Hell on Heelz (Asphalt Gods' MC) (11 page)

Luckily, I still had on my leather jacket, inside was my dad’s knife.
Couldn’t do anything until Sugar was safe though.
“Why are you doing this?” Letting me live, not putting another bullet in Sugar, promising to call an ambulance… I’d asked for it, but it was too good to be true.

“Don’t make me change my mind.” Tugging on me, he led me out the front door to my motorcycle, asking for my keys. I remembered his ride laid crumpled on the side of the road. As I dug in my pocket with my freehand, I noticed he was limping down the stairs. Damn, maybe I could’ve taken him. Reluctantly, I handed him my keys. He climbed on my Harley.

“You’re on the back,” he explained when I didn’t sit.

“I’ve never rode bitch before,” I said more to myself, still standing firm.

He yanked on the cuffs, pulling me to him. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

It was such an odd thing for him to say, considering he’d just had a gun to my head that I snorted.

“Are we calling an ambulance or not?”

That convinced me. I climbed on back. “I hope you can ride with one hand.”

“Honey, I can ride with no hands.” He tucked his hand over his crotch, and I had to rest my hand awkwardly in his lap and wrap my other arm around him to hold on—like a bitch.

We rode until we came to a bar in downtown Shreveport. There were no windows, but a sign flicked with the words, “The Neon Parrot”. 

“Why are we here?” I asked when we’d slowed down enough to be able speak.

“Would you rather go back to the clubhouse?”

I said a quick thanks to God when I heard it wasn’t their roadhouse. I’d heard tale of what the Gods’ do there, if they catch one of us. If I was lucky, I could get this man where I wanted him, down the sharp end of my knife and get away before he took me to his brethren.

It’d only been a few minutes ride, but I was itching to call for help for Sugar. I was praying in my head about that one too. Mud parked us around back. We got off the bike in unison, being attached and all. He pushed open a door that read, Staff Only, and let me in first, sort of. Awkwardly, we walked farther inside and down a dark, empty hallway. Mud handed me a quarter and pointed to something I hadn’t seen in a long while.

“There’s still a pay phone here?”

“Yeah, my buddy likes it that way.”

I was taking it he knew the owner.

With Mud’s arm shackled to mine, I stepped into the open booth, put the phone on my shoulder and dialed 9-1-1 with my free hand. Mud listened as I told them a man had been shot and recited the address I’d made note of on the way out. I hung up before the operator could ask more questions.

“All better now?” Mud didn’t step aside as I tried to step out.

I raised my eyebrows before they creased. “No, I’m most certainly not.” I tugged on the cuff to remind him about it.

He ignored it. “Need a drink?”

“Sure,” I sounded as suspicious as I felt, but then I almost smiled in anticipation. Damn, I was an alcoholic. Nothing sounded better after the day I’d had. Besides, the longer I kept this man away from his brothers, the better.

“Come on. Wrap your arm around me like this.” Mud tugged me to his side and situated me with my arm going behind his waist. He clasped my fingers in his, holding my hand. Pleased no one would see the cuffs, I walked into the bar at his side like we were a couple.

Standing at the bar in the same manner, Mud asked me, “What do you drink?”

“A double shot of whiskey.” It didn’t matter what kind.

He laid down a fifty and yelled over the noise. “Hey, Bill!”

The burly man who answered wore the Gods’ patch as well
. Holy shit.
I thought Mud wasn’t turning me in yet. The bartenders patch read, “Bullet Bill”, but he wasn’t an officer.

“Who’s the pretty lady?”

Mud squeezed me against him. “She’s mine so don’t be getting any ideas. Give us a bottle of the good stuff and two glasses.”

Sitting down a bottle of Jameson, Bill reached under the bar and produced two rocks glasses. “I remember what you drink, but whether it’s good or not...” The man turned his attention to me. Whiter than a frog’s belly and bald, he smiled showing a mouth of crooked teeth. “When you’re finished playing with this boy and are hankering for a real man, come find me.” 

