Sure, I was the club's veep, and I knew I was good at it. A veep needed balls to back up his leader, after all, and I had plenty. But a president needed smarts. He needed to know how to avoid certain fights, instead of just finishing them. I knew I didn't have those kinds of smarts, and never would, which was fine with me. My fists and my bike had always been enough for me and always would be. I knew exactly where I stood in life, and really, how many guys could say that?
But I also knew that, while Bard saw me as a trusted and lifelong friend, he saw Nic as a son. Hell, anyone could see that. He felt protective toward the kid, and he was clearly grooming him for the big chair. We could all see that it was a good fit, and the way it had to be. He'd never asked for my approval, he'd never asked whether it would hurt me to be passed over in favor of Nic when the time comes. He'd never needed to. Through my loyalty and trust, my unquestioning obedience, I showed him that on that day, I'd step aside happily if that was what he needed from me.
So obviously, since Nic was the heir apparent, Bard was being careful. He saw potential in him, and didn't want him getting hurt.
All right, fine. But still, asking me to stand around on a fucking sidewalk in the goddamn dead of winter in soggy socks, getting fucking frostbite out here with the winos and bums? Because Prince Nic needs his royal knob gobbled by some bitch who looked like she wandered in from a bachelorette party? Well, that sucks, man. That sucks really hard. I'd rather be sent into a rival club's turf, alone, armed with only a sharpened screwdriver.
And for that matter, what the fuck is he doing back at his old place anyway, if it's not safe? He can't just rent a cheap room somewhere, or take her in the back of the bar where the cots are? What, would that offend Little Miss Cunt-by-Dior's delicate sensibilities?
As I stood there sniffling from the cold, I heard a moan come from the first floor window, followed by another. Despite my chattering teeth, I couldn't help but grin. Oh yeah, it sounded like they were really getting down to business now. If I squinted hard enough, I could almost make out their silhouettes in the window. If I inched just a little closer and kept my head down, maybe I could even see a bit more detail.
Did I say I wasn't here to peep or join in? Well, one out of two ain't bad. I'm sorry, Nic old buddy, but you can consider a little light peeping payment for services rendered. All things considered, with the fucking Arctic tundra I'm being forced to wait around in for hours, giving me a little show to crank my shaft to is the very least you can do for me. And besides, what Bard doesn't know won't hurt him, right?
Goddamn right.
I walked across the street, trying to stay casual-looking. I felt like a grade-A creep, but didn't really care that much. It was just a little harmless thrill.
As I moved closer to the window, I saw a homeless dude shuffling down the street toward me, wrapped in raggedy-ass old coats and blankets. He wore a wide-brimmed felt hat that looked like it had been run through a garbage disposal, and two mismatched scarves were pulled up over his nose and mouth to keep the cold air out of his lungs. He pushed a battered old shopping cart bulging with plastic trash bags.
Poor prick. That's probably everything he owns in life, in that fuckin' cart. Jesus, he can't possibly plan to sleep out in this freezing cold, can he? He won't survive an hour, if that. There's gotta be a shelter he can go to, right?
The bum walked right up to me. One of the front wheels on his cart squealed and spun, defying the other three. “Spare some change?” he whined loudly, his voice muffled by the scarves.
I hunched my shoulders down, shushing him. “Yeah, yeah, sure!” I whispered hoarsely. “Just keep it down, will ya? Here, I'll give you something, hang on.”
I turned away from him and dug into my pocket, feeling for a couple of dollars. My fingers were numb from the cold.
“Looks like you're doin' somethin' you shouldn't be, ha!” the bum cackled, pointing to the window overhead. As he moved, a strange smell wafted from the folds of his clothes. It was something with an oddly fresh and minty tang, not the usual stink of piss and body odor you'd expect from a homeless guy. “Are you looking for trouble, eh?”
“What's it to you?” I sneered, trying to place the smell.
Cologne?
But why would a bum be wearing cologne?
Before I could pull my hand out of my pocket, the “bum” moved with incredible speed, whipping a metal length of pipe out from under his garbage bags. Before I could react, it whistled through the air toward me, cracking against my skull. The world tilted under me crazily, the ground switching places with the sky.
