“Morning, sunshine,” Candy Cane chides, with a bright, over-the-top smile, while the rest of the group of ladies stand quietly at the opposite side of the room. Uneasiness is written across their faces, like a beacon of red flashing lights.

  “Morning,” I grumble out of my cottony mouth, the need to brush my teeth overwhelming my brain. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Sorry, morning breath.”

  Candy Cane chuckles, and Pixie, Debbie and Jezebel do the same, their uneasiness quickly dissipating and amusement taking its place.

  “So the clubhouse is up and the mouths are running. Care to fill me in?” The glimmer of teasing sparks in Candy Cane’s eyes. I am sure the entire compound is buzzing with gossip. The club whores being the biggest blabbermouths in town doesn’t help my case. Or the loud orgasm I screamed in the courtyard full of inebriated bikers. So much for privacy. The cat is way out of the bag.

  “You already know.” I talk behind my hand, sitting up in bed and still in the same clothes from last night.

  “No,” Candy Cane hesitates, a knowing smile cracked ear to ear, like a demented clown. “What I know is this.” She pulls out a folded piece of paper from her bra and proceeds to deliberately take her time unfolding it. Running her hands over the creases, she flattens the worn paper out and drops it into my lap.

  Upon further inspection, I gather that what I am looking at is this month’s calendar. A bunch of scribbles cover it with names on various days. “What’s this?” I pick it up and read the name that is written in cursive for today. Candy Cane, it states.

  She reaches into my lap, her finger landing on her name. “That means I just made a thousand dollars.”

  “Wh…” I clear my throat. “What?”

  Jezebel chuckles. “She just said she made a thousand bucks,” she cleverly replies.

  “I know that, smartass,” I shoot back, playfully wrinkling my nose at Jezebel. “What I meant was, what in the hell is this? And how did you make money from it?”

  “Well.” Candy Cane runs her hands through her hair. “Don’t be mad.”

  “When someone says don’t be mad, it usually means I’m going to be fuming. So just tell me whatever the hell it is, so I can be mad and get it over with,” I reply dryly, not liking this already.

  “See,” For whatever reason, Candy Cane gets off the edge of the bed and begins to pace the room, her eyes observing the leather flats that adorn on her feet.

  “See what?”

  “I know you don’t know this. I guess I should have told you sooner.” She sighs. “For the past six months we’ve been running a monthly poll for shits and giggles here in the clubhouse. All the brothers are in on it, and some of the club whores and me. Debbie refused.” She glances up at Debbie, who empathetically nods in my direction. I frown, deeply. This is beginning to sound worse than I thought.

  “And?” I press, agitation now readily heard in my voice.

  “And…” She abruptly stops pacing, her blue dress sways at her knees, “Well…umm…haven’t you noticed Big’s been more, you know?”

  “More what?”

  “You know…touchy.” Candy Cane shrugs, and Debbie nods repeatedly at Candy Cane’s assessment. Her hair swaying, adding emphasis to her gesture.

  “Big Dick has always been…Big Dick… He’s controlling, domineering, forward, and a giant pain in my ass. That’s nothing new. Except for last night, of course.” I add on for good measure, considering that last night was the first and only time I can recall him ever advancing on me. The first time any brother has in that manner anyhow. A few pats on the ass or a tit grab here or there, that comes with the territory. Last night is a different story, one I can’t quite wrap my head around at the moment, or this calendar bullshit. I’m starting to become angry at this whole sugar coating dance that Candy Cane is displaying. Sure, I could sit here and play ping-pong with her discomfort at spilling the beans. However, I lack the patience. Life is too goddamn short.

  “He’s all of that toward you. Since when has he been that way toward the rest of the group?” Candy Cane explains, leaving me at a loss as far as what the fuck she’s getting at.

  “Listen,” I huff out. “I ain’t got time to play this little dancing on eggshells B.S., so you either spit it out or let it go.”

  All their heads snap in amazement toward me. I’m not sure if it’s my tone or the harsh words, but I am over here freaking the hell out inside and she wants to play connect the dots.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “It’s cool. I’ll rip if off like a Band-Aid then.”

