Property of the Bad Boy(10)

By: Vanessa Waltz

Just kill me and get it over with.

It makes my stomach turn to think about marrying one of those fucking cunts. They beat my brother—hurt him so badly that he’d never walk again. They’re accessories to his murder.

“Why the fuck are we making peace with these dogs?”

“I want my money,” Johnny says baldly. “They’re giving back most of the money from the heist, and I want things to calm down.”

So that’s it? They get to beat the shit out of Mike and everything is fucking hunky-dory?

“What about my brother?”

“They paid for hurting him. An eye for an eye.”

They did. I saw the biker’s body that Tommy tortured. It wasn’t enough for me. Call me sick, but I wanted more.

“The new president knows we have the means to wipe them out, if we wanted. He wants peace, and frankly, so do I.” Johnny runs a hand through his hair and steps away from me. “Let’s go. I don’t have all fucking day.”

Die or marry some biker bitch. It’s not really a choice, is it? If I go to jail, it won’t be long before someone shanks me in prison. Johnny’s willingness to do right by my brother would end the moment I posed a threat to him.

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

Resigned, I follow Johnny outside the room back into the clubhouse, where a dozen or so bikers are waiting for us. The bloody struggle that started after we killed their president ended up with a more moderate, less reactionary leadership.

“They’re just going to hand off one of their women to me?”

He gives me a look, warning me to silence. “They’re desperate.”

They must be to give one of their women to a guy who fucks around and gives no shits about it. The new president stands in the middle of the clubhouse, which looks significantly less shabby than the last time we came here. Gone are the stripper poles and the giant speakers blasting rock music. Thank fucking God. Behind their shoulders I see a row of women lined up like a cattle auction.

Sweet Jesus.

This is insane.

Johnny shakes the president’s hand, who turns his oily gaze toward me.

The new president is a short, stout man with a russet-colored beard, which lightens in his heavy sideburns. His leather cut is cracked with age, but he wears it proudly. The look he gives me makes my teeth crack. The last thing I want is to marry one of these people. It’s a fucking insult to my brother’s memory. A disgrace.

It’s temporary.

The president holds out his hand for me to shake, but I just can’t stomach looking into that fucking asshole’s eyes and taking his hand as though he’s my equal. An image of Mike’s lifeless body in the hospital bed flashes, and my face slowly burns. I feel like I can imagine it going black and curling backward, like that biker Tommy torched to avenge my brother.

That makes me smile.

I take his hand, and it’s like a battle of who can crush the other guy first.

“These are the girls who are willing to provide an alibi for you.”

Johnny crosses his arms. “If everyone keeps their mouth shut, we can put this behind us.”

Cold rage brews in my chest as Johnny gives me a quelling look. Put this behind us? I look around for a friendly face, and see Sal, the underboss. He darkens as he meets my gaze and he very slightly shakes his head.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Pissed, I turn back toward the women they have lined up for me. They stand close together, looking vaguely unhappy as they avoid my gaze.

Which one am I supposed to pick? The one who seems the happiest or the one I see myself fucking?

“So, what am I supposed to do once I pick one? Throw her over my shoulder and walk out?”

My humor echoes hollowly in the clubhouse and Johnny gives me a withering look before he turns his head.

“This is just a meeting,” the president says, unsmiling.


My attention turns back to the row of women patiently waiting for me to make a decision. My eyes skip from pretty face to face, recognizing nothing but fear. I almost skip over the last one, too. Then my heart turns to stone. The long, highlighted blonde hair and deep-blue eyes strike me suddenly. That rosebud mouth was wrapped around my cock hours earlier. Holy shit, it’s her. The girl I banged in the club. What was her name?


Her eyes fasten on me and she does a double take, her sullen features gradually hardening into grim resoluteness.

So I already fucked the biker bitch.

Well, well, well.

This is interesting. Either she scoped me out or this is one hell of a coincidence. Considering the lack of surprise on her face, I’d guess it’s the former.

Holy shit. Was does that mean?

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