“You want to speak with Demon, you’ll wait until the Prez is done.”
Hell fucking no.
Zeke wasn’t about to play games. He tensed, and it was only when Demon got off the phone and hauled ass out of the meeting room that Zeke stopped going for his gun.
“No call before you show up at my place?” Demon asked, shoving his phone in his cut, and tipping his chin toward Striker.
“Go get drunk or fuck something. Zeke and I clearly need to talk.”
Striker stared at Zeke for a moment, and there was something in his eyes that had Zeke curious. It was a darkness, the same kind of darkness that Zeke himself had.
He followed Demon into the meeting room, slammed the door shut, and felt his anger rise. “That little fucker was seconds away from getting a bullet in his damn neck.”
“Calm down,” Demon said and gestured to a seat at the table. “You want a drink.”
“Make it a strong one,” Zeke said and sat down.
“What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” Demon asked and set a square cut glass in front of Zeke. Demon took a seat in front of Zeke, drank his own whiskey, but didn’t say anything.
“It’s about Shakes.”
He saw Demon tense, but then the president of the club leaned back and finished off his drink. “What about him?”
“I know you still talk to him, even if you kicked his ass out.”
Demon didn’t say anything after that, but he could see from the man’s face that what Zeke said was the truth.
“He might not have a patch anymore, but is still considered family. We might have blacked out his ink, but we didn’t cut him off altogether. We had to draw the line somewhere, and him getting booted was enough, we thought.”
Zeke didn’t give two shits about what they did on their own time. He would have killed Shakes no matter what, but then his daughter said she loved him, and Zeke couldn’t bring that kind of hurt on her. So that’s why he was here now, wanting to make her happy, make things right with her. He wanted to make a step in the right direction.
“I want you to take Shakes back in the club. I want you to make him a member again.”
Striker took another shot, turned and stared at the bitches all around the club, and felt his cock harden. He was horny as shit, wanted some tight pussy, but he was still fuming about that motherfucker Zeke coming up all in their turf and acting like he had some kind of claim on shit. He might have power, might be able to level a city with just a phone call, but that didn’t mean he could come into their domain and start acting like he could throw shit down.
“Man, you look like you’re ready to beat some ass,” Nerd didn’t like Zeke any more than the next bastard.
“Well, that prick came in here, about to draw the gun he’s got tucked in the small of his back, and I went on alert.”
“Well, yeah he’s a big fucking asshole, but we have to keep it neutral with him,” Nerd said and tossed back a shot. “Fuck, give me another one,” Nerd jokingly demanded from the prospect serving them drinks.
Dirty, the prospect they’d nicknamed because he liked some really dirty sex, set the bottle of whiskey on the counter and grabbed more glasses. He started filling the glasses and handing them out.
“Just go find a loose bitch to fuck, let her suck on your cock, then fuck her in the ass,” Nerd said and started laughing. “Hell, I know you’re into that beating their ass and shit. There are some real funky chicks in here that would be more than happy to be black and blue for you.”
Striker grunted, knowing that there were plenty of females that liked to suck dick while they got their hair pulled, or who liked his belt right across the back of their thighs. Steel, a member into the rougher kind of sex, the kind that left marks, and had the girls screaming for more, wasn’t all that different from Striker.
Striker might like to have the women straining for him, have them begging him to stop, but he didn’t just like the pain and pleasure. He liked the humiliation, the beatings that had them crying, had them begging him to stop. But he couldn’t stop, and some of the women he fucked realized they liked what he had to give them, liked that he was rough, hard, and unforgiving with them.
He looked at the closed door of the meeting room, hated Zeke, but also knew the man owned some hardcore BDSM clubs. That’s what Striker was hard for; needed like he needed a fucking tight, wet pussy wrapped around his cock.
He finished off his alcohol, knew that if he didn’t find a woman, he might just go in there and beat Zeke down. That or follow him to his club and slip in without the bastard knowing a Soldier was there, thinking they were there to start shit. Hell, that’s just what he needed; the guys finding out he was so fucking twisted and hard up he had to go to that motherfucker’s place of business.