His voice was thick.
My throat started to feel funny.
It was Boz who started to pound his flat hands on the table.
Arlo joined in.
Speck. Roscoe. Jag. Chill.
Snapper. Joker. Dutch.
Then High, Hop, Hound.
Big Petey was the first to get up while he did it, and all the men left their seats, bent over the table, pounding on the top.
Tack.
And finally Rush.
They all beat their hands on the table, the sound thundering through the room.
Rush’s head was tipped back at me and he was smiling.
I hadn’t let him see even a minute of it.
I was glad for that now.
I let out one of those laughs that was also a sob when the first tear fell just as Boz let out a war whoop.
All the men started whooping.
Then they started chanting, “Punk, Punk, Punk.”
I guessed I had their approval.
I’d get more.
That movie took medals at three indie film festivals, the top one at two.
And it got picked up for limited distribution across the US.
The Chaos MC got even more famous.
And I’d done them, and my husband, proud.
Rush
Two years later . . .
“Babe.”
“What?”
“Babe.”
Rebel, just coming home, bent over scooping up Rhodes, plopped their son with his legs wrapped around her belly and looked to her husband at the stove.
“What?”
“Kiss, first. Then you feed him before I feed you,” he ordered.
“Well hello to you too, boo. Have a nice day?” she replied.
“You’re half an hour late. Kiss. Feed. Then I give you food,” he returned.
She looked down at their boy. “Bossy, boss, bossikins, that’s your daddy,” she shared as she bounced him on her belly.
But she did this coming Rush’s way.
Aiming Rhodes to the side, she gave him a kiss, a promise with her eyes he’d get laid later (not unusual), then she moved to the cupboard to get jars of baby food.
She was over it.
Then again, she was home with her boys, her favorite place to be, so that happened if she got in a minor snit, and it happened fast.
A major snit?
That took an orgasm.
“Shooting go okay?” he asked.
“Shaughnessy’s losing it. She’s freaked out about going legit.” She put the jar of baby food down, their son’s diapered tush to the edge of the counter, covered his ears and turned to Rush. “She can’t act without a blowjob imminent, or at least she doesn’t think so. But if I get her out of her head, she’s really good, Rush. She’s even surprising me.” She looked down at Rhodes who was giggling and pulling at her fingers, thinking this was a game. “Though she only gets out of her head when I give her a take fifteen so she can go off and blow Dryden.”
Rush started chuckling.
Rebel took their son and his food to his high chair.
She put the food on the tray, their son on her hip, and dragged the high chair toward Rush so she could stand close and feed Rhodes while he cooked, all in the family.
Every night the same.
Unless he had the food ready when she got home. Then it was all in the family at the table.
“Come ’round, check dailies with you tomorrow morning,” he murmured to the spaghetti sauce.
“Cool,” she murmured to their son in his high chair then made faces at him and smiled when she made him giggle.
Jesus to the fuck.
He loved his woman.
“Things good with the Club?” she asked, spooning food into their kid.
“Yup,” he answered.
And that was all there was to that.
They’d opened up in Pueblo, it had gone good. Roscoe overseeing that operation and starting the charter.
They were opening up in Durango next year, Speck was going across.
Rebel asked nothing more. She knew it was good. He told her if it wasn’t.
But it rarely wasn’t.
His dad left him a Club that was thriving.
A crazy-cool legacy.
And Rush got off on the growth, the good times, the hog roasts and brother strategy meetings, Sunday night dinners with his dad, Tyra, Ride, Cut, Tab, Shy, Playboy, Wren, his wife and his son, taking his time not with his family rebuilding cars with his dad, going over books, and otherwise generally living the good life with his award-winning wife who was a talented filmmaker, an exceptional mother, a loving wife and a fantastic fuck.
No man could ask for more.
And Rush wouldn’t.
He had it all. Knew it. And he was grateful.
The end.
“Cole, baby, bake up an extra garlic bread. I’m starved. I didn’t have lunch,” she said, back to making faces at their boy while pushing food into his mouth.
