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Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(6)

By:Kim Jones

“Put on a pot of coffee.” Like the obedient idiot I am, I don’t hesitate to do what she asks.

The coffee pot is the only damn thing available for immediate use. Shit is cluttered around everything else, preventing me from getting to it, much less using it. While the coffee brews, I perform my Sunday morning ritual by unloading the sink. Having nowhere else to set the dishes, I start piling everything on the floor.

In between delivering countless cups of coffee to my mother, I clean her house. I wash her dishes, change her sheets, do her laundry, clean her bathroom, sweep and mop her floors and during commercial breaks, she allows me to vacuum. By the time I’m finished, I’m confident the health department won’t condemn the place.

Despite the noise I’ve been making, my brother doesn’t wake until the work is done and I take a seat for the first time since I got here—four hours ago. “Delilah…my dear little sister.” His quote from Gone with the Wind is always funny to him—never to me.

“Craig,” I offer in the most bored tone I can manage.

“Delilah, fix your brother something to eat.”

“Mama, he’s a grown man. He can fix himself something to eat.” Even as I say the words, my muscles tense in anticipation to pull my ass off the loveseat and do as I’m told.

“Don’t you sass me.” Her warning has me on my feet, moving toward the kitchen.

I know what you’re thinking. How could she let her mother treat her like that? Trust me, if I had an answer, I’d tell you. Remember earlier when I said I might be sick? This is part of my sickness. I’m fucked up. I’m a glutton for punishment. Deep down I know why, but I refuse to let it surface.

I often try to find a different reason for my being here in an attempt to avoid the truth. I like to think it’s because I’ve had to fight so hard for my mother’s love. Cliché. I know. But the chosen one—the lazy fucker whose breakfast I’m cooking—has always seemed to need all of my mother’s attention. Or maybe she just likes him better. That shit don’t matter. What matters is that however crappy she was and is as a mother, she’s still my mother. She could have killed me with a coat hanger, but she didn’t. She gave me life. I feel like the least I can do is what she asks. Damn. That sounds stupid even to my own ears.

“So you got a job yet?” I ask, handing my dear older brother his plate of eggs and bacon.

“No toast?” He looks up at me as if I’ve just committed some unforgivable sin.

“No bread. Answer my question.”

“Do I look like I have a job to you, Delilah?” And there’s the snap I’ve been waiting for. “Why the fuck you always gotta be in my business? Don’t worry about what I’m doing.”

“You’re twenty-five, broke and live at home with your mom. Our mom. I think it’s about time you started pulling your weight around here.”

I’m taunting him—provoking him. I’m putting myself in a man’s position in hopes he’ll treat me like one. I guess you can say I get off on this shit. I have no fear of what I know is coming. I yearn for it—crave it. To survive, I need it as much as I need to breathe.

The loud sound of shattering glass when his plate collides with the wall beside me doesn’t even make me flinch. When he’s on his feet, so close to me I can smell the stench of his breath, I don’t bat an eyelash. I don’t stiffen in anticipation of the backhanded blow so powerful it throws me to the floor. Even when the corner of my eye begins to swell and I taste the tangy, metallic flavor of blood on my tongue, I look up at him…daring him…begging him…demanding him to give me more.

My brother is a beautiful creature. He’s tall, with dark wavy hair, bright hazel eyes and a brooding look that’s permanently etched on his face. His body is athletic. His teeth are near perfection. His skin is flawless. But my brother has an ugly soul. Besides our looks, it’s the only thing we have in common. I may be damaged, but I’m not hateful—although a part of me is glad that he is.

When the shrill, evil voice of my mother pierces through my thoughts, I know all the terrible traits we both suffer from, we inherited from her.

“You’re good for nothin’… you dirty whore…always provoking him…that’s what you get.” And so it goes.

