“You got any idea how bad you fucked up?” Ryan asks. Judging by the fact that I have four members of Forsaken staring me down like I’m dog shit, I think I have some clue. “Fucking answer me.”
I try to respond, but it’s more than a little difficult to get my vocal cords to cooperate. All I can think about is my dad and how he’d flip out whenever I fucked up. He would ask me all these questions he never intended for me to answer. It’s what you call a rectal question, or whatever you call it. Even when he’d demand an answer, he didn’t really want one and never gave me time to give him one. He just likes to yell—something he still does when he manages to stay out of the Hole long enough to get a phone call in, and unfortunately, my sister pretty much always rats me out.
“Yeah, I got it,” I mumble after some serious thought on the subject.
“Don’t think he gets it,” Diesel says. His voice booms in the ever-shrinking room.
“Nah, he don’t get it,” Wyatt grumbles.
“Give the boy a chance to prove it,” Grady says. His attention is still focused on Ryan. I thought these two weren’t getting along, but maybe I was wrong. “He’s been comin’ around for some time now, saying he’s man enough to wear the cut.”
“He’s just a kid,” Wyatt says in a huff.
“You were all just kids once.” The words come from a deep voice that’s familiar but I don’t quite place until I see Chief’s long black hair and broad shoulders. He moves into the room, and everybody grows silent. Grady, who is one scary motherfucker, seems to take a step back as he acknowledges Chief’s presence. If I didn’t already know Chief’s longstanding history in the club, I would be well aware of it now. According to my dad, Wyatt is vice president because he wanted the job. Chief could have had it, but it wasn’t his end game. Great power, great responsibility and all that shit.
“Fucked up, didn’t you?” he asks. His brow and jaw are relaxed. I remain silent, expecting this to be another one of those questions I’m not supposed to answer.
“Answer me,” he barks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Chief,” Ryan whines. I’m not talking about a manly whine—if there is such a thing—I’m talking about this full-on, high-pitched fucking whine. His brows furrow and he stomps his foot. Diesel snorts, but Wyatt and Grady both look annoyed at his antics. Only Chief doesn’t react.
“Fine,” he says. A small smirks appears in the corner of his mouth. My attention shifts to Ryan, who is smiling full of teeth that look as though they’re growing sharper by the moment. He lunges forward with his right foot but stops suddenly. I make the mistake of jumping back quickly. Like a wild animal, the action spurs him on. Before I know it, he’s stepped forward with his left foot. It’s happening so fast that I’m not really thinking—just reacting—and I take several steps back.
“Let’s play a game—I catch you, you get to suck my dick,” Ryan says as he reaches out to grab ahold of me. Before I know it, I’m running away and he’s rushing after me. Chief, Grady, Diesel, and Wyatt move off to the side, watching me about to get the “privilege” of being mouth-raped. It’s likely a few minutes, but it feels like hours as we run in circles around the room. I make a pass by Diesel, who is smiling like a madman. I’m so focused on his face that I don’t see his foot sticking out in front of me. My palms slam against the concrete only a second before my knees do. I don’t have time to focus on the horrific pain traveling up from my knees to my hips, because Ryan hunches over me, wraps one hand around my throat and the other on my hip. I thought he was kidding about making me suck his dick, but now I’ve got my asshole clenched as tight as I can, fucking terrified that he’s more interested in my ass.
Ryan leans in close with his mouth to my ear when he whispers, “Call me Trigger,” and he shoves me to the pavement. As he walks away, the sound of his footsteps are drowned out by the echoes of the other men laughing heartily. I give myself a solid minute to regroup before I push up from the concrete. The chuckles subside, and in their place, hushed murmurs fall over the room.
“Hey, Chey,” Grady says. “What are you doing here?”
Brushing myself off and straightening my back, I turn toward Grady. Now is not the time for Cheyenne Grady to see me. Especially in the clubhouse. Her short, thin legs are covered in worn jeans and she’s wearing a pink-and-black flannel button-up on top. She’s cute, like really fucking cute. She’s the kind of cute that’s been giving me blue balls ever since I discovered that shit was good for more than just tugging on the damn things because I was bored. She runs a hand through her dark brown hair and lifts her chin in my direction.
“Tracie and I want to go to the movies,” she says.
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“I need my allowance for the week.”
“I gave it to you already,” Grady says.