  I nod, gesturing with my hand to get on with it, tucking my bare knees to my chest, my arms encircling them.

  “Big has an unhealthy obsession with you. It’s gotten worse over the past six months. He’s become antsy, sleeping with more women, displaying shit around the club he doesn’t normally do. He’s been highly aggressive with the brothers, and two of them were choked out during one of his ‘moods’.” She air quotes, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

  “Which moods?” I tilt my head to the side, assessing her, the conversation we’re having, and the thought that Big would be remotely obsessed with me. Just thinking about it makes it sound preposterous.

  “The ‘moods’ where you do something he doesn’t like. Shit that pisses him off.”

  I do that often, I think to myself.

  “There is a rumor going around that he and your dad have some kind of deal going on. I dunno what it is. You’re going to have to talk to one of them. Even Tripper or Dallas don’t know the details. I hear bits and pieces. You know the rules, no discussing club business outside of the club. So Tripper doesn’t disclose much. I do know that they’ve been concerned about Big the past month or two. His moods have become somewhat of a problem. Most of the brothers are fairly certain that has something to do with you. Whether Big has voiced that directly or not, I’m not sure.”

  What in the hell am I supposed to say to that?

  “That still doesn’t explain the calendar,” I calmly express, reeling in my aggression, which I know is sorely misplaced. I am confused by all this. No use in taking it out on a group of innocent, or correction, partially innocent old ladies.

  “Oh, right…sorry… When the mood swings started to worsen, and Big’s sexual appetite exploded, the guys started running a bet on when he’d get tired of club whore pussy and upgrade to something more appealing.”

  My face contorts into bewilderment. “I’m the something more appealing?”

  She bounces her head, with a faked smile, trying to hide the anxiety I can tell she’s feeling.

  “That wasn’t so hard was it? You made money on a bet you made with the brothers. Tell their asses to pay up. You didn’t know he’d choose me to use. Although, if you must know, so no other rumors are spread, we didn’t have sex.”

  “You didn’t?” Pixie speaks up, visibly shocked, her nervous fingers picking the hem of her plain black tee. Glancing back and forth at the group of ladies, I grin. It’s not hard to see who stands out the most among them. Besides her being the most vocal and pregnant, Jezebel’s wearing a pair of electric blue maternity pants and a black bedazzled maternity shirt that says ‘Bitch’ across her large breasts. I stamp a giggle down at the sight. Life could be much worse than waking up with a group of loyal Sacred Sisters in my room.

  “No.” I shake my head, crawling off the side of the bed, my ass in all of its glory on display for the group of ladies. Not that I care, except that most of them are unaware of the butterfly skull tattoo that I have high on my right ass cheek. I don’t have many tattoos. Not that I don’t want them, or dislike them. I’ve just never understood getting a tattoo just to get one. Pretty or not, all of my tattoos have to hold some form of meaning behind them. This one represents me moving forward in my life. I got it in college when I was making something of myself. In a way, spreading my wings and breaking out of this predestined, mundane shell my mother had fabricated for me. I had decided not to pursue men of wealth and high stature like my sisters. I was happy to go to college locally in order to help at the clubhouse, stay close to home, and still be a part of this lifestyle that my mother has grown to loathe and a life choice she would never want any of her children to partake in. I’m not sure why it matters to her, considering she’s the hypocrite. She grew up a club brat, she married a biker, and they are happily married. How that’s possible, I’m not sure. I don’t associate with her at all. Not after she explained in bright, colorful detail many years ago, how I was the biggest disappointment of her life. How she wished I had never been born and ultimately how I was dead to her. Not that it matters to me, as I’d been dead to her a long time before that. Her stating it to my face was just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s that I waited for. And, in truth, welcomed with open arms.

  Shaking my head to clear my thoughts and walking over to my dresser, I yank open a drawer and fish out a pair of heavily worn skull printed pajama bottoms. I tug them on. They fit just like they did ten years ago. It’s strange how time flies and how people can change. But my body seems to stay almost the same. I guess that’s a good thing. I dunno.

