I have to wonder if his decision stems from his encounter with them last night or their actions with the brothers. If I had to guess, I’d say the former. Why it matters? I haven’t a clue, and I know better than to ask.

  “Well, I’ll leave you guys to it. Where’s Candy Cane?” I ask Tripper, walking toward the hall door.

  “Wait just a minute,” Big orders me. I come to a halt.

  “I need a hug.” Big strides over and doesn’t wait for my reply before he wraps me in his massive arms. My head smashes into his chest, making me intoxicated in his manly soul seeping scent. Big’s fingers comb softly through my hair, and he kisses the top of my head a little longer than I anticipated. “Thanks for the talk and for last night. I enjoyed that.”

  “Me too,” I whisper against his warm chest, and he releases me.

  A wide-eyed Tripper watches as I leave the common room and enter the hall. “She’s in his bathroom,” Tripper yells at my back, and I raise my hand in thanks, strolling down the passage to Runner’s door, which has been left wide-open.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I call into the room. Jezebel, Pixie, and Debbie are anxiously standing outside of the bathroom door. I cast my gaze across the room briefly as I walk in, taking in the cleanliness of it. Aside from the pornographic, half-naked women and motorcycle shit lying everywhere, the place is fairly tidy. His bed is neatly made with a blue comforter, which matches the pillows and the single window valence. I’m moderately impressed. Even the stark white walls are crisp, void of dirt.

  “Candy Cane’s trying to stop his nose from bleeding. Just when we thought we had it, it starts again. Big musta broke it,” Debbie explains, when I stop beside her to look into the bathroom and watch Candy Cane work on a wrecked Runner.

  “I can’t get it to stop, Bink. I think I got his nose set; I did it just like you taught. And I cleaned his only cut,” Candy Cane says, obviously outside of her element.

  Time for me to take over.

  “Did you check for concussion?” I inquire, stepping up beside her on the short wooden stool. Runner is slouched part ways, sitting upright, on the closed toilet. His right eye is almost swollen shut, and his nose is most definitely broken. And he has a nasty scratch running diagonally across his cheek, compliments of Big’s S. S. ring.

  “No. I forgot.” Candy Cane offers me the stool, which I gladly accept. Sitting down, I grab the tiny silver flashlight from the med bag on the vanity. I use it to examine both of Runners eyes, checking for dilation. He doesn’t seem to have a concussion. But the towel he’s holding to his nose is rapidly becoming soaked in his blood.

  Reaching back into the bag, I glove up. God only knows what he might be carrying and I surely don’t want to contract anything. Softly holding his nose with both hands, I set it as pain-laden tears pour down his cheeks, even though he remains quiet. I know it hurts like hell; I’ve had men scream when I do this. Doing the best that I can, I bandage his nose by placing white medical tape across the bridge to keep it stable, but allow for mild swelling. Next, I place some Celox powder on a Q-tip and carefully insert it into each dripping nostril to halt the bleeding. A few seconds tick by, and the bleeding finally begins to dissipate.

  “You’re going to have to breathe out of your mouth,” I explain, getting up from stool and pouring him a glass of water into the blue cup that rests on his vanity. Shuffling through the med bag, I open a packet of Vicodin, then hand them to Runner, along with the water. “Drink this. Then I want you to rest in bed, stay elevated though. I’ll have somebody bring you in a bag of peas to keep the swelling down.”

  Pivoting toward Debbie, our eyes meet, and she nods a silent understanding, hurrying from the room to fetch peas from the kitchen.

  I go through the motions I’ve repeated hundreds of times. When I was younger, they had a doc on call for all medical occurrences. Now that I’ve learned the basics, they use me to do the little things and only call the doc when it’s a real emergency, gunshots, stabbings, those sorts of things. We have a surgical room equipped for those dire incidences. This med bag has been through some rough times with the Sacred Sinners.

  Once I’ve completed the task of taking care of Runner, he stands up, grinding out an aching groan and sluggishly walking into his bedroom, climbing on top of his neatly made bed. Debbie swiftly strolls back into the room, handing Runner the peas. With a friendly two-fingered wave, I exit into the hall, the four old ladies right on my tail.