I craned my neck painfully, my vision blurring. I could barely see the man as he pulled off the scarves and hat, revealing the rat-like face of Vole, his eyes blazing with cruel humor.
“'Cause you just found it, you bike-humping motherfucker.”
The metal pipe sang as it swung at me again, and that was the last thing I saw before the darkness washed over me like an icy ocean.
Chapter Eight
Lauren
I woke up with the milky haze of December sunlight in my face and rolled over, looking up at the ceiling. The cracked and flaking plaster, speckled with gray mildew, was unfamiliar to me, and for a moment, I was disoriented. Then I felt the tautly-muscled arm wrapped around my waist, and the previous night came back to me in a rush of disjointed memories.
Oh my God. What did I do?
In the daylight, the room looked completely different. The deep and sensual shadows had been replaced with stark grayish-white walls, dotted with fist-sized craters revealing the rotted wiring behind them. Thick curtains of dust hung eerily suspended in the sunlight, and the air was so cold I could almost see my breath.
Nic was curled up against me, snoring lightly. His face was still as boyish and captivating as I remembered from the night before, and I felt a strange urge to stroke it gently, despite the alarm bells clanging in my head.
You slept with a biker last night! You dressed up in your sexiest little dress and you went to a dangerous bar in a godforsaken neighborhood, alone, and you found the cutest guy there and you threw yourself at him shamelessly and you went back to his place—which, for all you knew, would end up being some kind of perverted murder chamber—and you had sex with him and you fell asleep in a condemned fucking building.
When I thought of it all like that, I was almost impressed. I found myself choking back a hysterical giggle. Hell, I was pretty hardcore!
And speaking of “having it in me,” oh my God, the sex last night, I thought, and suppressed another nervous titter. I'd never known sex could be so good, so primal. I'd never had orgasms like that before. I wanted them again, desperately.
So why was I thinking of slipping out from under his arm and stealing away before he could wake up? Why not just snuggle back in bed, wait for him to stir on his own, thank him for a night of exquisite passion, and ask if he wants to go somewhere for breakfast? Why not see if there was a chance for another night like that, and another?
Because he's a biker, you ninny, the prim voice in my head answered. Bikers don't do snuggles and breakfast. They're into cheap, one-night-only thrills, and that's what you were. And yeah, you managed to get your rocks off too. Good for you. Go write about it in your diary. But first, get your shoes and your dress and your purse and get the hell out of here before he wakes up and kicks you out.
I hated to admit that the voice was right. But deep down, I knew that it was. Just like I knew how mortified I would be if he woke up, thanked me gruffly for the fuck, and shoved me out the door. If I left on my own, I could hold my head high—or at least, as high as you could hold your head while doing a walk of shame in a slinky black dress in Rogers Park the day after Christmas. I could say it had all been my choice, that I'd been in control from the moment I walked into the Devil's Nest to the moment I walked out of here. I could own it then, call it a glorious adventure and remember it fondly, instead of a night of bad decisions and a morning of pitiful rejection. That, I couldn't possibly stand.
Sounds good. So first, let me figure out how to escape the old morning-after bear trap.
I looked at the arm around my waist again, and remembered the last time I'd had to do this. It had been the first year of college, a month before I'd met Jared. Gingerly, I placed my fingertips on Nic's wrist, testing the pressure to determine whether he was a light sleeper. When he kept snoring placidly, I gripped the wrist just a bit more firmly and slowly started to lift it. As I did, I flashed back to the old crane machine in the arcade I frequented as a kid—the one that seemed to let every tantalizing toy slip through its metal claws at the last moment. The more impatient you became, the more you rushed, and the more it would refuse to grip properly.
Gently, Lauren come on, easy does it...
His breathing stopped for a brief moment, and the muscles in my stomach tightened reflexively. Another long moment passed. He snorted softly, then settled into his light snoring again.
I carefully continued to lift the arm, moving it back behind me and lowering it to the bed. Once that was done, I slowly sat up. I expected the springs of ancient-looking mattress to groan and pop loudly, betraying me. But luck seemed to be on my side so far. The springs dug into my buttocks painfully, and they let only out a soft squeal as I stood up, but Nic stayed asleep.