I had to turn 'em down. I rarely fucked the same chick twice, and never when they were expecting something.
Too many wanted to bag themselves a biker boy and turn into proper old ladies when times were better. Ever since our budget dived into the red, the real sluts didn't come around no more. They gave it up for easy, free flowing booze or bud, and that shit was the first to go when I delivered the financials last month, and the Prez laid down the law.
Speaking of the Prez...shit, he stomped through the garage looking like he had a fire breathing dragon crawling underneath his skin. Every man who heard his name before they saw him expected someone older, weaker, a stallion put out to pasture.
But Dust had been running this club since my balls dropped. He'd ridden with my old man and squeezed my shoulder at Dad's funeral. He'd given me my prospect patch and my bottom rocker. He'd killed more sonsofbitches than all of us combined.
Fun wasn't this man's specialty. He was all business, all the fucking time, and he looked more intense than ever today, slowing his walk as he stepped past us, hitting us with those dark gray eyes like a commander inspecting his troops.
He fit the part. And he left Crawl and Sixty mumbling apologies as they swung their legs over their bikes, making excuses about being late because they had a call, or the coffeepot was broken or some shit.
I rolled my eyes. Firefly pulled his helmet down and stubbed out his cigarette, flashing me an energetic look that said it was about to get all too real.
“All right, boys, you know the drill! The Prez, the Veep, and the prospects are gonna hit the little cock stops on the edge of town, and fan out toward Tri Cities today. As for the rest of us, we're taking on the big one run by that goddamned viper, Ricky McNumbnuts or whatever the fuck his name is.”
The brothers laughed. Even I cracked a smile, not that the dirtiest pimp in the county was a laughing matter.
“Any questions? Hit 'em now or I'll hit all you sorry fucks later for not asking me or the Prez.”
We waited about ten seconds, and nobody had anything. The Prez pulled up on his bike and the VP followed, everyone filing into formation, before we split into two groups on the highway.
Attack mode. We'd done this drill before. I'd been through it a couple dozen times over the years, and it still got the adrenaline flowing, which meant more testosterone and more raging hard-ons if shit got heated enough.
Fuck. I regretted not beating off a few more times last night, or trying to track down that Stockings chick to fuck and dump again.
“Ya'll heard the man,” Dust growled, stopping at our open gate and looking over his shoulder. “Shut those shitholes down for a day. Don't come back 'til you do. They're human toilets, and we've let 'em troll for the Deadhands for too damned long in our own backyard. They ought to be paying us for the privilege of operating in our territory. They owe us big for hosting our enemies on our turf, and we're not walking away 'til they pay up. You know what we accept – talk, blood, or cold hard cash.”
Men cheered. I just nodded, having a funny feeling the last one excited the Prez the most.
“Remember, boys – forever deadly, forever pistols.” With our battle cry, the Prez surged ahead, and we all rode out behind him, a flock of roaring motorcycles gunning into the mountains.
We split into two teams several miles down the road, our group heading for the massive trucker spa. A man couldn't miss the damned place – the billboards only got closer together and more outrageous the closer we came.
I'd never stepped foot inside it before. I looked up at the plastic-looking models on the billboards and clenched my teeth, unsure whether to laugh or rage.
I'd bet my left nut there wouldn't be a single chick there half that good-looking. I'd heard all about these places before. They were nasty little rat nests full of greasy pimps and desperate girls, usually chicks being paid in booze, crystal, or smack, while the shitheads controlling them pocketed all the money.
Some guys said Ricky's joint had women there unwillingly. He'd have his day of reckoning one way or another, if that was true, but the club couldn't bring him down while we were flat out broke.
We needed to rattle the bastard first. Scope the place out, see how well armed he was or how much he'd let his guard down. The Deads taking him under their wing couldn't fly either.
We should've run the fuckers outta our territory the first time we caught a whiff of them coming across the state line. But the club was distracted then, putting its fingers into too many projects in a desperate shot at going legit.
Dust had two auto chop shops, a strip club, and a bar going. Everything except our main garage went bust in less than a year. I knew it better than anybody, handling the financials as the club's Treasurer.