  “That was awesome!” Jezebel exclaims, walking behind me into the common room of the clubhouse, which seems to have livened up already. Bulk strolls over to us, wearing his cut and blue t-shirt and throwing his thick beefcake arm over his pregnant wife’s shoulder.

  “What’s goin’ on?” He kisses her forehead, and she blushes ten shades of pink.

  “Oh, nothin’. Bink just patched Runner up. Big Dick mangled his face,” Jezebel tells her husband, wrapping an arm around his lower back, her head resting on his arm. I would say shoulder, but he’s too tall for that.

  “Ah…those things happen,” Bulk states dismissively, which is brothers’ code for ‘don’t talk about it.’ At least Bulk knows the rules.

  Gunz joins our small group and it doesn’t take long for it to grow exponentially. Including Viper, and the ladies old men.

  Wrapped up in conversations, we migrate toward the black rectangular high-top tables that sit next to the bar. At one end, I hike my butt up onto a padded faux leather stool and the rest follow suit filling the table. Gunz takes the opposite end. His bald head is covered in a skull printed bandana and he’s swirling a sucker in his mouth while he talks to Viper and Bulk, who’ve taken up the seats at the far end close to Gunz. Pixie is to my right, Debbie to my left. The table is filled to the max with ten full stools. Tripper, Candy Cane’s old man, being the only one not with his old lady. It’s nice seeing all of the brothers socializing, not only with their fellow brothers, but including their old ladies as well. You don’t get to see that much in the clubhouse. I pray this is a turning point for greater things to come. Out with the old and in with the new. I’m not as receptive to most newbies whether they be old ladies, brothers, or whores. I stick to what I know. It’s safer that way. But I’m beginning to appreciate the newcomers and brighter future they might bring to the club. Making it more family friendly and less ‘no girls allowed.’ I’ve heard stories over the years that most chapters allow old ladies to mingle with the brothers more than Big allows. Whether he’s like that because of his past, for security reasons, or whatever else, I hope things change. I like having other women to hang with. Women that I genuinely like. Trust me, it’s better than having nothing but brothers surrounding you at all times. I know that might sound appealing to some, to have a bunch of mouthy, roughneck bikers living and breathing around you 24/7, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It takes a special kinda person to handle not only one biker 24/7 but a dozen. I happen to be one of those very people.

  “Soooo.” Gunz speaks loud enough that I can hear him from across the table, above two of the brothers shooting pool, and the music blaring AC/DC over the high-tech sound system. The clubhouse may not be the most up-to-date in terms of décor, considering the place is pretty much a bachelor pad, devoid of any female touches. Nevertheless, the techy stuff kicks some serious ass, stereo equipment included. Gunz is an IT genius, and it shows with how well the compound is under lock and key.

  “Sooo?” I respond, resting my elbows on the table.

  “Did you?” Gunz’s words waver just a bit. Enough that I catch it, but I don’t think the rest of the group does. They don’t know him like I do. Years of experience with the man, and I know how to read him like a book. Gunz is uncomfortable, looking down the table at me. I know what he’s hinting toward. Not something I want to discuss nor confess sitting at a table with four old ladies and five brothers. Some things are better left unsaid. This is one of those times.

  “What I did or didn’t do isn’t up for debate. It happened.” I try to sound firm yet friendly. But I soon realize I probably come off too defensive. I really hate this.

  “I wasn’t askin’ about that. I already spoke to Big. I was askin’ about you fixin’ Runner,” Gunz explains.

  Oh…

  “Well, yeah, of course I did.”

  “Is he going to need me to call doc?”

  What kind of question is that? Wouldn’t I have said something if I thought that was necessary?

  Frowning, I reply, “Nuh…ooooo… I would have called the doc if he did. Wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve had to do that.”