Nodding, I smiled a crazy wide smile in return to play along as I wondered why Mud was covering for me. He whisked me away from the bar, taking us to a secluded table and sat on one side. I had no choice but to plop in the only other chair. We held hands in the middle, the cuffs hid by our long sleeves. His hand, big and sweaty, not to mention the dirt under his nails, still clasped mine. It was dark enough in here, I wanted to let go. I moved to release my fingers, but he held on. I glanced around the bar. The dimness, tinged blue from the neon and black lights didn’t hide the fact the place crowded with all types of people, not only bikers and their kind. With eye patched skeletons hanging on the wall, there seemed to be a piratey theme going on. Definitely not their clubhouse. The music, ear splitting loud, modern rock that I didn’t always recognize, played from a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox sitting by the bar. Mud poured us both a shot and lifted his glass to me.

Since I no longer feared being turned over, at least not just yet, I lifted mine straight to my lips. I threw back quick and slammed the glass down for another. It didn’t even burn anymore. “What the hell are you planning for me, Neck?”

“Got anymore names you want to call me? Why don’t you just get ‘em outta the way now?”

“Well, next I was gonna’ call you Wonder Bread, but you’ve gone and ruined it.”

He laughed a bit at that.

“Easy to laugh while you’ve got the upper hand.”

He leaned in, his demeanor darkening. “We’re having a drink, and you’re going to tell me that message for Scar—If you wanna live.”

“Tell you?” I cackled on purpose. “I don’t think so. Message is for his ears only. You’ll need to take me to him.” I’d leaned in close too but for a different reason. I leaned in toward the table to cover my hand that was going into my leather jacket to pull out my knife. After I’d succeeded, I clutched it under the table, feeling the smooth familiar wood handle.

Mud started pouring two more drinks. I would sip this glass, no need to be wasted in this situation, but I couldn’t pick it up yet. Under the table, I turned my knife over in my hands, wondering if it’d even do me any good. We were in public after all, and he had his gun within reach.

“There are ways to make you talk, you know.”

Torture, something else I heard the Gods were good at.

Mud held up his glass, pointing a finger toward the bar. “That man at the bar, Bullet Bill. He’s sadistic. If he found out you were a Heel.” Mud shook his head. “He’s one sick bastard.”

“You think that scares me?”

“Hell, Bill scares me. His whole house is full of medieval shit, torture devices I suppose. I’ve heard he kept this one woman in a box. Cut her fucking arms and legs clean off. He’d take her out just to fuck her.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s a movie.”

Mud stuttered, “Even so, Bill’s a sick fuck.”

“And you’re not a sick fuck?”

He laughed. “Oh, me, no.”

“Then what good are you to the Gods’. You’re all sick fucks, far as I’m concerned.”

Mud leaned in again but paused. I waited, wondering what his comeback would be. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as it hit me. I watched his plump lips open as he began to talk. His hand went under the table and brushed my knee and his eyes locked onto mine like he was looking inside of me, trying to figure me out. Any other time, in this kind of situation, it would have made me angry, more determined. Rage would have taken the opportunity to slice him under the table. But this man, something in the way he looked at me now made me hesitate, but only for a second.

As I was just about to open the blade, he seized my wrist, grabbing my knife clear away. I watched him pocket it, with a grin on his face. He put it in the inside of his cut, I noted—I planned to get it back.

Shit, it was time for me to think of a plan B.

“And your point is I should cooperate or you’re going to give me over to this sick fuck. What are you, some pussy? Can’t make me talk yourself.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Pussy, that’s really my thing. I’m not a sicko. I’m a ladies’ man. I can make women jump through hoops.”

I huffed. “Well, not me.” I slammed back my whiskey.

Mud smirked my way, all the sudden looking like Satan in a Sunday hat. “There are more humane ways to make a beautiful woman like you talk,” he said, pouring me another drink.

I picked it up, ignoring the suggestive look on his face. “Whiskey isn’t one of them. I’d drink you under the table.”

“Honey, you could not.”

“Don’t call me, honey,” I said automatically.

“Edie, was it?” He must have heard Sugar call me that.

I’m not her anymore, not to him anyway. “It’s Rage.”

He nodded, letting me know he’d heard tale of me. Good. But then his face turned back to enticement. “Rage.” The way he said it made it sound sexy.

