Bitter Kind of Love: Prairie Devils MC Romance (Outlaw Love) (15 page)

I was down to dregs by the time I finally swallowed my pride and hit the Filthy Crown for work.

I had the body for it and the youth. I thought I was so numb, handling it would be easy, but the first night almost broke me. I stripped on the dirty stage beneath the dim lights, moving like a whirlwind to hide the tears, shaking my tits and ass like a maniac to stop all the leering men from seeing how I was coming apart at the seams.

The type of rough, dangerous looking men who frequented the bar must've liked my pain. Or maybe they could smell a virgin in over her head from ten feet away, showering her in cash like some obscene throwback to ancient, savage times.

The Grizzlies who owned the place took half – all part of the harsh terms I'd agreed to. But even after their cut, I was making plenty, and I started to save like a mad woman for the day I could blow the bar and hope that none of the hard, dirty men who watched me in the darkness would follow.

Stripping for the Grizzlies MC and their biker buddies made me think about Stinger. No, not just him, the whole clubhouse back in Missoula. I realized fast just how different the two clubs were.

Men in Grizzlies colors thought nothing of slamming dirty needles into their veins while they sipped their beer. They rocked in their seats, watching me slide up and down the pole, pumping my hips like the lewdest thing they'd ever seen. Really, it was pure revulsion, horror mixed with a smattering of fear that one day they'd pull me aside like they did to the other girls.

They'd made them offers they couldn't refuse.

Marks was the only man who kept them away from me. Some asshole trying to grab me backstage or hop up onto the stage during my act was a weekly occurrence. But the big man who was always around for security, fighting the ones who went too far off with his presence, and sometimes his fists when he needed to.

I almost thought I'd made a friend until I approached him one icy December night. He was stuffing his half of the club's cash from all the night's performances in the vault, including mine, when I crept up next to him.

“Hey...” He spun to face me, fixing his hard eyes on my robe.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Go home and rest. We'll need you fresh for tomorrow. Lotta dudes coming in looking to blow off steam from the holiday shit at home.”

“I just wanted to say thanks for keeping things orderly, night after night. I know it's just work to you, but I'm not sure where I'd be without you...”

He grunted. “You're right. It's just a job, my duty for the club, babe. I keep the civvies and other brothers off your tits and pussy. Don't think it's a favor. I can't have you fucking 'em like those other sluts when you bring in five times as much as the next best girl here. Gotta keep that virgin shit alive – the myth, anyway. Anybody sees you sucking or fucking cock around here, your cover's blown. You do that shit in the privacy of your own home, yeah?”

I swallowed. Didn't like the way he was looking at me. This whole thing was a mistake. I turned to go, but Marks reached out and grabbed me, throwing me against the wall.

“I heard about you, Ginger-Bell,” he said, using my stage name. “I know you were close to those Prairie Pussies back in Montana. Listen, that shit's not gonna fly here. Maybe those bitches are happy to let women wrap their fucking balls up in a neat little bow and screw with their club, I dunno. All I know's the truce Fang and the national crew signed with those fucks was a big mistake. Can't wait 'til the day comes when we're rolling across the state line to pump lead into those cocksuckers again...”

He drew a sharp breath. I twisted in his meaty fist, yelling when he crunched bone. Marks opened his eyes again, the rapture on his face melting away. Disgusted, he let go and gave me another hard shove against the wall.

No wonder he never touched me himself. Sex didn't do it for this kinda man – straight up violence did.

“Just do your fucking job, got it? You're a Grizzlies girl now. Be happy it's this easy. The day may come when the brothers decide you're doing harder shit.”

I rubbed my wrist. “Harder? What're you talking –“

“Porn. Straight up suckin' and fuckin' on camera. Personal and paid sex with the rest of the club here in town, and then any old fucks we line up to bang your ass. I know this shy virgin bullshit's a fucking act, and the guys eat it up. That's cool.” He paused to light a cigarette, then took a long pull before he finished. “But it's probably gonna fall apart at some point. The day may come when we figure out better ways to make money off you that's a little more involved than flashing your cunt for stacks. Be ready.”

