The Rage: Hell's Disciples MC 3(6)

By: Jaci J



“Lilly around?”

Pushing off the doorframe he shakes his head, “Yep. She’s getting’ fucked, so you can wait down here with me,” He says as he turns away from me and heads for the bar.

“Oh shit, fresh pussy boys,” someone yells. I turn to see some cocky asshole making his way toward me. “Well, hello there, darlin’. What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?

I refuse to let this shithead call me fresh pussy, so I simply smile and say, “Not lookin’ for you, darlin’, and throw in a nice little wink. He’s obviously not too happy with my answer, seeing as he stops dead in his tracks and looks at me like he wants to rip my head off.

“Get the fuck outta here, King. This girl ain’t here for none of us,” Gigantor tells him. He turns to me with a sexy ass smile, “Name?”

“Lailah.”

For a moment he freezes, complete shock taking over his features, but it disappears just a quickly. He stares at me for a few moments before saying, “I think I’ll call you Lala.”

Wait, what? “No, it’s “LAI-LAH.””

“Nah, I like Lala better.” I’m not about to argue my name with this giant of a man. He can call me whatever the fuck he wants to.

“And your name is…”

“Rampage.”

I’m not the least bit surprised. He looks like he could go on one at any moment.

Rampage’s eyes slowly run the length of my body from head to toe, lingering on my boobs, not even trying to hide it. I suddenly wish that I wore something less revealing, like a mumu.

“Come on, Lala. Let’s get us a drink,” He growls, breaking through my thoughts.

I start to follow him and take in the place. The room is huge and industrial, just like the outside. Mismatched furniture is set up in the large living area to one side of the room, facing some ridiculously large TV’s. That obviously wasn’t enough entertainment for these guys, so they put in stripper poles in two areas of the room, along with floor to ceiling mirrors.

In the middle are tables and chairs, and another corner houses pool tables and dartboards. There are stairs at one end of the room, and a large bar lined with old barstools and bikers at the other. Everything seems functional – if you wanna live in a frat house.

There are women dressed in tight clothes with their nipples sticking out of the top of their very low, tight tops. Men in leather and tattoos are drinking, talking and laughing as the song, The Joker, fills the room. God this is a good song. I want to sing along but bite my tongue. No one wants to hear that.

The stale smell of Tabaco and the sweet fragrance of weed waft through the air. I notice that people are starting to notice me, quieting their conversations as I walk by. Conversations stop and eyes asses me. I feel out of place and way out of my element here. Rampage doesn’t seem to notice the stares, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

He walks up to a man on a bar stool and slaps his hand on his shoulder, “Get the fuck up, prospect.”

The small man jumps right up and smiles obligingly at me, “Ma’am,” he mutters before ducking out of the room. Rampage takes a seat and without a word, he waves a woman over to him that has way too much boobs for such a small tank top. If the bitch jumped, she’d have two black eyes. I am not even joking.

“Drinks, Red,” he orders her coldly. She bats her clumpy coated lashes at him and adds a pout to her red lined lips.

“Sure thing, baby,” and there she goes, sashaying her ass away just as she did when she walked over. If she puts any more sway into those hips, she may knock one out of place. She is definitely trying to work it, but it needs some work.

I stand awkwardly behind him, wondering what I should do, and more importantly, wondering why the hell I’m here in the first place. This is so not me. I should be at home, reading or studying, not hanging out in a sleazy biker clubhouse, but I wanted to do something out of my element and not so boring, so here I am, and here I’ll stay.

Looking over his shoulder, Rampage nods at me and then at the stool, “Put that pretty little ass of yours on the stool, Lala.”

The bartender comes back, sliding the shots to Rampage. She leans herself into the bar with a smile on her lips, boobs resting on the bar top while she shamelessly flirts, “You sure you don’t need me in your bed tonight, Daddy?” she purrs at him, running a long pink fingernail up and down his arm seductively. Daddy? Oh now, come on. That’s not sexy, that shit’s just gross.

“Nope,” he grunts and gives her a dismissive wave. She pouts, but doesn’t argue.

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