  My eyes cut to Dallas and he flinches, knowing good and well I’ve called the doc more times than not when he’s come to me for help. Dallas has met with Doc more than any of the brothers. Dog bites are notorious for infection and his are never mild flesh wounds. Our club works with some of the most intelligent and at times most vicious breeds of dogs that you can train. They are loyal to a fault once they’ve completed their training. Before that, it’s up in the air as to which dogs will fall in line and which will simply be sold without all of their education. Dallas runs them hard and expects perfection. He treats all of his dogs well and is efficient at knowing what each dog is capable of. That doesn’t change the fact he is working with an animal, which he’s learned the hard way too many times for me to keep count. Dallas’s face, even though it’s handsome, is severely scarred. A pit gripped his jaw and bit, leaving wicked marks running down both sides of his mouth, and that isn’t even the worst of it. Dallas’s right calf muscle is missing a chunk of flesh. Most people assume it’s from a motorcycle accident, but it’s not. He stupidly tried to break up a Dobie vs. Pit fight and ended up in the hospital for a week.

  “True.” Gunz nods at me, cracking a half sucker filled smile.

  “How about a rounda drinks,” Viper states, getting up from the end of the table, sauntering rather sexily to the bar and helping himself to a couple bottles of booze and shot glasses.

  “Don’t forget the Jack,” I yell over the music.

  Raising Jack in the air and tucking it under his arm, Viper collects the rest of our drinks and returns to the table, setting the liquid courage in the middle and sliding shot glasses toward everyone. Even Jezebel, who opens her mouth to protest until Viper steps next to her with a bottle of water, sitting it alongside her shot glass.

  “Didn’t want you to feel left out,” Viper explains, and strolls back over to his seat, winking at me before he sits down. “Time for a drinking game.”

  My stomach drops. This could be a good thing or a very bad thing, I don’t know which. Last night and me drinking didn’t mix well. Although the thought of possibly washing those vivid memories from my head is enough for me to grab the Jack and pour myself a shot. Then Pixie helps herself.

  “Another Jack girl?” I playfully push at her tattooed shoulder.

  “Yup, only the best,” Pixie brightly replies with a shy grin, dropping the whiskey to the table and keeping it within arm’s reach. Smart girl.

  “Game’s called, I have never ever,” Viper declares, and I grimace. I’ve played this game one other time with Gunz, and he found out some overly personal things about me. “We go around the table stating something we have never ever done. If someone at the table has done it, they take a drink.”

  “You’re goin’ down,” Dallas smarts off to Debbie, growling in a playful manner.

  “Fuck off, Dallas, you’re gonna be drunk sooner than I am.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh yes, you are,” I add. “You’re a naughty bastard.”

  The whole table bursts into laughter, and Dallas flips me the bird. I, out of sheer politeness, return the gesture, of course.

  “Sorry, Dallas, I think Debbie’d get mad,” I kid, blowing him a kiss. He catches it with his hand and slaps it on his ass. The fucker!

  “You can have him.” Debbie smacks his arm. “Then maybe he’ll remember to take out the trash.”

  Another spout of laughter consumes the table. This hasn’t even gotten to the good stuff. Wait until we are all sloppy drunk and confess some of the nastiest, dirtiest things we’ve done. Oh gee, I can hardly wait… Not.

  “I’ll start,” Viper decides with a full-on grin, staring down the table at me. “I have never, ever fucked anyone more than ten years older than me.”

  If this is some ploy for me to give up the goods about Big, then he will be sorely mistaken. I never had sex with Big. Hell, I didn’t even kiss the man.

  Gunz, Jezebel, Debbie, Pixie, and Bulk shoot their shot. Viper dares me with his eyes to pick up my whiskey, but I don’t even look at it. I glare at him instead.

  “Bink—” Viper beings.

  “Oh, cut the crap. They didn’t have sex.” Pixie out of all the people at the table snaps back at Viper. As soon as she does, Axel breaks out in hysterical laughter, throwing his arm over his old lady’s shoulder and leaning over to kiss her cheek. Then the turtle scurries back into its shell. It’s plainly visible. Her outburst, Viper and the rest of the group’s shock by it, then her own as reality sets in about what’d she’s just said. She hunches her shoulders and stares at the table, hands tucked between her thighs. I don’t hesitate when I reach over and pat her leg, whispering, “It’s okay,” with a friendly smile. This poor, shy woman needs to loosen up.

  “Gunz, your turn,” Viper announces.

  “I’ve never, ever sucked a cock.”