Bitter acid churned in my stomach. Then the wildcat inside me rose up, a vicious hatred I hadn't felt since dealing with Em and the guys pumping me for information.

“I signed up for the stage,” I said coldly. “Nothing else.”

Marks took a good long look at me. Then he laughed, flicking his cigarette on the floor and crunching it out with his boot.

“You're a real cute bitch, you know that? You almost had me. Seriously.” Still laughing, he shook his head. “Hope you show me and the brothers one day what the real Ginger-Bell's like. Cause with all these fake fucking masks you wear, I don't got a goddamned clue.”

Crazy, suicidal impulses ran through me right then. I wanted nothing better than to stomp up, grab his big dirty beard, and slap him across the face. Of course, he'd end up backhanding me across the head or worse, but at least he'd understand I wasn't kidding.

My stomach lurched again and I had to get out. Marks never said goodbye. I grabbed my things and left, not looking forward to the ten hours or so of rest I'd get before I had to get up and do it all over again.

Didn't sound like the bastards were going to give us any time off for Christmas either. Not that it mattered. Hell, after what he'd said, I'd be lucky if he wasn't pimping me out at the Filthy Crown's Christmas party, which promised nothing but rowdy testosterone on steroids.

Holiday vacations were the least of my worries. I had to take stock of all my cash, bus routes, everything tonight, before I left for another shift. If there was any hint Marks was going to follow through on the crap he'd talked about with his twisted brothers, I had to go.

I had to start over. I had to
really
get away next time, rather than winding up in the same merciless head spinning circle.

There were only two choices: flee to the southwest, where I knew no one and nothing, away from Grizzlies territories. Or else go east, where I'd inevitably run through Missoula and other Devils charters.

The shame of running into any of the Montana crew – or Jesus,
Stinger
– turned my blood cold. But I was so desperate, so fucking sick to myself, I was ready to consider anything. Before I tried to sleep off the screwed up conversation with Marks, I spent a long time staring at my cheap phone.

I still had his number. Sting was just a call away, and I remembered what he'd told me, the offer to come running if I was ever in trouble.

Anywhere. Anytime. Any way he could.

God help me, it made me smile like the idiot I was. I wasn't crazy or desperate enough to make the call, though. Inviting him back into my life would bring even more complications, but they were starting to look a lot less daunting compared to everything else going wrong.

What the hell was I thinking at the club? I must've been delusional. When I reached out to Marks, I was looking for some little inkling that someone gave a shit. I hadn't found it with that asshole. Stinger, on the other hand, was the real deal.

He really gave a damn. And I'd let him down in return, running off like a scared little girl after tasting his lips for the first time. Christ, I still couldn't shake his heat, his taste, his energy, even after all these months.

What I would've given to feel it bathing me in his stern glow...

But I'd shamed myself so fucking bad I couldn't stand to see him. Not now. Thinking about his bright eyes clouded with disappointment, darkness, twisted me in knots.

The tears came, hot and fierce. I buried my face in my pillow and let exhaustion claim me.

Christmas Eve.

The bar and the stage fixed to it were surprisingly sparse. For the first night in a long time, I wondered if I'd get halfway decent tips. It was just a couple other girls and me, go-go sluts with more worn bodies than mine, girls who were used to a lot more kink too.

Men grabbed at them through the holes in their enclosed cages. Half the girls were hooked on bad shit, and they knew they had a good chance at getting more if they put up with the groping, making taking a few guys up on backstage deals if they offered the right hit.

I was all by myself, dancing for a small audience. The music cranked up, reaching its crescendo. I rolled my hips, transporting my brain far away from this place, getting into that cozy grove. When I danced long and hard, I could flick the strings on my skimpy panties without feeling like a debased whore.

The usual hollers rang out when they came off. I shook, undulated, having a tiny flash of pleasure when I imagined Sting seeing me like this. There were times when he intruded on my act, seizing my head at the most vulnerable point.

He got me wet. The men saw it and thought they stroked my lust, feeding their deranged fantasies. If only they knew the man making my body hum was half a state away, and one of their sworn enemies.