  “Then what happened?” Jezebel eagerly asks like she couldn’t wait another moment to speak as she took a step forward.

  “Which part do you want to know?” I turn to face her. Leaning against my dresser, hands curving over the lip, elbows bent. “The one where he face fucked a club whore until she puked, and I watched like an awestruck dumbass. Or the part where I willingly let him eat my pussy out. Or the part where he jacked-off while he did it and then stood up and fingered me until I came. And I let him. I stood there and came on his fingers. I. Let. Him.” I shake my head to will the vivid memories away and release the dresser to rapidly scrub my face with my palms. To erase those feelings…those thoughts…uhh… What did I do?

  What the fuck did I just do? What the hell did I allow? What in God’s name is wrong with me? Am I seriously that much a slut that I’d actually let the club president who’s like a damn father to me eat my pussy like a fat kid eats cake? Correction, no, he didn’t eat it. He made out with it. He French fucking kissed my pussy. Tongued it like it was his lover. The thought sends a prickly shiver to roll rampantly down my spine and pool inconveniently between my thighs. Taking in a deep cleansing breath, I push all thoughts from last night out of my head and focus on the four women unobtrusively staring at me, kindly assessing me.

  “Alright, let’s not discuss this any further,” I wave my hand through the air dismissively. “I’d like to forget about last night. You get your money from the brothers, and let’s go chill. Since Big has apparently considered this free time for you old ladies to be in the club.” I speak as I head toward the door, opening it. Only to be greeted by a sourpuss Runner smacking a wad of cash on his palm. The slapping noises echo in the deserted hall.

  “Here.” Runner shoves it at Candy Cane as we pass him. In tow, the girls follow me down the hall and through the hallway door into the main room at the clubhouse, where a good portion of club whores are passed out all over the joint. I can’t believe Big even allowed them here this late. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s past ten in the morning, and they are still lingering. This is a huge no, no. They’ve got to go.

  Walking around the room, I nudge them all awake with my hand or foot, along with the few brothers still entangled with them. One of them has his cock hanging out of his leathers. I can’t believe I’m not even disgusted or angered by any this. Not sure if that’s a good thing, or if I should be seeking a mental health facility for how normal this seems to me. The club whores give me a thankful nod or wave as they depart, all of their hair in shambles, clothes wrinkled—one hot mess is what they are. After they all are gone, both the bikers and the whores, I spend the next hour, along with the other old ladies, reading up the place. By the time we finish, the main room is nearly back to some semblance of normal. The trash is piled in the tall black bins. The long, wooden bar is clutter free. Pool sticks are realigned. Chairs are back in order. Two of the club pictures on the wall were hung off balance and so was one of the neon beer signs, so we fixed those too.

  “Looks great,” Big Dick states with sleepy eyes and a smile, alerting us to his presence, powerfully strolling into the common room. There is always an air about him that attracts attention. I can feel his presence. It’s like a beacon of intense emotions and desire. I swallow hard to ignore these newfound feelings, ones that are surely not welcome.

  Not knowing what to say or how to broach the subject of last night, I stay busy and keep my distance. Awkward isn’t even a fraction of how I am feeling right now. It’s worse, much worse.

  Candy Cane and Debbie begin casually chatting with him by the bar. I’m not sure if it’s out of respect for Big or to keep him from speaking to me. Either way, I’m grateful. I grab Pixie by the arm, as she navigates around me with a handful of trash, and I use her as a shield to pass by him to head back to my room. I want to go home, or at the very least, out of the same room as him. Once we pass by, my hand on the hall doorknob, a wave of relief flows through me, until a large, sweaty palm encircles my bicep, yanking me backwards and out of the comforting armor Pixie provided.