  That’s an easy one. All of the women take a shot and the men smirk with triumph. Next…

  The table of ten finishes their first round. It is going to be a long day. I have already drank seven of the first ten shots, and I am beginning to feel the effects. This shit sucks.

  It’s Vipers turn again.

  “I have never, ever been in love.” That was a low blow for the table. Everyone takes a shot besides me and him. I can honestly say I have never been in love. Me not taking the drink alerts the table of this little fact about Bink. So I sit up tall and take what’s coming.

  “Never?” Gunz is surprised by this, which he shouldn’t be. When has he ever heard me say I love you to someone other than my family? Never to a man. I may have dated some boys, and I may have banged a whole helluva lot more. But I’ve never done the whole love thing. My heart’s never been broken. I’ve never cried over a relationship. At thirty, I know I’m a rarity among women because of this. I just don’t give a hoot. It is what it is. Do I want that kind of love? Yes, I do. Do I want children? Probably. Do I think all of that is in the cards for me? Not really. And yes, I do envy the old ladies of this club for having emotionally bonded relationships with their men, as long as those men know how to keep their dicks in their pants, which most of the brothers at this table seem to do. I know Candy Cane would kill Tripper and same goes for Debbie, if either of their men fucked another woman. I would probably help in holding them down and using one of those livestock castration tools to chop off their nuts, if they were stupid enough to stray.

  Hours pass by and the drinking dwindles to a simmer once we’ve completed three rounds. This is where I admit to kissing a girl, once, having hot sex over the hood of a car, and that I genuinely like anal sex. Granted, I’ve only done it a handful of times because it takes a lot of trust in a relationship for me to allow it. But when I’ve done it, I came, and after the initial burning and ache, I loved it. Obviously I don’t exactly disclose those sorta things at the table; they had learned enough as it is. Viper has migrated down toward my end of the table, switching seats with Pixie. She and Jezebel want firsthand information from Gunz about the club and what it’ll entail for Jez’s little one. Gunz being drunk isn’t taking her as seriously as he should but is being a sport about it anyhow.

  “So…” Viper raises his hands in the air. “You and—”

  “Not me and Big!” I interrupt Viper, curling my lip up in disgust. I don’t get why he is so fucking adamant about this Big shit. Why does it matter? Ugh!! He’s annoying! What the hell am I kiddin’? Both of them are!

  “Lisssten...” I slur. Woo fuckin’ wee, I am drunk tonight. “Big plus Bink equals a onetime thingy.”

  Viper leans in, the harsh tang of tequila on his breath, ensnaring my sense of smell. “Then why can’t I fuck you?” A fat, pierced tongue pokes out of Viper’s mouth and swipes deliciously across his bottom lip. Holy shit that’s hot.

  I too lean in, my nose brushing the tip of his. Our mouths are mere inches from colliding into a frenzied tongue sucking session. I’m desperate to know how that little barbell tastes, battling for ownership. Mmmm… My pussy loves that idea, as it greedily throbs and dampens with wanton anticipation. Our eyes bore into one another’s. My tongue sweeps the outer edges of my whiskey-flavored lips.

  “Why—” my words are swallowed whole when the world tilts on axis, and the room blares to life. Aerosmith singing about “Pink” being their favorite color abruptly cuts off. My spine aligns as I straighten on the stool, scanning the room corner to corner. The entire club’s fallen dead silent. My fixation with Viper dries up. The brother’s unlock lips with their whores and old ladies. The pool balls clunk to an echoing stop.

  Wait for it… I take in a deep breath, my heart thudding erratically against my ribs.

  A deafening, five-pulse blare pours violently through the speakers. Whores and old ladies alike cover their ears as the sounds ricochet off the walls. I remain stoic, resolute, strong. Once the blaring resides, the red emergency lights flare to life, casting a reddened strobe light to flicker over the common room and outlying spaces.

  Holding my breath, perched on the edge of the seat. I await what I know is coming next. This is it!

  “We are on lockdown…we are on lock down…” Repeats five times from an automated voice over the sound system. Women are curled into their tough biker’s sides, their old men providing the comfort they are going to need in dire circumstances like these. The whores corral themselves into a corner, offering support among the ranks. A few stragglers stay with their preferred brother, seeking affection and strength. I sit alone.