My dad always gets what he wants.
Packing some clothes, I also pack a few other things. Things that mean something to me. They aren’t much, but then again, I don’t have much.
Making my way back into the living room, I stand and stare at my dad, who is sitting on the couch watching Baywatch now. He grunts, lifting his head when he realizes I’m ready and waiting.
“C’mon, say goodbye. You ain’t comin’ back here again,” he growls as he stomps out of the trailer.
I don’t ask him why. It wouldn’t matter. Instead, I dutifully follow behind him. Climbing onto the back of his bike, I wrap my arms around his middle. I don’t look back. There’s no reason to do that.
FIVE YEARS LATER
JAGUAR
TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD
The bitch on her knees pushes back, taking me inside of her, and I let out a groan. This is the goddamn life. Lifting one hand, I bury my fingers in her hair and use that to pull her back on my dick. The other hand, I hold a bottle of tequila in and bring it to my lips for a pull.
Fuck. Yes.
Thrusting my hips forward, I fuck the clubwhore. She takes it like a goddamn champ too. I don’t know why I took my dad’s shit all those years. I could have been here fucking whores, making money, drinking, and partying the whole goddamn time.
Silver chuckles from beside me. “Breaking in the new snatch?” he asks.
Jerking my chin toward him, my lips curve up into a grin. “You know I like the new ones,” I point out.
He shakes his head, but laughs before he lifts his hand and waves, walking away from me. He’s in love with Savanna, sad as shit because she’s a bitch and she’ll never love him or anyone else back.
I’ll never fall in love.
Fuck. That. Shit.
Love is useless. It doesn’t provide shit. I got everything I need right here in the Savage Beasts clubhouse, and love is nowhere in sight. Closing my eyes, I take another pull from the tequila and fuck the blonde harder.
She whimpers and her hips start to move, they shake as she climbs closer, looking for her release. Then, without me even telling her, she shifts her hand between her legs and starts to touch herself.
We’re lost to the moment and I let out a grunt as I come inside of the condom, the same time her pussy clamps down around my cock. Catching my breath, I release her hair and watch as she lowers her chest to the barroom floor.
Pulling out of her, I look down at her cunt and grin. “So fucking pink, babe,” I say, using my finger to trace her bright pink slit.
“Pinkie,” I murmur.
She turns her head, looking over her shoulder at me, her cheeks matching her pink cunt. They’re the exact same shade.
“What?” she breathes.
“Pinkie. Cunt is the same pink shade as your cheeks. That’s your name, Pinkie.”
She rises to her knees, turning to me, but doesn’t bother covering up any part of her. She’s free here and she knows it, feels it deep inside of her.
“I like it a hell of a lot better than my real name,” she says with a smile.
Reaching forward, I touch the tip of her nose before I stand and pull my jeans up, buttoning them. Looking down at her, she has her face tipped back and she’s smiling at me, but I can tell she’s not seeing me, she’s looking right through me and I’m good with that.
“Welcome to the Beasts, babe.”
Her lips curve up into a huge smile and she dips her chin. “I can already tell this is where I belong.”
Leaving her there, I go in search of Barracuda. He ain’t been the same since Sosh passed away a year ago. He just sits at the end of the bar day in and day out. Climbing beside him, I nudge his shoulder with mine.
“You good?” I grunt.
“No,” he answers truthfully. “Never will be.”
“Yeah, miss her.”
“Loved her, Jaguar,” he rasps, before he turns his head and looks over at me. “You find that, ever, you hold on to it with both hands. Never let it go, not ever. You think you found it, you never let it go. You fight your fuckin’ ass off for it, you got me?”
Dipping my chin, my gaze doesn’t leave his and I can tell that he’s serious. He means this and he wants to make sure that I understand him. His words sink inside of me, to the bone, to the marrow, and they stay right there, never moving.
FOUR YEARS LATER
PAMELA
FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
I hate the way they watch me. Thankfully, they don’t touch me, but only because my dad won’t let them yet. Walking past the men hanging around, doing what appears to be nothing, I make my way out of the clubhouse and into the sunshine.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a deep voice rumbles.
Turning my head, I look over my shoulder and see the man himself standing with his back leaning against the wall. My father. President of the Donkey Punchers MC, otherwise known as Riot. His real name is Spencer, but he’d probably kill anyone who called him that.
“Just getting some fresh air, it smells in there,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
He shakes his head. “That do-gooder pickin’ you up?” he grinds out.
Do-gooder. I really want to roll my eyes. He’s speaking of the woman who runs the teen community center in town. It’s kind of like a Boys and Girls Club, or a YMCA, but our town is really small and really poor, so instead we have a community center.
It’s not really much. A few puzzles, board games, and books. There’s always one adult there and sometimes they borrow basketballs and soccer balls from the high school so we can do something outside.
I only go because it’s near the clubhouse and my dad will
