Page 5 of Ruthless Obsession (Royal Bastards MC Chicago, IL Chapter)

RUTHLESS

Piping hot water pours over my skin as I lather up with body wash, trying to scrub away the rage.

That motherfucker was probably just waiting for the right deal—to sell Sophie off like she was nothing.

I slam my fist against the tile wall, jaw clenched.

My gaze drops to my long, thick, furious cock—pissed off like the rest of me. It wants what I want — to claim her sweet virgin pussy.

I stroke myself hard, fast, growling her name through my teeth. “Sophie. Why the hell did you fall for that piece of shit?”

My hips jerk. Ropes of cum hit the gray tile.

After brushing my teeth, I grab my clothes and step out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on my hips. Water drips from my hair, chest, and abs.

The club girls are out tonight, and I feel every gaze crawl over my wet, muscled frame.

There are three kinds of women who hang around here.

Club sluts—drawn to bikers like moths to a flame.

Any patch will do. They love the leather or blue jean cuts, t-shirts, jeans, and grungy boots.

Club foxes—loyal, hungry for a claim. Almost OL’ Lady material.

Hang arounds—they flirt with the edge of our world, soaking up the chaos, but always go back to their regular lives.

Then there’s the real deal. An OL’ Lady. A man’s woman. One hundred percent his. She gets respect—but only if she’s earned it.

All the women that frequent our clubhouse wants that title but can’t handle the responsibility that comes with it. You have to be a down ass woman to be a biker’s OL’ Lady. It takes a rider to wear that title as Flock would say. The kind of woman who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly.

Back in my quarters, I find Sophie sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging at the handcuffs.

Earlier with the towel still wrapped around her, she maneuvered panties and shorts up her legs with practiced efficiency. She tugged a tank top over her head, maintaining her modest shield throughout the process, before I secured the handcuffs.

“Ready to be free?” I ask.

“Yes. I’d like to sleep like a human being. You on the floor. Me in the bed.”

I smirk, ripping the towel from my waist and drying off. Her eyes drop to my cock that bobs to life under her heavy lust filled gaze.

“You don’t want me, remember?” I taunt. “So why are you staring?”

She points. “Because its right here in my face.”

I laugh. “If it was really in your face, you'd have your pretty lips wrapped around my thick shaft.”

“I want out of here,” she mutters under her breath, looking around the room like she’s trying to plan her exit.

I step forward crowding her. “Let’s get one thing straight, you wouldn’t get far. Your sick, twisted ex was planning to sell your sweet little virgin ass on the black market. It’s just a matter of time before he learns your body isn’t in the rubble.”

Her eyes flare with fury. She rears back to slap me, but I catch her wrist midair, jaw tight.

“You want to hit me again, baby?”

“Damn right I do,” she spits.

I yank her down flat on the bed. “You can fight all you want, little captive. Doesn’t change a damn thing. You’re mine now.”

I toss the sheet over her. “Go to fucking sleep.”

A knock hits the door.

“Yeah?” I call, standing up.

Sophie turns her back to me, but not before I catch the flash of heat still lingering in her eyes.

My new woman loves to stare at my dick, so I know I struck a nerve for her to turn away from the view.

“Prez wants you,” Flock says through the door.

“I’ll be right there,” I reply, tugging on my jeans.

Later, I’d ask her about what went on in her relationship with twisted Toby and about the other secrets she’s hiding from me.

Walking through the club ten minutes later, a woman grabs my arm. Her hungry eyes move over my long blond curly hair, my cut littered with motorcycle patches, a white Royal Bastards t-shirt, jeans, and black boots. Typical biker attire.

I inhale cigarette smoke, varnish, and stale beer as I raise a hand to catch the bartender's eye. "Squid, beer."

Behind the wooden bar stands Julio "Squid" Perez. He nods, his salt-and-pepper crew cut catching the dim light. At fifty the Army vet, explosives expert, still rides with us, pulling double duty as our tail gunner when he's not pouring drinks. "Coming right up, brother."

I peek at the clingy blonde club slut whom I’ve fucked at some point. What’s her fucking name?

“What’s your name?” I ask flatly.

She looks offended. But that’s what happens when you fuck bikers; not every woman is memorable. Especially when she’s fucked half my brothers in this bar.

“Jennifer.”

“I’m not—”

She cuts me off, staring down at my arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me patch you up.”

“Not necessary. I’ve got a woman who’ll handle that.”

She recoils like I smacked her. “You’ve got an OL’ Lady?”

“Here you go, Ruthless.” Squid hands me a cold one. I take the beer and a few napkins, pressing them to my arm.

