Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Not a good sign.
There was a time when I lived for this shit. When I first patched into the Sons of Templar MC, when I was running from my demons, when I was a broken piece of shit, I couldn’t believe the energy at the club parties. The energy was always wired but relaxed, a fight or two breaking out was expected. Nothing more than a couple of black eyes, maybe some cracked ribs or a minor stab wound. The violence solved beefs, and bloodstained handshakes often followed a brawl.
As much as I reveled in the blood and violence, it was the women that excited me. I felt like a fucking rock star.
I got off on that.
The power. The fact that bitches were worshipping at my fucking altar because of the patch I wore. That bitches were willing to get depraved, that they weren’t scared. They knew that sleeping with a Son meant there were no fucking safewords. That they were fucking the Reaper. They knew that with me right off the bat.
And they fucking loved it.
I fucking loved it.
Or I had.
I wasn’t sure when it had changed. When I stopped getting that same satisfaction out of it I used to. My blood didn’t sing anymore, seeing them submit to me. My cock still worked, of fucking course, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Then again, my heart had nothing to fucking do with it.
That fucker was black as night and cold as ice.
Things were quiet on the club front too, so I couldn’t even find excitement in my other favorite pastime. We had no enemies to torture, to kill. Things were as peaceful as they were ever going to be with the Sons of Templar MC.
Which was good, I supposed, considering I had brothers who were wifed up with kids. They didn’t want club shit blowing back on them, endangering them. The club, this charter in particular, had lost enough. Lost almost everything. A war would feed my beast, sure, but at what cost?
And I didn’t want that either, as much as I craved to peel someone’s skin from their bones.
Maybe I’d go on a trip somewhere. Do some outsourcing. Or go nomad again. This was the longest I’d been at a charter since I’d patched in. I’d heard that the Washington charter was having some issues with some Nazi fuckers trying to take over territory.
Yes, that might satisfy the hunger within me. Quiet the rattle in my bones.
“Picked tonight’s victim yet?” Hansen, my president asked as he sidled up beside me, beer in his hand.
It was rare to see him at one of our Friday night gatherings. This late anyway. He showed his face early because he was the president, but once things got wild—which was always about an hour or two in to the night—he went home.
Fucker had a wife and kids now. He was all about monogamy, which in my opinion, went against everything our lifestyle stood for. But he was happy. So whatever the fuck. And when my eyes followed his, landing on his wife who was downing a beer of her own and laughing at something Freya was saying, I understood it.
Macy used to be a club girl. In another lifetime. Before someone took out almost the entire club, save Hansen and a couple of other brothers. She’d been with the club years. Everyone loved her.
It was impossible not to.
I felt a pang, watching him watch her. Something totally unfamiliar and something that pissed me right off.
I forced my eyes to scan over the women in the room. Most of them were familiar faces. We had a stable of club girls who hung around, fucking whoever wore a patch, hoping someone would put them on the back of their bike.
Macy and Hansen were their Cinderella story or some shit. They were holding out hope that might happen to them.
But it wouldn’t.
None of those women were Macy. Or Scarlett, the one other ‘club girl’ who was now an Old Lady in the California charter.
It was a rare thing that anyone would want to make a club girl theirs.
That’s not to say we didn’t respect the women. We did. But most of us weren’t looking for anything more than a warm body and a good fuck. We didn’t put a patch on our backs because we wanted to live within the confines of society’s rules.
I paused my gaze on… Sienna? Fiona? Crystal?
The knockout redhead was wearing a dress that showed off her perky tits, her pebbled nipples and barely covered her pussy.
I’d fucked her before. Had come to find out she was a natural redhead. And had a fucking great pain tolerance. The more I’d hurt her, the wetter she’d become. I’d been able to take her further than I’d taken a bitch in a long while.
I’d liked that part. I did not like the hungry look in her jade green eyes when we were done, though. The way she’d clung to me. The way she was looking at me right now. Like I was her next fucking meal.