Maybe what I’m silently asking of my brother isn’t so ridiculous. At least if he put me out of my misery, I wouldn’t have to hear her. But like the cold-hearted bastard he is, he doesn’t grant me my wish. I’m like a wounded horse that needs to be shot. And he’s a man with a rifle and no mercy. I guess he likes to see me suffer. Or maybe that sparkle of humor in his eyes is for something else entirely.

Eventually my mother shuts up and in her silence I manage to find the strength to stand and prepare to leave. My beast is caged. I’ve been punished for my sins. I feel almost…human. Considering this, I decide I’ve had enough hell for one day, and yes, I’m well aware that it was self-inflicted.

I grab my duffel from where I’d left it by the door before walking back to the living room. I don’t have to look at them to know they’re salivating at the mouth for my weekly gifts. A prey can always sense when a predator is on the hunt.

Unzipping the bag, I hand my mother the two cartons of cigarettes she’s come to expect. Then I reach back inside and pull out her favorite weekly trashy gossip magazines. I also have a roll of tobacco for my brother, but considering I’m not unconscious and he barely brought blood, I decide to keep it.

“Here, Mama.” I pull the small wad of cash from my pocket. “I’ll be back next week.” Snatching the ten twenties from my fingers, she mumbles something about me having a better attitude next time I come. Leaning over, I kiss her cheek that’s way too wrinkled for a woman of her age. “Take care of yourself.”

Then I’m out the door, in my car and driving back to a place that’s the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had. But even there I’m an outsider. When I think about how sad my life is and how twisted the fuck up I am, it makes me want to cry.

That lasts for all of about two seconds. I’ve never been one to feel sorry for myself. I’m not gonna start now. Especially not today. Pity is work.

It’s Sunday.

The Sabbath Day.

A day of rest.

God’s not working today, so I ain’t either…


“Who’d you piss off?” is the greeting I get when I’m halfway through my bedroom window. I was hoping to spend the rest of my day doing absolutely nothing and avoiding everyone. I guess that’s shot to shit.

“Why are you in my room?” I ask Linda, another one of the women who work for the club. She’s searching through my closet—tossing shit she doesn’t want over her shoulder and on the floor. It’s not the first time I’ve caught her going through my clothes, and just like every other time, it pisses me off.

“Answering a question with a question is my biggest pet peeve.”

“People invading my privacy is mine.” After shutting the window, I turn and glare at her—giving her my best “get the fuck out” look. She’s unaffected. I really need to start working on my angry facial expressions. And locking my door.

Linda is a little older than me, and by a little I mean she’s in her late thirties. She’s one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. I heard through the grapevine that Red is the greatest. I’ve yet to see it, but I damn sure want to. Our little spat, if that’s even what you want to call it, doesn’t take away the fact that I find her attractive. And anyways, we’re even. She admitted to calling me a name I don’t particularly like, forced me to endure the definition of said name and I stole her car.



“You know,” Linda says, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip out. She’s got really, really nice legs. “None of the girls know a whole lot about you. Why is that? You’ve been here long enough. You know everything about us. It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

“Life’s unfair. And the knowledge I have about everyone wasn’t because I asked. It’s because I was forced to listen.” By the way, that seems to be another title I have around here. Out of all the women that work here, I’m the only one who lives here full-time. Therefore, they think I know everything—which usually I do. So whether it’s gossip or advice, the women and often the men always come to me--like there’s a fucking sign above my door that reads “free therapist.”

“I don’t get you, Delilah. When the lights go down and the men want attention, you’re a totally different person. You’re fun, energetic and a pleasure to be around. Other times…” She wrinkles her face and gives me a disapproving look. “You’re, for lack of a better word, a bitch.”

“I’m sure I can find a better word.” Ready to get rid of her, I try to force my face into some semblance of an apology. “I don’t mean to be a bitch to you, or anyone. I just like my space.”

She nods. “I can respect that.” Good. Now get the fuck out. “But your life would probably be a lot easier if you weren’t so uptight.” Uptight? Me? Now I’m offended.