen and I was sixteen.

I popped her cherry, taught her how to give head, and ate her to her first orgasm. I was her first everything and I’ll be her last. With a rough groan, I pull my hand out of her and jerk her upright. Palming her ass, I bring that pussy right up to mouth level. Her legs dangle down my back and then find purchase against the top of the ladder back chair. She leans back, balancing on the table while I eat her like she’s the red hot tart she is.

Sweet and tangy, her flavor fills my mouth and glides down my throat like the smoothest, richest whiskey I’ll ever have the pleasure of tasting. Her bush is trimmed down to almost nothing and her cunt lips are smooth and swollen. In prison, I dreamed of Chelsea every night. I imagined taking her in every possible way and a few impossible ones.

“I can’t take much more of this,” she warns.

I ignore her. Her cunt is too juicy, too tasty and I can’t stop tongue fucking those swollen lips and her tight channel filled with her honey. Her shaky arms give out and she drops to the table. Her shoulders the only thing holding her up. That and my hands under her ass.

Her body is sloped downward, her shoulders taking the brunt of her weight as I devour her. The angled position of her body pushes her hips higher. I shoulder her legs farther apart until she is completely exposed. The taste of her drives me wild. My cock is leaking pre-come all over my groin. I have to be inside her.
So much for my plans to go slow
, I think ruefully. I pick up the pace with my tongue, bringing a little sting to the party by biting her clit. She screams and her come floods my mouth.

As she comes, I drop one hand to my lap and unbuckle and unzip. I pull my steel pipe out and drop her onto my lap, straight onto my dick.

She screams again when I impale her but I know her by now. That’s a scream of pleasure and I don’t stop hammering into her. She clutches my head to her chest so hard my mouth and nose are mashed in between her big tits. If I suffocate between these mounds, I’d die a happy man.

The long fall of her hair brushes my hand and I grab it and tug her neck backward so all her vulnerable parts are exposed to my ravening mouth. I bite and kiss her tender skin, pulling her hair as she grinds on my lap. It’s a fucking miracle we don’t break the chair.

The need to come is pressing against my spine but I hold on, gritting my teeth and blocking out my own desperate need. I feel her spasm around me, her tight walls rhythmically squeezing me until I can’t stop my own orgasm spiraling out of control. My hips hammer upward while I drive into her again and again until I’m completely spent.

She collapses against me, her body trembling and shaking from the force of her orgasm. I tuck her head into the hollow of my shoulder and rub my hands over her back until her breathing evens out and her body stills. I hold her until I feel the come leak out of her.

A thrill jets up my spine.

There’s something real primitive about knowing my jizz is all over her body. It’s a toss-up whether I like coming on her or inside her more. On the one hand, it’s awesome to have her cunt milk me while I come but on the other hand, there isn’t anything like seeing my spunk all over her tits, her ass or even her face. God, that’s hot.

I can feel myself stirring again. It’s nice to be young and have almost no recovery issues.

“I’m good to go again.”

“Again? You’re an animal.” I can’t see her because her face is hidden but I can hear the euphoria in her voice. She’s going to have a hard time walking tomorrow.

C
helsea finally dozes
off but her sleep is fitful. She tosses and turns which makes it impossible to get any rest. Chelsea has always had a sixth sense about things. The same dark cloud she complains of now existed right before I got sent away to prison. Around two in the morning, I finally get up because damned if I can sleep either. The dirty dishes are still sitting on the table. It’s amazing none of them fell off while I was fucking her. I find a plastic container and dump the now-cold noodles into it. The sauce goes on top and I shove the whole thing in the refrigerator. The pots in the sink are filled with cold soapy water. I pour everything out and load the dishwasher.

The kitchen is relatively clean and I figure if that isn’t blow job worthy, I don’t know what is. I settle my ass in front of the television but a sharp knock at the door diverts my attention before I can turn the set on. The only folks who have business with me this late—or early because the clock on the microwave says its around two in the morning—would be members of the Club. But my old man’s the president and he’d call…usually.

The knock comes again, louder and insistent. If the fucker at the door doesn’t quit, he’ll wake Chelsea. I vault over the back of the sofa and am at the door but I don’t answer fast enough because Chels appears in the doorway wrapped in one of my t-shirts, looking sexy as fuck. Opening the door is the last thing I want to do but we both know that I have to.

“It’s the Club,” she says, and for the first time I hear real annoyance. No, it’s more than annoyance. It’s almost…disgust.

She’s grown up with the Club as part of her life, but she resents it now because she swears that if I wasn’t trying to protect a brother, I wouldn’t have gone to prison. I don’t even try to argue with her because she’s right. But standing up for the brothers who have your back is what makes a man worthy of wearing the patch.

“Go to bed, baby. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it and be back in bed before you know it.”

“Bullshit,” she coughs into her hand but she spins around and retreats to the bedroom. Better that she doesn’t know who is at the door. If it’s Easy or Michigan then my hands are getting bloody. If it’s Judge, well, shit’s about to go down.

The door shakes under more pounding.

“Fucking A, I’m coming,” I snarl as I throw the lock and open the door. Whatever I plan to say next dies in my throat as four of Fortune’s shiny boys in blue stand there wearing smirks. Behind the four police officers stands Schmidthead, our Chief of Police. He’s smiling so broadly that I wonder if his face is going to crack.

The shithead closest to me slams a piece of paper onto my chest.

“We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“On what grounds?” I quickly read the warrant.
On this day an application supported by an Information on oath was made by
Chief of Police Eric Schmidt, bla bla la,
for the purposes of ascertaining whether evidence of a criminal act including but not limited to the homicide of Jessica Trainor.
Jessica? That seems like too ordinary of a name for that bitch.

The brush of the police as they enter wakes me from my shocked stupor. Our apartment consists of three rooms, four if you separate the kitchen from the living room, which I don’t. And in two more steps, the assholes are going to be at the bedroom door where Chelsea is either naked or wearing my t-shirt and lying innocently on our bed.

Fuck that.

No one gets to see her like that but me.

Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock or maybe it’s because I feel like my woman is being threatened, but I don’t stop to think how my actions will be perceived. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t give a good goddamn what these assholes think because I leap forward and push by the two uniforms to warn Chelsea.

The boys in blue don’t like that and strike back. One of them swings a stick at my head. I duck and punch at the same time, driving my head into his chest. My momentum slams him against the wall and I hear his head crack against the drywall with a satisfying
thunk.
He tries to bring his knee up but I block that by sweeping my leg to the side.

A blow to the back of my head staggers me and my vision blurs. I feel the air displaced as the fist from the second attacker swings toward me. I release the asshole in front of me and drop to my knees. The second guy falls into the first who tries to check his swing but comically ends up punching his buddy.

But I don’t get away clean because the third boy in blue is there and his boot makes contact with my forehead. I crash into the two behind me and we all go down in a pile of thrashing limbs and bloody noses. The skin above my left eye is split and the warm drip of blood is making it hard to see who or what I’m hitting.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Chelsea screams.

“Stay away, Chels,” I order. I don’t want her hurt.

“You touch him again and I’m going to sue all of you for police brutality,” she yells.

“He assaulted a police officer.”

“You fuckers hit me first!”

Above me I hear a scuffle and then Schmidthead growling at Chels. “Stop that. You stop that right now.”

“No, I’ve got a right to record your actions. This is being posted tomorrow if you don’t stop hurting him.”

The cuffs go on and I’m jerked upright. Through the blood and the rapidly swelling eye, I can see Chelsea dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Her hands are shaking but she’s holding her cell phone up videotaping every second.

“Call Judge.”

She nods and they lead me away.