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“One finger went in too easy,” he jokes with the onlookers, who roar with amusement at the spectacle. “Here comes another, you filthy cunt.” He thrusts another finger into the sobbing bitch, then another, announcing each one with a wink and a joke.
The crowd is loving her humiliation, and the brothers push in, wanting to see more and more.
“I’m over this sniveling. Her cunt’s fuckin’ loose,” he announces, pushing her toward a brother. “All yours Lash. Fuck her hard.” Laughter rings, echoing through the grimy space, and somewhere along the back, glass shatters, but no one pays attention—too focused as Pirate continues testing pussies to find his perfect fit.
Now’s as good a time as any…
Adrenaline surges in my veins. Is he distracted enough? Can I make my great escape?
Taking a deep breath, I hold it and back slowly toward the door.
My feet shuffle silently along the sticky floor until I can sense the exit right behind me. Nearly there…
CHAPTER FOUR
LEGACY
The temperature in the clubhouse suddenly plummets as the night air blows in, but no one else notices. Too busy fuckin’ whatever bitch they got in the Pussy Parade. Pirate is still workin’ his way down the line, shoving his fingers in each woman to test them—looking for the tightest cunt at the party.
Old fuckin’ bastard loves to make them cry.
My heart thunders as I give the big doors another experimental shove, hoping to slip out without them creaking. Of course, there are tons of reasons for me to go outside—but I don’t want anyone to notice.
Not a soul looks my way. Clenching my jaw, my eyes skim over this place for the last time. Good riddance—it’s brought me nothing but pain and dark marks on my soul. My first kill happened in this clubhouse. The first time Pirate beat me so bad I couldn’t walk. The first time he shot me to ‘teach me not to be a pussy’.
This place is hell. And those who stay are damned.
With the fires of remembrance licking at my heels, I turn suddenly and place both my palms against the door, ready to give it a shove and disappear forever.
But suddenly the wood disappears, and I lurch forward, stumbling face-first into someone wearing a cut just like mine. The scent of stale tobacco, smoke, and leather snakes up my nostrils as my brother grabs my arms to stop me from falling. Snapping my eyes up, I stare right into Wolf’s ugly mug. A scar crosses his face, old, jagged, and gruesome, but that’s not what makes him so hideous. No. His ugly is all on the inside, a darkness that seeps out of him and touches everyone in his orbit. Of course, he’s my father's best friend—his most loyal dog. The one who never questions, willing to unleash his brutality at Pirate’s whim.
His mouth twists down into a scowl. “Goin somewhere, you little shit stain?” he snarls, shoving me backward into the room. The door slams shut behind us with a finality that sends a shiver down my spine. Wolf looks at me knowingly, like he can see all my secrets, and a sense of foreboding settles like a boulder in my gut.
Frantically, I scan the crowd, searching for Venom. The old man’s got his cock in one of the club girl’s mouths while another brother is taking her from behind. The whole room buzzes with the sights and sounds of spit-roasted bitches getting fucked every which way. Pirate’s face fills with evil glee when his eyes fall on his pet beast, who gives him a chin lift. And everyone is completely oblivious to the sudden shift Wolf’s appearance causes.
Shit.
A whistle cleaves the air with the power of a thunder crack—bringing the entire room to heel.
“Bitches—get gone,” he shouts, ignoring the grumbles of objection. The brothers aren’t happy to leave the warm holes before getting to nut—but when Prez gives an order you listen… or you die. “Members and prospects, Church. Now.”
Is it too late? Do they know?
Trinity…
Shaka stands outside the door to Church, our club’s soundproof room where we hold meetings. In front of him is a large oak chest—our weapons trunk. Members file past, dropping guns, knives, and even a beloved set of throwing stars into the huge musty box.
No weapons in Church. It’s been a rule for as long as the club’s been in existence, as far as I know. Shit can get heated in there—weapons mean dead brothers.
Still, even though it’s the norm, something doesn’t feel right as I pull my piece from my belt. The cold steel barrel whispers against my skin, sending a zip of foreboding through me. Why would Pirate end a fuckin’ Pussy Parade? Nothing makes him happier than ripping through some fresh cunt.
My mind whirls.
“Don’t forget the one on your ankle, brother,” Shaka reminds me under his breath when I place my gun into the chest. Fuck.
“Thanks. Damn, don’t know where my brain is today,” I joke, playing it off with a smile before bending down to unstrap my second weapon. My hand shakes noticeably, and Shaka looks at me with concern in his eyes. And I can’t get over the heavy knot of worry churning in my gut.
He knows. He knows. He knows.