Then the heat turned to shame. Christ, what would he say if he saw me like this?

What would any of the men wearing the Prairie Devils patch who'd put up with my crap say? What about Dad?

I was remembering him more every day, our life together and his sudden death. It hurt like hell. A lot of things were as foggy as the low lying, stinky smoke in this place, but my memory was getting clearer, little by little. And it did me no favors except showing me how fucked up my situation really was, how much I'd lost for good.

Men grunted, roared, and pushed their hands up toward the stage. Marks stalked over and slapped away their grubby palms every time. I was nearing the end when the new crew came in, four large men in cuts, pushing their way to the front.

Marks stopped just short of shoving them away from the stage when they got too close. At first, I thought they were all Grizzlies, local guys from his own MC. But their colors were all wrong in the light, and the man in the middle wasn't leering with lust.

He looked at me like I was a literal piece of meat, something he was ready to scoop up and devour.

Shit.
Where had I seen that pock marked face before?

I was trying to focus, finish up the act, ignoring his ice cold stare. The big man was in Marks' face. Something I thought would've set the biker-turned-bouncer right off, but no, it looked like he was wilting in the stranger's presence.

The music died just then as it was changing to another track. I cut my act and took a bow, flashing my biggest, fakest smile ever as crumpled cash came bouncing onto the stage at my feet.

“You know who we are...that bitch there...gotta have a good long talk...” My ears perked up as I listened to the man in the strange cut talking to Marks.

Why did he look so familiar? He definitely sent a chill coursing up my back, and it wasn't just because I was naked and the Filthy Crown had shitty heat.

For a second, we locked eyes. He leaned into Marks, hand on the big biker's shoulder, and whispered something in his ear.

Growling, Marks stepped backward, throwing him off. “I don't give a shit what you fuckers do! Just keep my ass outta it. You drag me or any other brother with my patch in, and I'll make sure it goes all the way to Fang. You Slingers assholes can deal with him then.”

I grabbed my underwear and slipped backstage. Whatever was happening, it wasn't good. I'd heard the name Fang floated around several times before, always ominously, the national President of the entire Grizzlies MC. Whoever these strangers were, they'd rattled Marks bad enough to threaten tattling on them to the very top of the chain.

I threw my robe on and dressed. Thank God it was the last act of the night. I was beyond ready to get home before the clock flipped over to Christmas morning. I'd keep myself busy with bad TV, counting my savings and laying plans to get the hell out of this situation.

Anything beat focusing on my lonely, crappy holiday.

Fully dressed, I got my purse and jacket, and slipped out the back exit. No need to go through the bar again and risk running into Marks – let alone those other guys.

It was a five block walk to my rental, one side of an old run down duplex. The winter wind was mercifully quiet, but it wasn't much comfort. The streets were eerily dead, like the entire world had gone into hiding for Christmas, lost behind the festive lights and grinning Santa statues in snowy yards.

I walked fast, trying not to let my mind go crazy with all the shadows in the empty streets. One car passed me by, a little too slowly for my liking.

It was just an old man who slowed down to wave. Probably a drunk, some lost asshole who'd just seen my act at the club. Jesus, I was shaking. If it weren't for the freezing ground, I would've kicked off my stripper heels and ran the rest of the way home, taking my risk of slipping on the ice falling on my ass.

That bastard's eyes at the club were so dark, so familiar. So fucking evil.
How
did I know them?

Dad's last foggy memories kept coming back. I remembered a huge shadow behind him at the Rams' clubhouse, beating him over the head, watching his life slip away as the crap in my drink claimed me.

No, I couldn't think about that. I had to just keep going, one step at a time, straight home, where it was neat and warm and safe.

Finally. When I reached the home stretch leading to the door, I fished my keys out of my pockets and dropped them in the snow by the mailbox like a fucking idiot.

The stuff was deep and dark. I cursed, crouched on the ground, and ran my fingers through the snow, searching and trying not to scream at every little noise.

A truck grumbled, its belt squealing in the distance. I shot up, heart banging like a drum, and then softening as the adrenaline bled back into my veins.