Page 27 of Demon
“What do you mean?”
“The kid touched the patch on his cut. Rule number one. Never touch the back patch.”
“You’re kidding me?” Ciara straightened up, crossing her arms across her chest, those tits now staring at me, perky and alert. If I wasn’t drooling down my naked chest, I’d be impressed.
“It’s a slur on a club member if someone steals your back patches. Not only does it make you look like a pussy, but it can get you kicked out of the club. We have to protect them. So, we never let anyone touch them. The kid touched them. He’ll know never to do that again.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s the rules.”
In truth, worse things had happened to a club member who’d had their patches stolen. And that was from his own club. I glanced at the floor, where my leather bike jacket lay in a heap, the cut over the top of it buried underneath it and the rectangular badge just below the lapel on show. DDC. Dirty Deeds Club. I wasn’t sure how I’d explain the meaning of that to her. Hopefully, she would never ask.
Chapter Thirteen
Ciara
The Northern Kings’ clubhouse was only fifteen minutes from where I lived. Nestled at the very back of a busy industrial estate, it was surrounded by overgrown bushes. Weeds poked through the cracked road surface, and I steered the car around the potholes of the pitted road, trying not to cause it any more damage. I’d followed Demon, doing my best to keep up as he pushed the stupidly loud motorbike over every speed limit on every road. Beside me, the black bin bags I had taped to the windows rattled annoyingly, the wind catching and yanking at them. But annoying or not, they kept the rain off me, otherwise I would have been drenched.
Demon must have been soaked. The heavens had opened the minute we got onto the road. Rain bounced on my windscreen, my window wipers looking like they were on drugs at a rave with the speed at which they worked, trying to clear the water. In front of me, the thick back wheel of the motorbike kicked water at me. A finer mist of water and dirt on top of the rain hammering down from above. We slowed for a set of lights, the red glowing on the road, reflecting in a huge expanse of surface water that couldn’t drain because of the deluge. I moved in my seat.
I was uncomfortable. I ached. And every time I moved just a fraction, that ache reminded me of him. There’d been something ruthless about the way he’d fucked me. Almost like he’d wanted to cause me pain. Yet, despite the feeling he was splitting me in two with each stroke, I’d loved every minute of it. And just that thought warmed me up. A fresh load of tingles pulsed through my battered pussy, and the heavy clenching of my thighs couldn’t still my thoughts or the sensation gathering inside me.
It shouldn’t have happened. I barely knew him. And what I did know was not good news. He was an arsehole, with serious anger management issues. Not only that, he was part of a bike club. Lawless and dangerous. Just as much as the people I’d spent the last few years running from. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. And now he was leading me to their clubhouse. God only knew whether I’d be allowed to leave. Or whether they would require some sort of commitment from me. What would I see there that I shouldn’t? What would I hear there that I shouldn’t? But I had no choice. Or that was what I was telling myself. I had no choice. I had no choice but to let Demon fix my car windows. I had no choice to take my books and work in the clubhouse rather than my bedsit. I had no choice.
Fuck it if I didn’t know this was a bad idea. But here I was, pulling up outside of the sprawling pub, about to step into the domain of the Northern Kings. Demon’s bike cut off, the deafening roar stilling, a strange fuzz filling my ears now the rumble of the vibrations had stopped. My car still purred, the engine turning over.
He was imposing. His black leather jacket, with the black waistcoat over the top, and the three crowned skulls embroidered on the back. Three sets of soulless eyes staring back at me. There were badges on the front of the cut. Words and phrases I didn’t understand. Some sort of bike club language. Maybe it was like the Brownie Guides or something? Perhaps he’d been in charge of a barbeque sometime? Or got the beer orders right? I didn’t think he had earned himself a sewing badge, although someone had to have sewed it onto his cut.
“You coming?” His voice boomed over the thrash of rain as he pulled the car door open.
“I… err … yeah.”
Pulling my rucksack off the passenger seat, I spun my legs out of the car, staring at Demon’s outstretched hand as if touching him was toxic. Maybe it was? Maybe even being near him was? All I wanted to do in his presence was argue with him or fuck him. Neither was good separately or as a combination. Definitely toxic.
We pushed through the door of the pub, out of the rain. It smelled damp inside. Stale. The sickly smell of alcohol clung in the air, and on the carpets that my feet stuck to. The tables were a mismatch of varnished wood, every single one covered in dents and cigarette burns. And smoke still lingered in the atmosphere. Last night’s smoke. I’d worked in enough bars to recognise it. Worked in enough shitholes to turn a blind eye to the smoking of cigarettes in public places which was illegal. Although this probably wasn’t a public bar, no matter what label anyone tried to give it.
There were more people scattered around tables than I thought there would be for this time on a Sunday. Although most looked worse for wear. Maybe they hadn’t even gone home yet. Some faces I recognised. Fury. The tall, broad-shouldered biker with the long dark hair sat in a corner, nursing a pint of lager that looked barely touched. Beside him were the twins. I’d seen the pair of them inTroubleseveral times. Identical, even down to their hairstyles and the clothes they wore. Between them sat a woman. Older than them if I had to guess, with similar coloured brown hair to mine, just short, ending just past her shoulders. She looked giddy. Drunk or high, or both. It was hard to tell from this distance.
I followed Demon to the bar. To the man with the grey-flecked hair in a white t-shirt with his back to us. Three crowned skulls stared back at me. Again. His arms were completely covered in colourful tattoos. Tiny intricate details merging into each other, too difficult to make out from this distance. He was well muscled for an older guy. Well-muscled for a biker. All the ones I’d seen before were portly middle-aged men, with decent sized beer bellies to rest their decent sized beards. So far, the Northern Kings seemed to have a physique code. Everyone I’d met in this club seemed fit.
“You’ve met my brother, Indie, haven’t you?” Demon introduced him and the grey-haired man turned and studied me.
“Aye. I have.” Indie’s eyes travelled over me, slowing over my chest like everyone always did.
“Drink?”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Do you want a drink?”
“You got a coffee?”
Indie studied me again before turning to Demon.
“What the fuck’s wrong with this one? Coffee?”
“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? You lot not drink coffee? Is it all whisky and whatever shit you shove up your noses?”