Page 1 of Property of Thrasher (Kings of Anarchy MC: South Carolina #1)

THRASHER

T here was a rhythm to the chaos. I had lived it now for years, it became second nature. Like breathing, being surrounded in noise was normal.

The thump of bass vibrated through the entire space of the Kings of Anarchy MC clubhouse.

My house.

This club was home to me.

With the speakers turned wide open, the old liquor bottles that lined the back of the bar shook like teeth rattling in a hypothermic person barely hanging on begging for a bit of warmth.

Smoke filled the air; cigars, vapes, cigarettes, and weed all mixed with perfume, leather, body odor, and spilled beer.

I didn’t care who lit up what as long as they didn’t burn the god forsaken place down.

My brothers were louder than the music, shouting over each other, trading shots, fists pounding against backs and shoulders in an affection not born of shared blood, but rather spilled blood.

We hadn’t had a reason to party like this in a long damn time. Tonight, though, we did.

Pinky was home.

“Get over here, you ugly bastard,” I said, pulling him into a hug that I rolled into a headlock.

“Shit, Prez!” he wheezed laughing like he didn’t just do a fucking nickel for the club. “You tryin’ to put my ass in a hospital? I’m fragile,” he teased. While the man had seriously bulked up during his time locked up, he was anything but fragile.

“You wouldn’t last in a fuckin’ hospital.” I joked, “too many nurses that won’t like your grabby hands, or crackheads in the ER, you’d catch somethin’, or worse. You spend too much time in there, they’ll figure out how you really are and end up locked in the psych ward.”

He grinned big, showing the two missing teeth in the front from a prison altercation. “Still prettier than half the pussies in here.”

We both laughed.

The clubhouse was packed to the brim tonight.

The walls stained with a yellow tint from years of smoke, sweat, and spilled whiskey.

Fuck knows if someone ever took the time to clean the walls, they would see just how bad.

Kings of Anarchy flags hung from the rafters, the skull with a crown done with the beige accent, the space reminding everyone who belonged here.

Another flag of the Palmetto tree for South Carolina done in teal, beige, and black hung beside it with our Kings skull and crown plastered over that state emblem.

Our territory ran from Florence to Columbia, South Carolina, but Kings of Anarchy were worldwide. We owned this shit and weren’t about to let anyone creep in.

People moved through rooms like heat waves, from old ladies huddled together watching their men from a distance, to the damn club bunnies in tight skirts, too-high heels, and brothers from other chapters who rode in to support Pinky.

We’re all relaxed together. Even the nomads showed up because the word had spread far and wide.

Pinky kept his mouth shut, did his time, and took a beating from a rival while inside that won’t go unpunished.

He more than earned this celebration.

“Yo, Thrasher,” Widower’s voice cut through from down the bar, “You see Spare’s side piece got her tits signed by Pinky? Swear to fuck, bitch is gonna get it tattooed.”

I didn’t even glance over, “Spare’s piece ain’t got no shame. We all know it. At least he didn’t have to sign her stank pussy.”

Spare had this piece that was, well, a piece.

Not sure how long she had lived on the streets, really the bitch didn’t share much with any of us, but wherever she came from, she was different.

Add in Spare’s brand of crazy, what those two got was a whole lot of complicated.

When he first brought her around, she wanted to be a bunny.

She passed the STD and STI checkup, but the bitch had a serious case of stank pussy.

How Spare could ever tap that much less repeatedly, or eat that snatch, I didn’t care to know.

And bitch was crazy enough to get Pinky’s signature permanently inked on her body.

I shook my head, grabbed a beer from the bar, and moved to lean against one of the thick support beams near the center of the room.

From this vantage point, I could see most of the floor.

The poker tables in the back where Hacksaw was hustling two prospects, Frootloop and Three, to the long back bar with Lettie pouring shots like a machine.

Near that was a wall of women pressed together on the makeshift dance floor near the speakers and computer set up we had for Guru to keep the music going for us.

It was loud, filthy, and wild. I could see five different brothers each in a unique position for sex acts of some kind.

From DK straight fucking a bunny from behind smashing her face into the wall to Rage getting his dick sucked in a corner, and then Bender eating some bitch’s pussy while standing up.

Yes, he had her thighs on his shoulders, legs dangling down his back, with his hands cupping her ass and back while she moans gyrating against his face that was hidden under her skirt.

