Page 24 of Thug

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Why’s that?” he asked. “Not a daddy’s girl?”

“My business is none of his,” I said.

“You just like tricking bikers into fucking you so you can get back at him for holding you under his thumb in your youth? What, was he a preacher?”

I sighed. “A biker.”

He seemed surprised. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“You hate him for it?”

I didn’t want to tell him the entire truth about my father, so I minimized it to a simple but truthful statement. “We have our differences.”

“Don’t like the biker way of living life?”

I took exception to his comment. I crossed my arms and gave him a look. “Actually, I love it.”

“What do you love about it?”

I didn’t know where to start or how much I should say. I decided to just wing it and hope that something I said impressed him. I wanted him to trust me and I knew from experience that was going to be the toughest thing to get him to do.

“The close-knit relationships that are developed,” I said. “That it’s all for one and one for all. That there isn’t a bunch of finger-pointing and drama like there is everywhere else. That you can rest assured that no matter what kind of shit goes down, that one of your brothers isn’t going to give you up to the cops.”

He seemed shocked at my little speech. “Why wouldn’t they give you up?”

“Snitches get stitches,” I said.

He blurted a laugh. “Do they?”

“I’d rather eat crumbs with bums than have steaks with snakes,” I said, reciting one of the may phrases I’d heard my father say over the years.

He studied me for a moment. His intensity was undeniable. With nothing more than a simple look, he could cause a woman’s panties to melt, a man to cower, or an opponent to reconsider his thoughts.

His look softened. “Let’s call a truce.”

“A what?”

“A truce,” he said. “An agreement that the two of us stop—”

I glared. “I know what a truce is.”

“It sure didn’t sound like it.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, I do.”

He gestured toward my chest with a nod. “Show me your tits.”

A random request to see my tits. I looked at him like he was crazy. “Excuse me?”

“Your tits,” he said, meeting my gaze. “Get ‘em out.”

It may have been out of place, and random as hell, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. “I don’t think so,” I muttered.

He wagged his index finger at me. “Lift up your shirt.”