  Closing my eyes, I let him guide me to him. If I can’t escape his presence, I will avert my attention. My breasts brush his stomach, as his hand releases my bicep, and he steps forward, crowding my personal space. Big’s arms enclose around me, hugging me to him. The sharp scent of his leather cut engulfs my senses, along with his cologne, soap and the faint hint of motor oil. As much as I wish my body would stay ridged and taut, to freeze like the statue I am trying desperately to uphold, I weaken, I become pliable and soft, and my body becomes lax. A traitor within itself. I begin to hate myself for my weakness. I try to breathe through my mouth and not my nose to ward off the heady scents. Big must know what I’m trying to do because he presses my head firmly to his chest. My parted mouth smashes into the cotton of his shirt, and I close it, to avoid drooling on him.

  “Give us a minute,” he finally speaks, his voice coming out deep and grumbly. The sounds of retreating footsteps diminish. I am left listening to a strong heart hammering in his muscled chest, the smell of home, and the warmth of a man who, up until yesterday, represented family and protection. Leaving me to question everything in my life and most of all him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks with obvious concern.

  I don’t say a thing. I am at a loss. When I have a one-night stand or anything resembling that, this awkwardness never happens. I never allow it to. I leave or he leaves beforehand, or it happens in a public place so neither of us have to do the walk of shame. I’ve come across a few of my flings a time or two when I’m out shopping or pumping gas, and we just go on living our lives, ignoring each other. That’s what normal people do. I don’t stand in the middle of the clubhouse, wrapped in my fling’s arms. This shit doesn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen.

  “Is this about last night?”

  I remain quiet. Trying to come off strong, unyielding. Even though I can feel it starting to crumble. A toxic mix of family obligation and self-hatred combating each other. Should I speak to him about this? My mind is firing off confusing signals. The strong, defiant part yells‘hell no’ while the softer part says ‘This is your family and you need to work it out.’ Much to my benefit, the former is kicking the other’s ass.

  “Fuckin’ talk to me.” His hand deliciously slides up my back, and he treads his fingers through the back of my hair. Tugging my head backward, he growls. “Open your eyes.”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t look at you.” Which is true. If I do, I’ll either become a raving bitch, which is very likely, or I’ll fold and let stupid shit happen. Case and point, last night.

  “A man licks your pussy and gets you off, and you can’t fuckin’ look him in the eye? That’s some seriously spoiled bitch shit goin’ on. Do you think you’re too good to look at me?” He pauses for an answer, but I refuse to give him one.

  “Am I that disgusting?” he emphasizes bitterly. I bite back my reply, which would have sounded something like. ‘Um, no, you stupid asshole, you’re not disgusting. You’re hot. But you’re old enough to be my dad, and I don’t like that one damn bit. I also don’t like you thinking you can talk to me or order me around like this. It pisses me off.’ Yeah, it wouldn’t be best to smart off at this moment. So silence it is.

  He continues, “You didn’t seem to push me away last night. I remember you dropped those shorts to the ground and hooked your knees over my shoulders all by yourself. I didn’t force you to put your pussy in my face, Sugar Tits.” With my head still tilted, hand on my lower back, he walks me backward until I bump into the cool wooden edge of the pool table. His bare foot snakes between mine and he kicks my feet apart, forcing me to widen my stance. My heart pounds in my chest, bellowing up into my ears. Big’s leg plants itself between mine and he raises his knee to my core, pressing into my pussy, hitting my clit, and forcing me to tremble. I am losing control all over again. My self-hatred amplifies to a cataclysmic level.

  How can I be doing this? Why does it seem so easy? It shouldn’t be. I should be fighting him; I should stand up and be the bitch I’ve been known to be. Just like last night, I can’t seem to think straight, and my body deceives me on a cellular level. The wetness of my pussy soaks into the thin fabric of my pajama bottoms, and all I can feel, smell, and almost taste is him. And for whatever fucked up reason, I like it. I like it a lot.

  “Do I need to make you come again for you to talk to me? Is that what this is about?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Fine,” he growls under his breath, grinding the top of his knee into my clit. I lightly moan, unable to hold it back. Rubbing it harder into my little bud, a louder moan expels between my lips in a wispy plea to take away the burning he’s created, and soothe the dull ache that has consumed me.

  “What’s going on?” a familiar voice interrupts us, entering the room. Big lowers his knee to the ground, but he stays in close proximity, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body between us.