I leaned over and whispered in Horse’s ear, “Why don’t you just pee on me and get it over with?”
“Don’t flip me any shit, Marie,” he replied softly. “You wanna fight with me, do it in private. It makes me hard when you run that mouth of yours. Right now I’m picturing it wrapped around my cock. That’s between you and me. But tonight, in public, you do what I say or things will get ugly. Nobody insults a Reaper in front of an audience, not without consequences, and they are always extreme.”
He squeezed my thigh for emphasis, brushing a fingertip against the front of my panties to make his point. His cock grew under my ass and I shivered. Horse talking tough turned me on in a way that my brain insisted was flat-out wrong. My body remembered exactly how good it felt to take him inside though, and it wouldn’t be happy until he filled me up again. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering. I wiggled a little more to get back at him, enjoying the sharp intake of his breath as my butt teased his dick.
“Kelly, get your ass over here with a drink for the man,” the guy next to us bellowed. He was probably ten years older than Horse, with just a hint of gray in his hair. A lot of the bikers seemed to wear beards, but his face was clean-shaven, and he wasn’t shy about checking me out. I didn’t get the impression that his appraisal was personal though. More like he was sizing me up, trying to judge me on some level I couldn’t understand.
Bikini girl showed up with a tray full of beers and shots, which she unloaded on a little table in front of us. The guy next to us handed a beer to Horse, who reached around me to take it in his left hand. The man offered me a beer next. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I looked to Horse.
“Have at it,” he told me.
“Damn, that didn’t take long,” said the other man, laughing. “Mousie knows her place, I take it?”
I stiffened, and Horse’s hand squeezed my thigh again in warning.
“She’s learning,” he said. “Gonna be interesting. You heard the news?”
“I heard something. This is her, I take it?” the man replied, glancing toward me. I chugged down almost half my beer, more than ready for a little liquid courage.
“Collateral,” Horse replied and his friend grunted. They ignored me as they started talking about people I didn’t know, so I let my eyes wander around the room, starting with the guy sitting next to us. He had tousled, deep-brown hair and greenish eyes. His cut had “President” written on it, along with a one-percenter patch and a few others I didn’t recognize. Picnic had a president patch too, but I’d never seen anything identifying Horse as an officer. The Reapers must be pretty powerful if a regular guy like Horse got this much respect from the president of another club. I took another long chug of my beer, surprised to discover I’d finished it. That seemed funny to me, and I had to catch myself before I burped.
What can I say? I’ve always been a lightweight.
I looked longingly toward the remaining beers on the table, thinking another would really hit the spot. Bikini girl reappeared, winding her way toward the couch. She leaned down low to take my empty, boobs hanging right in Horse’s line of sight, ass pointed at the other guy. That sort of pissed me off, but when I tried to glare at her she just offered a friendly wink and handed me another beer.
Not such a bad sort, I decided.
I glanced at Horse, catching his eye before I started drinking again. He nodded absently, fingers starting a slow slide back and forth across my thigh as the conversation continued. The guys ignored me for the most part as they shot the shit, talking bikes and business, using words that had to be code because the conversation didn’t make any sense to me at all. Occasionally other men walked up and took a chair for a while, then they’d drift away. Certain words and phrases jumped out at me as being potentially important, but I couldn’t put it all together. Respect. Something about a charity run for toys (which seemed totally out of sync with the criminal-biker-vibe hanging in the air). Meeting up with the Mexicans, whoever they were. Border patrol and “fucking homeland security”.
I tuned them out because there were far more interesting things to do. Drinking a third beer, for one. Watching the crowd. There had to be fifty or sixty people in the room. Most of the men wore Silver Bastards cuts, with big patches on the back that had a stylized picture of a man with a pickaxe, flames shooting out behind him. There were lots of women around too. Most of the women were dressed like me—slutty as hell—and they circulated through the crowd, handing out drinks, picking up empties and occasionally settling in to make out with one of the Silver Bastards. There was a lot of groping, and not limited to individual couples. The guys seemed to have a real thing for being double-teamed. I saw several girls disappear down the back hallway, giggling as men dragged them away.