Rush didn’t hesitate.
He went to the freezer, hacked apart another two pieces of garlic cheese Texas toast, and threw them on the cookie sheet with the four he already had laid out to shove in the oven.
“Daddy’s totally getting himself some tonight,” she crooned at Rhodes, shoving carrots or peaches or some shit in his mouth. “Yes, he is,” she singsonged. “He knows I love his spaghetti. So it’s all about the goodness for Daddy later when you’re all snug in bed.”
Rhodes bucked back into his chair, slammed his fists on his tray and giggled so hard, carrots (or peaches or some shit) dribbled out of his mouth.
Expertly, Rebel scooped it up with his baby spoon and shoved it back in.
“Babe,” he called.
“What?’” she asked their son.
“Babe?”
“What?”
“Rebel, baby.”
He knew that would do it.
It did.
Her head turned to him.
“What, Cole?” she whispered.
“Love the fuck outta you,” he told her.
Her beautiful face got soft.
Then she pretended to be pissed. “You need to stop F-wording it right now in front of Rhodes.”
He started laughing. “Sweetheart, you just told him we were gonna get busy later.”
“He can’t reason. But he is starting to talk, and I don’t want him to add to muh-muh-muh, dah-dah-dah, tah-tah-tah,” that last was for both Tyra and Tabby, “and gah-gah-gah,” that was for Tack, his granddaddy, “with fuh-fuh-fuh,” she finished.
Rush just smiled at her.
He’d wanted it.
He got it.
Every day an adventure.
Even when, sometimes, it was all the same shit.
“This isn’t funny, stud,” she told him.
He looked back at the stove. “Sure it is.”
Rush put the bread in.
Rebel told their son how annoying his father was.
They ate with Rhodes motoring around the legs of the table.
Rebel gave him his bottle.
After Rhodes was down, they sat out on their deck, stared at the pine trees swaying gently in the night mountain wind, talked about nothing, but did it holding hands.
When they were done with that, they checked on their son, went to their bed . . .
And got busy.
Valenzuela
That same night . . .
He wondered if this was what they all felt, as he hung there on his knees on the bed, his arms over his head, lashed high, wide and taut with leather straps at his wrists connected to the high posts.
Even after the man slipped Benito’s cock out of his mouth that he’d been instructed to keep hard so she could watch it slapping against his stomach as he took the fucking from behind, he wondered.
He wondered if they’d endured so much, his whores, in the end, they felt as he did.
Nothing.
The man at his back, her husband or something, reached around and grasped Benito’s dick, pumping it while Benito gritted his teeth, knowing how this would end and it wouldn’t be in a good way.
He was right.
Starting to tug savagely on Benito’s cock, something that brought mild pain, but no culmination, then latching onto his balls and yanking them down, which brought more than mild pain, the man spent himself inside Benito loudly while she watched with the man who’d been sucking his cock now eating her out.
Through eye contact or some stupid shit, they came simultaneously.
He assumed that was supposed to be romantic.
Outside relief it was done and knowing the abuse would linger in his dick, balls and ass, something he was used to, Benito felt nothing.
The man didn’t give much thought as he pulled out at the back.
They rarely did.
Fuck, come, done.
He was a hot hole and some dangling junk to play with.
That was all.
“Let him loose and you both can go,” the woman ordered, getting up from the chair that had been positioned for her to watch and gathering her silk robe around her as her husband went to her.
They necked unashamedly and rather sickeningly the minute they got in each other’s space.
Christ, even softening, that man’s dick was mammoth, and the load he spent that was in the condom was huge.
Thank fuck he’d been liberal with the lube.
The other one hired for the night let him go, and Benito didn’t fuck around with gathering his clothes.
“Gratuity,” the husband’s deep voice came.
Benito watched as he tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the bed for the other guy and walked two bills over to him.
Benito took them and then grunted from the unexpected pain when the man took hold of his blue-balls, still-hard dick and gave it a vicious tug.
“Again next week,” the man said to him. “You’re tight and she likes you.”