Page 265 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

Wind in my face.Tree-lined highway rolling beneath my Chieftain’s wheels. My girl on the back of my bike, her arms snug around my waist, her thighs a warm cradle for my ass, her breasts pressed against my back.

I could be eighteen again except my lower’s back’s griping from four hours of riding. I ignore it. We’re less than ten minutes from the clubhouse, I’ve got muscle balm in my saddlebags, and I know a sammie who’ll rub it in for me.

I might have to stop calling Brenna that, because other than her usual wry humor, she’s been an angel for the last two days. She’s made time for me in ways I couldn’t imagine. Everything from giving me peeks into her business to settling easily into the relaxed collegiality of the charity ride to her nightly ritual of kissing my cock before we sleep. She even gave me a list of the times she felt vulnerable last week, which I’d decreed as her punishment for lying to me during our first scene, but I’d let go because I felt so bad about abandoning her. This girl just keeps surprising me. I haven’t had to hammer away at her barriers because she’s let them down inch by inch. From taking me toher friend’s drag show, which made me laugh harder than I have in years, to trusting me to keep her safe in a group of strangers when we did a scene with some of the bikers last night, Brenna’s let me in. We haven’t had any more real talk, no more sharing our painful pasts, but I feel her opening up to me more and more.

I know there’s a talk we have to have before Sunday. She asked for the truth about me and Amy; even if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t let her walk into a potential confrontation with Amy unprepared.

But not tonight. I’d planned to take Bren back into the City tonight, but, when the Rolling Blue President invited us back to the clubhouse for dinner after the ride, I changed my plans. It’s not every day I get invited to dinner by a former DEA SAIC. I’m also pretty sure this is more than an invitation to dinner and I’m curious to know what it is. If it’s an invitation to join the club, then it won’t hurt to have Brenna meet the other club members, and their significant others, with her clothes on.

Even though she only packed a change of clothes and a small bag of toiletries, Brenna accepted the change of plans without a grumble. She gave me a sly smile and suggested we ask for an end room at the motel so she could make me scream again without disturbing the neighbors.

I may never live that down, but the orgasm was more than worth it. I can’t remember ever coming that hard.

Of course, she’s thrown down the fucking gauntlet, so now I’m working on ideas for a scene that’ll have her howling so loud the neighbors complain to the night manager. I’m thinking abrasion, since her clitty can take a lot of abuse. We passed a DIY store ten minutes ago and I’ve marked it on my mental map so we can stop on the way to the motel for supplies.

The head of the long snake of bikes we’re riding in begins to twist as we reach the turn into the Rolling Blue clubhouse. It’san old shoe factory off Route 46 that’s been renovated by the club. All exposed red brick and concrete, it still has an industrial feel. The inside’s more utilitarian than luxe like Blunts, but if I’m honest, I’m more comfortable here than I am at Logan’s fancy club. Blunts has its virtues, though, with that excellent restaurant, pool, spa, and the dungeons.

The Rolling Blue clubhouse is walking distance from the Rockaway River, but that’s about it in terms of “spa” facilities. The local restaurant is a greasy spoon in a strip mall back along Route 46 with the amusing name of the Sticky Moustache. The club brothers have warned me to avoid anything on the menu that’s not deep fried unless I want the runs. But both a pizza place and a Chinese restaurant further along the main road deliver and the club orders enough for their own buffet most nights.

There’s a large concrete pad inside the twelve-foot fence that rings the clubhouse, with plenty of parking, which is certainly at a premium in the City, although Logan’s told me there’s a secret garage underneath Blunts that I’ll be allowed to use once I’m a member. Inside, the downstairs of the clubhouse is a large bar with Bud, two local microbrews, and Guinness on tap. There are pool tables, a dart board, and two closed-off areas with large screen TVs, one of which seems dedicated to first person shooter games. There are three doors behind the bar, which I’m guessing lead to members-only spaces, since I already know that the dungeon is in the basement. The bikers have mentioned there are bedrooms upstairs and a few of the brothers without other family live at the clubhouse full time, which I’m guessing helps with security. And the security is fairly tight. The palisade fence rolls closed behind the last of the bikes as we park up on the concrete pad. I swing off my Chieftain and stretch out my back before helping Brenna off, and then wait for one of the club brothers to walk us in.

That it’s the club president, Walter, who comes to get us surprises me, although it probably shouldn’t. He’s been extra attentive during this visit. Not in a weird way. Just making me feel welcome, and making sure Brenna’s gotten to meet several of the brothers’ significant others. There are also several girls Brenna hasn’t been introduced to, and who don’t seem to be with any particular brother. I think they’re called sweet butts and they make me uncomfortable. I have no problem with women, or men, being shared among the brothers if that’s what they want. But they seem to be paid for sex, like the Blunts house submissives, which bothers me at some level. It’s not that I object to sex work. I’ve paid to play more than once. It’s the sense that the sweet butts and the house subs are being pimped out and they don’t have any choice in who they sleep with. It’s something I want to talk to Logan and Brenna about at length before I start helping Logan manage the house subs.

While I’m ruminating on the ethics of sex clubs, Walter walks us through the two security doors. Bren joins the line for the ladies’ room while I head to the bar for bottles of water, having taken advantage of my more outdoor-friendly plumbing while we were riding. Walter elbows up to the bar beside me while I wait for the one of the two bartenders to work their way down the line of thirsty bikers.

“Enjoy the ride?” Walter asks.

“I did. We both did. Thanks for making Bren feel welcome.”

Walter dips his grizzled grey and black head. “My pleasure. Appreciate you staying another night. After dinner, maybe a few of us could sit down with you for a half-hour?”

Ah, here it comes. “Sure.”

“If you and your girl would like to do another scene tonight, the basement’s yours. I don’t think anyone’s planning to use it. Probably a few brothers who’d like to watch if you do.”

“We’ll take you up on that. I need to run an errand for a few supplies, but it shouldn’t take long.”

“Tell me what you need. We’ll get it for you.”

The sense of belonging washes over me. Of being part of a brotherhood again. Each man having the other’s back. It’s not that I feel alone when I’m with Logan, Manny, and Max. I know I can trust them with my life. But it’s different being part of a platoon, a large group of men I can count on. And I’ve missed it.

“That’d be great. I’ll make a list. Probably all at that DIY store back down the highway.”

Walter chuckles. “No problem. We’ve got an account there so whatever you want, it’s on us. I’m sure someone else will get some use out of it after you’re done.”

Not unless they need to scrub the floors, but I keep that to myself. “Great.”

Walter slaps my shoulder, which makes a good noise with the leather jacket I’m wearing. “Good. Chinese’ll be here in an hour, so make yourself at home until then.”

“Thanks, Walter.”

His dusty brown face splits into a white grin before he moves away.

A redhead behind the bar finally passes me two bottles of water. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve forgotten her name, although I remember that she’s with the club’s sergeant at arms, Stape. I’ve tried hard to remember the names of all the bikers and their significant others that I’ve been introduced to, but there are nearly thirty members and a half-dozen others who aren’t members but seem to hang around the club all the time, plus their ladies, and I’ll admit I’ve lost track of a few names.

I claim a table in the bar area to wait for Bren and am immediately joined by the club’s treasurer, Bud, and one of the younger hang-arounds, Chris. They’re both carrying beers. Bud rode his Harley Iron 883 next to me for several hours today andis one of the club brothers with whom I immediately connected. He’s ex-Air Force and we’ve traded the usual Air Force/Navy jibes already, which he took in good humor.

I pretend to pick something out of my teeth. “Think I still have your monster’s gravel spray in my gums,” I say before taking a sip of water.