My eyes fall on Amos “Greaser” Trent, new prospect and club mechanic. He just finished touching up the Royal Bastards logo on my bike. “Hey, Greaser.”

“What’s up, Ruthless?”

“My bike looks good, man.”

A broad grin spreads across his chocolate-hued cheeks. He's about six foot two. Normally, there's at least one club slut vying for his attention. He must have just gotten here. They're always drawn to his amber eyes, as they often mention.

“Glad you like it.”

I jerk my thumb at Jennifer. “She’s looking for a Royal Bastard to give her some attention.”

Greaser eyes her over his beer.

I sip my beer and hold the napkins to my bloody arm. As soon as this meeting is over, I’ll wake up my woman and have her bandage me up.

Jennifer whines. “I want your attention, Ruthless.”

I lift my bottle. “Sorry, darling.” I wink before stalking toward the Prez’s office.

Our clubhouse sits on the corner—a two-story, steel-gray warehouse ringed by a black-metal privacy fence.

Out back, a cavernous garage is where our mechanics tinker on bikes and cars.

We park the club cars and trucks in the back parking lot for special runs.

A sturdy awning is attached to the clubhouse.

Perfect place to fire up the grills. Rows of picnic tables are ready for bikers and their families to congregate. It’s our refuge.

Inside, it’s fully tricked out: a jukebox stands in the music area where a live band kicks off every Sunday, and just outside is the game room, complete with plush couches, pool tables, dartboards, and even a private poker den.

At the heart of the building stretches a long bar backed by rows of liquor bottles, with tables and chairs for bikers to gather.

A few living quarters occupy the first floor, but the rest are up on the second, along with rooms for club “sluts” to hook up with whoever needs entertaining.

I rap my knuckles against the heavy door.

“Come in,” Prez barks.

His office feels like the ultimate biker man-cave.

To my left is a gray upholstered sofa; in the corner, a poker table for the real private games.

On the right stands a custom bar just for Prez, and smack in the middle is his desk, papers strewn around like he’d thrown them in a rage.

A staircase in the back corner leads up to his private quarters.

I not at Bryan “Brillo” Farms, our Sergeant at Arms. He lounges in a chair by the desk—legendary for scraping skulls across asphalt as if he’s power-sanding concrete.

Always makes great conversation over drinks afterwards.

I drop onto the gray sofa and take a long pull of my beer.

My gaze drifts to Barlowe “Viper” Smith, our thirty-two-year-old VP, nursing a neat whiskey.

His medium-length black hair looks like he’s run his hands through it a few too many times.

His cold blue eyes lock onto mine. “Hey, Ruthless,” he says.

I nod.

His thoughts are clearly elsewhere—probably on that crazy chick he’s been seeing.

“Ruthless, what the fuck is going on?” Prez snaps. His six four frame is perched on the edge of the desk. He runs his fingers through his golden brown low cut strands.

“You were supposed to watch the asshole until he led us to the stolen weapons. And now I hear you stole his girl ?”

My jaw tightens. “She’s not his anymore. She’s mine.”

His big, burly arms cross his massive chest. His gray eyes stare into mine. “So she’s your OL’ Lady now?”

I don’t answer. He knows my history. Due to the loss I suffered I don’t get attached. But Sophie… she flipped a switch in my heart I didn’t even know existed. I have to have her.

“I underestimated the bastard,” I admit. “Should’ve kept Webbs and Flock with me. When I met the woman, she clocked me.”

Brillo snorts. “She hit your big ass?”

Viper laughs too.

“After watching her kick Toby in the nuts last night, I was more worried about guarding my dick than my face.”

Prez chuckles, stepping closer, gripping my jaw like he’s inspecting damage.

“Should I be worried, cousin?”

I swat him away. “Get your damn hands off me.”

He smirks. We’re both roped into our granddad’s bullshit, and his ex is about to marry someone else. I wonder if he’s gonna let that shit happen.

“I’m happy you guys are ok after that explosion,” Prez sighs.

“Yeah, Psycho found out more information on Toby. He’s into sex trafficking.”

“That information can be helpful to a friend of mine,” Prez adds.

I know he’s talking about Buck Haugen. Neto.

Secret society with deep pockets. Phantom attended college with him.

They bust traffickers and throw down heavy cash.

The payout we’d earn for leading them to the ring would go back to the club to take care of our brothers’ families.

We live by a code. No brother left behind.

“What’s your next move?” Brillo asks.

“Let things cool off. Make Toby think he scared his enemies away. He doesn’t know it was us. No cuts. No bikes. We’ve still got the element of surprise,” I say.

Prez grins. “Perfect.”

He loves having the upper hand.