Chapter 2 What the fuck was going on here?
Viper
Christ, I was fucking dying of boredom. If I had to hear Sophie ramble one more time about wanting to be my Old Lady, I might just jam this beer bottle straight through my skull. One good fuck last weekend and now she acts like she owns me. Torque warned me she was a clingy mess, and of course, I ignored him.
“Sophie, if you do not shut the fuck up right now, I swear I will lose it. You are a club girl, not my woman. I only let you ride my cock because the guys needed some amusement that night, and I was too drunk to care. You will never be my Old Lady. Mine will never have fucked half the club before me, and you have made your rounds plenty. So do us both a favor and fuck off.”
“But Viper, it was so good. I want more, please.”
“I do not fuck the same girl twice. Find someone else to chase.”
She pouted before storming off toward a table full of other club girls laughing and drinking like they owned the place. I leaned back, drained the rest of my beer, and thought about taking my bike out. Maybe I needed a ride, maybe a new fuck. The ones around here were getting too damn familiar.
I was halfway to my room to grab my keys when the door opened, and holy shit.
She walked in like temptation had grown legs. That black-haired beauty was fucking sin wrapped in silk. Her skin had that smooth bronze glow that made my fingers itch, her curves sat just right, and her legs... hell, I wanted them around my head before the night ended. Her makeup was clean and bold, her red lips curled into a teasing smile as she headed for the bar. Jenna spotted her first, grinning wide before rushing out to wrap her in a hug.
The girl’s back faced me, and my groan came low and rough. That perfect fucking ass was a sight that could make a man forget his name. My dick twitched, hungry already. Jenna pulled away and gave her a once-over, shaking her head with a grin. The woman only laughed and shrugged, like she had already expected that reaction.
What the fuck was their story?
“Hey, Viper.” Butcher’s voice cut in from beside me. Our club president. Older, meaner, and eye-fucking the newcomer just as hard as I was.
“Dibs,” I said with a smirk.
His gray eyes snapped to me, and he chuckled. The bastard was fifteen years older, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neat, his hair cropped short.
“She’s too young for my taste, but damn if she is not trouble walking,” he muttered, his voice a low growl.
“She’s searching for something,” I said, finishing my beer and tossing the bottle into the metal bin by the arcade. “And I plan to be it.”
We both watched as she turned on the barstool, her gaze drifting across the room. She chatted with Jenna, eyes sweeping the crowd, until they landed on the far pool table.
Torque.
Big bastard was trying to act casual while playing, but his eyes kept darting toward the bar. He looked, turned back to his game, looked again, and then, fuck me, he smiled. Did he just blush?
I stared, stunned. Torque, the six-foot-four wall of muscle with scars and a face only his mother could stomach, was actually fucking blushing. His nose had been broken more times than I could count, and that scar running from under his eye to his chin made him look like he had crawled out of a brawl with death itself. The guy was pure menace on a bike. And yet here he was, turning red like a damn schoolboy.
What the fuck was going on here?
Jenna had a wide grin on her face when I glanced back at the bar. The newcomer had turned toward her again and said something that sent Jenna into a fit of laughter and vigorous nodding. That looked interesting.
"Do you know who she is?" I asked.
"She is Jenna’s sister," Butcher answered. "Jenna let her come by tonight. She is having some trouble at home."
"What kind of trouble?" I pushed.
"I do not know," he said, shrugging.
I nodded to show I heard him. "I am going to grab another beer. Do you want one?"
"No. I am not drinking tonight. I have a meeting later and I need my head clear for it," he replied.
He looked more tense than usual, like something was gnawing at him. I put a hand on his shoulder. "Anything I can do?"
He sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. "Any advice on getting a woman to listen after you have really fucked up?"
I cocked an eyebrow. "Do not bring up anything heavy until she has been taken care of properly. Once she has had a few good orgasms, she will be more open to hearing you."
Butcher exploded into a deep laugh. "I like the way you think. I am afraid she will not let me get that close. I really fucked things up this time."
"Then I have no suggestions, Prez. I have never been in that position. That is why I avoid relationships. I am good at killing and fucking. I do not do couples."
"One day, Viper, a woman will come along who holds your attention for longer than a single night," Butcher said with a lower tone.
"No. I do not think there is any woman who can handle the kind of chaos I bring," I said.
"Maybe not. But there might be one who balances it," he offered.
"You getting philosophical on me, Prez?" I teased.
He shrugged. "I double majored in psychology and law before I chose this life and started this chapter twenty years ago. So occasionally I will spout some useful shrewdness."
I laughed because it was true that people often thought bikers were nothing but criminals without morals. The Lords of Chaos were not as simple as that stereotype. More than half the members had degrees in business, economics, physics, and two of our leaders were actual doctors. Our vice president went by Doc because he was our medical man. Many of us had grown up in influential households but had refused to follow the straight path our families expected. That was Butcher’s story. He had done what his parents wanted until they tried to force him into a marriage he did not want. He walked away, joined the mother chapter, and later volunteered to start a new one. He built a name for himself and earned a chapter in New York.
I was not educated like that. I joined the Marines and served ten years. A bullet through my chest nearly killed me. After I left with an honorable discharge, I met Butcher by accident. He had been cornered in a bar by six members of the Mayhem Crew while the rest of our guys were outside packing up. He had stepped out of the restroom into trouble. Three of them had him on the ropes when I broke my beer bottle and intervened. By the time he had handled his portion of the fight, my side of the bar was a mess of bleeding men. Before the police arrived, he hauled me onto his bike and made me ride pillion back to the clubhouse. That night set the rest of my life in motion.
For the last four years my assignment has been to deal with former members who betrayed the club. They broke our rules and were exiled, but exile did not erase what they knew. I made sure they paid for their betrayal. That is how I earned the name Viper. People say it like RIP because when those men saw me, I was usually the last face they ever saw.
"I think I will stick with my one and done," I said.
"You do you, Rip," Butcher called after me. "But when that one girl comes and she has you by the balls, do not say I did not warn you. Maybe I will have some advice if I can get my own mess sorted."
He walked off, and I watched the woman at the bar slam three shots in quick succession. Her movements were decisive and messy in the best way. That was my cue. It was time to make my move.