Page 23 of Dirty Salvation

For a while afterward, he’d regretted what he’d done, wished he’d gone about it differently, hell, maybe they could have been fuck buddies if she ever passed through town while she was bettering her brain and future.

He'd thought about her too often, even just recently with his latest hook up. A boring fuck so forgettable he couldn’t even remember if he came.

No one measured up.

Sure, he’d had good climaxes, fast and hard, dirty wet climaxes, but none had felt the same as that night.

And over the years he’d self-condemned getting rid of her, tossing her away like she hadn’t meant something.

Funny shit was, for those few hours together she’d meant a lot to Rider. But the club had come first, asalways, and he’d had too much to do at that time to worry about making a relationship with a sweet girl who was better than him.

And now, here was that sweet girl, back in his life through a means he wished she’d never endured. No woman should ever feel the brute force of a man through his fists.

Fucking asshole was a coward beating a woman.

All his old contained feelings released, his monster thoughts dark and unfettered.

He wanted to hurt someone badly for hurting his sweet girl.

His sweet girl.

She wasn’t his, he told himself, even as his body flooded with a proprietary sense of ownership.

She was mine first.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Stay.” - Rider Marinos

“Jesus, Rider. What the fuck are they even doing here? Are we taking in strayRebelbitches now? They belong there, or somewhere else just not under our roof.” The VP yanked out his chair and plonked his unkempt self-down. It was a wonder there was no plume of dust around him, the man was allergic to laundry detergent. Hawk’s voice was always calm, like a Tsunami before it hit when everything got real eerie still. The guy had no beef to get angry to enjoy his violence. The quieter Hawk got the more destruction he would exact.

"I know her." Was all he replied as an explanation for his out of character behavior. No fucking wonder they were all looking at their president like he'd sucked one too many times on the weed bong.

He and his crew were in the church, door closed behind them so no one outside of their inner circle, namely prospects, would hear their conversation, prospects weren't privy to much outlaw business until they patched in, all were sat around the long rectangle table, apart from Lawless, who was taking care of the kid, against his will and loud-ass protest when Rider ordered him to get her out of there, he'd swore the air blue enough to give a nun the vapours, but did as was asked of him and took the clinging kid off to grab some food from the kitchen.

His uncle had called his old lady to take the drive down from the mountain, his men were not equipped to play baby-fucking-sitters, and while he hated calling Helen out this late, she was a woman in her early fifties and liked her soaps and sleep in that order, he needed more than his men could provide.

“What? who? theRebelbitch?" One of his sergeant's questions.

Rider pinned him with a stare cold enough to curdle milk. He had to remember these were his brothers and deserved answers. Answers he didn't fucking have.

Don’t fuckin’ call her a bitch, ever.

"I knew her a long time ago. Why she was there, you know about as much as I fuckin' do." The stratagem had been simple; the Raging Rebel's building went up in smoke no matter who the fuck was left inside.

He got that his brothers were now confused to hell why he'd brought two of theirs back.

She is not theirs.

He sat back in his president's chair at the head of the long wide dark oak table. The same table that had been here since day one when Homer 'Hammer' Kontos started the club as a rebellion to society, if he couldn't fit in, then he decided to make his own community. Forty-nine years later the club was finally staggering back to its feet after too many years of flagging in the dirt. Rider was always grateful to the old man, now long since dead, because of him he had a purpose, he belonged. Outside on the brick wall was a plaque that read;

CLUBHOUSE OF THE RENEGADE SOULS MOTORCYCLE CLUB.

Founded on October 1, 1967, by

Homer 'Hammer' Kontos and Other.

And as the club passed down from one President to the next when their time came, they each looked at it and knew he was part of a rich history of outlaws.