Widower was hands deep down another bunny’s pants and K-9 was hands to ass starting his own adventure with his on again off again bitch.

Yes. Loud.

Yes. Filthy. Maybe even disgusting to some.

Yes. Wild.

This was home.

I scanned the crowd again, not looking for trouble, but out of habit. I didn’t become the President of the Kings of Anarchy by letting my guard down. Not even on a good night in my own territory would I not be on alert.

That’s when I noticed her.

The outlier.

She didn’t belong here.

Not in the modest black dress that ended just above her knees and a damn top to it that had a turtleneck.

Who even wore those anymore? No, this bitch, with her hair twisted up and pinned back, looked like she was going to a funeral.

She stood stiff near the edge of the party.

With us, but not exactly. The look on her face was a baby deer that stumbled into a pack of hyenas. She was lost.

A prospect, probably Three, being too stupid to know better, allowed her in without checking her credentials I was sure of it. Tonight was for Pinky. I wouldn’t make a scene and send her packing until she gave me reason to. For now, she was simply on my radar.

I pushed off the beam I was leaning against, stalking through the crowd.

Just before I could reach her, Tiny slid in front of me with his arm draped around a new club bunny, or his woman, I wasn’t sure which she was just yet.

I knew she had the fucker chasing that tail though, and wearing a grin like he fucking owned the damn place.

Pinky was his cousin, he was celebrating for his family even harder than the rest of us, I was certain.

“You gonna sit on the sideline holdin’ that beam up all night, Prez? Or you gonna remind us who the fuck runs this shit?” He asked slapping me on the chest.

“Just watching,” I muttered, eyes still locked to the strange bitch.

Tiny followed my gaze, then let out a low whistle. “You know her?”

“No.”

His face lit up into a shit-eating grin, “then I call dibs.” Then he winked at the woman in his arms. It made me curious, but my instincts were already putting a stop to this shit.

“No, you don’t.”

He raised his brows, but didn’t question me further.

I didn’t know why I stopped him from heading over to her, or why I shut him down.

She came through our doors. Even if it was written all over her body that she didn’t fit in, I wasn’t about to protect her from any of my brothers, or myself.

At least normally I wouldn’t. Clearly, I hadn’t had enough to drink to stop anyone from anything with her. She was no one in my world.

And this was my world.

She turned before I could get closer, vanishing down the hallway that led to the bathrooms and a storage room.

Good.

Maybe she’d just leave. Maybe this was a cruel dare or a lost bet where her friends goaded her into being here. Whatever the reason, she didn’t belong here.

I drifted back into the crowd, back to the noise and body heat.

The music had changed from the beginning of the party classic rock, to the hip hop jams requested by some of the bunnies, to something dirtier, slower, with a grind.

The women moved like they knew it too. Their hips swayed seductively with hair sticking to sweat dampened necks was an intoxication all it’s own.

Maria, a tall brunette with golden toffee skin and a mouth made to suck dick walked straight up to me, putting her hands on my chest. “Thrasher,” she purred with her manicured nails tapping against the fabric of my shirt. “You wanna dance with me, or keep starin’ like you enjoy the show?”

I didn’t dance.

She knew it.

I knew it.

Fuck, everyone knew it.

I let her pull me toward the darker edge of the room, near a side wall where shadows gave the space a special allure.

With her back to the wall, she pulled on my cut taking me in closer.

Her mouth found mine without hesitation and I didn’t stop her.

In fact, I welcomed it. Her tongue was hot, sweet with a hint of whiskey, and her breaths erratic.

Her hips rocked against mine as I grabbed her thigh, wrapping it around my body, allowing her to feel my ever growing erection behind the denim of my jeans.

She began grinding in a rhythm that matched the music and the pulse pounding through my veins.

My hand curled in her hair, tugging it just enough to make her pull away and gasp before devouring her mouth once again.

She arched for me, pressing her tits to my chest as I drank her in like a man dying in a desert.

My hand roamed up her thigh finding her pussy covered in lace. My fingers found their way to her slick hole as she moaned into my kiss.

For this moment, I got to forget for a second what it cost to run this club. To be the one keeping every one of these assholes in line. For just a simple breath, I could forget what it meant to ride like the grim reaper was always coming up on my tailpipe.