Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(4)

I don’t classify living as being married to the same dick for the rest of your life and sporting a “Property Of” patch. If she wants to live like that, then that’s her choice. I’ll continue to be who I am and she can do whatever the hell she wants. But first, the bitch is buying me pancakes.





I didn’t realize how much I was starving until I had the IHOP menu in my hand. There’s always so many choices. Since it’s on Red’s dime, I decide to order everything that appeals to me—including orange juice and chocolate milk, neither of which have free refills.

Red didn’t bore me with small talk on the way here. I was forced to listen to classic country music, which I found more enjoyable than I expected. But now that we’ve ordered, and there’s nothing more to distract us, I’m ready for her to get down to the real reason she barged into my room this morning.

“What do you want, Red?” I ask, for the fifth time today.

“I want you to give the guys a warning.”

My brows draw together in confusion. “A warning about what?”

“There’s a girl running with the Eagles…Carmen. She’s working her way up the MC hierarchy and her next stop is the Renegades. She’s a patchwhore.” At the irony, I can’t help but laugh.

A patchwhore is best described as a woman who will do just about anything for a property patch. But her obsession doesn’t stop there. She won’t settle to be just anybody’s property. She’ll continue to work her way up the ladder until she holds the highest position—property of a president.

“I’m serious,” she says, leaning in closer to me. “There are several single guys in the club who might fall for her shit. Think of Scratch and Crash.” I roll my eyes. Scratch and Crash have plenty of sense. Plus, I’m not their mother.

“You do realize that I have a lot more in common with her than I do with you.”

“Why?” She’s genuinely confused, or either she’s really good at faking it.

“Because the world we live in has two sides. There are people like me and Carmen on one side, and on the other are people like you and Dallas. Y’all consider us beneath y’all and label us as someone who’s not nearly as respected or appreciated as an ol’ lady. Hence the words clubwhore and patchwhore that you so commonly use as if we don’t have names and aren’t real people.”

Her frown deepens and her brow creases. “You think that’s how I feel?”

“You called her a patchwhore, Red. To my fucking face. Am I supposed to believe you think any higher of me? Come on.” I shake my head in disbelief. “What do you think I do at the clubhouse? Really? Be honest.”

She thinks a minute before answering. “I think the clubs pays you to make yourself available to anyone wanting their dick sucked, or an easy lay. I think you fuck because you enjoy it, but mostly because it’s the way you choose to make your living.” Her honesty surprises me. At least I know she’s not afraid to speak her mind.

“I’m not judging you, Delilah. I could care less how you live your life. I once had a label too. I was a cokewhore. I’d fuck for an eight ball because at the time, it was worth it to me. I stripped for dirty old men, role played for drug dealers and never hesitated to fall to my knees and suck a cock for a single snort.”

Grabbing her glass, she tosses back the remainder of her orange juice before digging into her purse. “So,” she starts, letting out a long sigh. “If you’re that insecure about yourself to believe that I would ever think you beneath me, then you’re a fucking fool.” Her voice is loud, drawing the attention of the people around us.

“Red,” I snap, trying to warn her to keep her voice down. My anger is fueled by the fact that this bitch just turned the tables on me.

“Shut up, Delilah,” she says on a breath. “Because honestly, you exhaust me.” She goes to stand, but remembers something else to chew my ass about and stops. “Do you know why I, along with every other ol’ lady, refer to you as a clubwhore?”

I widen my eyes and turn my head slightly, silently demanding she chill the fuck out with the whole “whore” reference. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Leaning in, she drops her voice. I should be thankful, but there’s something more chilling in the way she says it just above a whisper. “Because you fuck club members for money.”

I give her my best poker face. Her eyes search desperately for a reaction from me. She can search all day long. She’s not going to find anything. When she finally realizes that, a look of pity crosses her face. I fight the urge to slap it off her.

“What you’re feeling right now? That’s reality, babe. Welcome to the real world.” She thinks she’s finally gotten through to me. The relief on her face tells me she’s thinking by explaining the definition of a clubwhore to me that she’s repaid her debt to the one who made her realize what she was all those years ago—the one who called her out on being a “cokewhore.” Well, fuck her.

I don’t feel ashamed at her admission. I’m not embarrassed, sad or hurt either. What she said is the truth. And sometimes, you just have to hear it.

Standing, I look down at her, wondering if this is how she feels every time she looks at me. “You’re wrong, Red,” I say. Leaning down, I brace my hands on the table—distracting her with the empty look in my eyes while my hand fists around her keys. Poor thing…she doesn’t even realize she’s about to get carjacked.

“I’m wrong?” She breathes out an amused laugh. “How am I wrong?”

With a tone as cold as my heart is in this moment, I tell her the true effect her words have on me.

“I don’t feel a fucking thing.”





If my conversation with Red wasn’t enough to put me in a shit mood, the fact that tomorrow is Sunday was. Aside from knowing what’s coming, I’ve had to be on all night and I’ve not been my chipper self—and it shows. I’ve been getting curious stares, narrowed glances and concerned looks since the sun went down hours ago. But the world didn’t stop just because I was having a bad day. Not that I expected it to.

It’s after four in the morning and the party is still going strong. The music is blaring, women are naked and the place is littered with patches from several different chapters. The environment is usually a high to me. But tonight, I feel that monster inside me shake the shit out of his cage—threatening to break loose.

“Luke?” With a smile that, I shit you not, could dampen a nun’s panties, he turns to face me.

Luke Carmical, aka, Devil’s Renegades President, LLC. He’s just too fucking gorgeous. I mean, really. It’s not fair to every other male on the planet. He’s six foot tall and two hundred pounds of pure perfection. Short blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and an aura of power that surrounds him and follows him everywhere he goes. Just looking at him lifts my spirits. It sucks that he’s married. I could really use some presidential dick right about now.

“Let me guess,” he says, replacing his warm smile with his signature smirk. He’s like a super badass biker Ken Barbie doll. “You gotta split.”

Even though I have no reason to be sorry, I offer him an apologetic look. I think I feel more sorry for me than I do him, though. “It’s Sunday.” As if I need to remind him, I hold up my wrist and point to my imaginary watch.

“Would you listen if I asked you not to go?”

“No.”

He laughs at my short answer. I wonder if the worry in his eyes is because I haven’t been myself tonight, or because he knows where it is I go every Sunday—even though I’ve never told him.

Before he has a chance to say anything in an attempt to get me to stay, I remind him of something else he should already know. “It’s not your business, Luke.”

At the seriousness in my tone, he sobers slightly. But concern still creases his brow. Heartwarming, really. But I like to keep as much distance between my two worlds as possible. He can respect that. Or at least he has for the past two years.

Keeping his eyes on me, he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his ripped jeans. I feel like he’s trying to read my mind, or convince me by using some telepathic communication to stay. But my walls are pretty solid and my mind is made up, so I just stare back.

“Three hundred?”

“Why do you always ask me that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He shrugs. “You do extra shit…I don’t mind paying extra money.”

“We had an agreement. And I never take on more than I can handle.” To lighten the weird vibe between us, I wink. Like a fog, the mood lifts.

“So I’ve heard, babe,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. “So I’ve heard.”

I choose to ignore whatever the hell he’s talking about, which I’m sure is some perverted, private bedroom information he received from one of his many pleased brothers. Thanking him, I turn on my heel and snake my way through the crowd toward my room.

It only takes me a few minutes to throw on some sweats and a hoodie, scrub away my makeup and pile my hair on my head. Lifting my bedroom window, I grab my duffel and toss it into the yard before climbing out myself. The cold November wind hits me in the face and I breathe deep—welcoming the fresh air.