Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
As I drive through town, I know people are staring at me and my bike. When I fought with the other clubs on behalf of the Kings of Anarchy, we fought on the War Kings’ home turf—which is in Athens, Tennessee. This is the first time I’ve been in Dreary. Everyone in this town probably knows who I am. There are no secrets in a small town—even I know that. That’s why I’m not making a secret of my arrival. I figure the War Kings still have spies here. I’m not going to tiptoe in. I want them to know. This is my territory, and I intend to make that very fucking clear. I want everyone to be aware of it. I’ m sending a clear message that I’m not going to allow anyone to take the area my club has claimed. Hell, before I’m done, we’ll have more territory. The War Kings will not rise up against us again. I’ll see to that.
It's not long before I arrive at the KOAMC clubhouse. It’s the end of the street and then a right turn. I pull into the concrete parking lot, park and look at the building. There’s a billboard in the parking lot that reads Kings of Anarchy Sanctuary. There’s a tall fence around the place, but the parking lot is completely open—absolutely no gate to close. That will have to be fixed at once. Security measures need to be taken.
I look around briefly, noticing the garage across the street. I already know the club owns it. I slide off my bike and look at it briefly. It’s a nice size. From the figures I’ve seen, it’s not as lucrative as it should be. I’d like to talk it over with the others, but I have some ideas that I think will help.
I frown at the lack of guards. This damn club was just attacked. What are they thinking? I shake my head. C and I are going to have a long, hard talk. He knows better. I open the door and wait a minute or so for my eyes to adjust to the darkened interior.
Inside the stoned walls are covered in a faded gray paint that really needs to be redone. There are several old neon signs on the wall. The hum of the lights can be heard and permeates air that is thick with cigarette smoke, the stench of alcohol and … sex.
The concrete floors are painted a muted brown. They’re scuffed and dirty. There are florescent lights bolted to the ceiling and the light is rather stark. Apparently, Ace never cared much what their clubhouse was like. There’s a giant bar that takes the entire length of the wall to the right. There are two prospects behind the bar in blank Kings’ cuts. There’s no name patch, just a prospect patch. Two pool tables are over in the corner with a couple of men playing. An old jukebox is across from them, blaring eighties country music. There are six round, wooden tables. Each table has four to six chairs, depending on which one you’re looking at. There are also lots of well-worn couches placed around. In one darkened corner there’s a man getting his knob polished, making me practically roll my fucking eyes.
“Jesus, C. I see you haven’t changed,” I gripe, ignoring the stares from the other men sitting around.
“I’m not going to apologize for enjoying Tati’s mouth,” he practically purrs, as the woman puts his cock back in his pants and zips it up when he stands. I guess some things really do not change. C’s road name is Candyman. He got that name because the fucker lives for blowjobs. He says his cock is a candy cane made for women to lick and worship on their knees. I’d mock him for that, but sadly women do tend to fawn all over the lucky bastard.
He walks over to me. His long blonde hair is full of curls and is mussed—probably from the raven-haired woman who walks beside him in nothing but a man’s white T-shirt. She has no bra on, because her nipples are about to cut through the cotton fabric. I’d venture to say she doesn’t have panties on either. That’s normal for club chicks. They have one purpose in a club and that’s to offer their bodies to make the men happy. In return, they get all the pleasure they want, a roof over their head and a check every week for cleaning the clubhouse and any other chores that need to be done. Although, just by looking I’m not sure these girls actually earn their pay other than on their backs. I shake my head. At one time, I loved this part of club life. Now, it’s not at all what I want. I’ve been feeling more and more restless. I’m thirty-six. I want more from a woman. The problem is, I haven’t found a woman who appeals to me enough that I want to keep her full-time. The life of an old lady isn’t something a lot of women are cut out for, either.