“You think you can handle this?” Mud leaned back in his seat, this time letting go of my fingers, letting our arms stretch way out. My hand cold, I missed the slick warmth immediately. I took another gander at him. The man seemed to spread himself out, so I could take in all of him. I declare, he was a sight to behold. I wasn’t against the idea of sleeping my way out of this mess, especially if it was with a man who looked like Mud. He was a young thing but ruggedly mature all the same with a nice honey colored, full beard. His long wavy hair was pulled back. Forget body builder, this man looked like a wrestler, broad with his muscles supersized. His deep set eyes where mysterious, thoughtful. They asked a question, I didn’t know the answer to.

Besides, his lustful smirk promised a good time. I swirled the sip of whiskey around my glass, gazing at him like other women probably did at him all the time, like they wanted to go for a ride. Suddenly feeling hot, I drank all of the whiskey in my glass and told him, “I’d swallow you whole and shit you out… Mud. What kind of name is that?” I poured myself another shot.

Taking my cuffed hand again, he rubbed it with his thumb. “It’s ‘cause I like to go mudding.”

“What?”

“Oh, God, not like that.” He seemed embarrassed, maybe realizing mudding was raunchy slang for white men having sex with black women.

“Then what?” I scrunched up my face, thinking about butt sex, another horrible meaning.

“It’s not whatever you’re thinking. I like to take my bike out in the mud, my truck, well anything with wheels really. You mean to tell me you’ve never been mudding?”

I had to work to keep my face straight. “No, I’ve never been mudding,” I managed without laughing, though barely.

His thumb continued to brush the top of my hand. It was calloused and rough like other men’s but the gesture strange, tender—it sent shivers straight to my vajayjay. Tingles overtaking me, I looked at our hands together. It’d been a long time since I’d held hands with a man and therefore this was a turn on.

Get it together, Edie
.

This wasn’t a date. This was what he said he did, make women swoon. He wanted me to fall for his charms, and here I was a falling.

It was time I brought out the woman who could get what she wanted. Conversation wasn’t Rage’s thing. She usually just picked the man she wanted, fucked him senseless and sent him packing. Forgoing my glass, I took my next swallow straight from the bottle. Licking my lips as slowly as I could, I commented, “This
IS
good stuff.”

Mud’s gorgeous smile widened. Yeah, nothing a man likes better than a sure thing, a woman too drunk to say no. He picked up the bottle when I set it down and gave me a run for my money, drinking more than I had.

Suddenly, he clutched my hand harder, pulled it under the table and me to him completely, chair and all—so fast it scared the shit out of me. The movement and the screech of the chair on the floor was jarring enough but not as jarring as when I looked around and saw why. Before us stood a man whose president patch glowed in the UV light. It was a fucking president of the Gods, and I was dead meat. Flanked by two walls of muscle, the squirrelly man greeted Mud with a weird nod of his head. “Heard you ran into some trouble.”

Fucker looked straight at me. Maybe Mud had been playing me all this time.

Fuck me sideways, I should’ve known.

Mud squeezed me to him tight, and I yipped. His grip was iron clad, his bulging arm locked around my waist.

I began struggling just as he answered, “I fell behind then got distracted.”

“And the trouble makers?” His cut read Louisiana and his name, Skeeter.

“Dead,” Mud replied, shocking the hell out of me.

Understanding Mud wasn’t turning me over, I froze. Skeeter ignored my presence completely now. Well, well, well. Without my cut, I was just another piece of ass.

“Mad Dog will be expecting you home.” With that, the three men walked away.

Catching my breath, I was silent in Mud’s arms for a good minute before I asked, “You sure this isn’t your clubhouse?”

He didn’t say anything to confirm or deny but finally loosened his grip.

Moving the chair with me, I scooted away as much as I could with us still attached at the wrist. It was a few more minutes before I enquired, “Why aren’t you turning me in?”

Even in the low light, I saw his mouth held tight. “I owe somebody.”

“Scar?” I guessed.

“The message?”

I wasn’t that stupid. Louisiana’s president was here for fuck’s sake. Beautiful smile or not, Mud was an outlaw just like me. He’d get the message and turn me in. After all, that’s what I’d do. “I can’t. It’s only for him.”

“Then, I can’t let you go.” His voice was charming, trying to convince me he would.

I tugged on the bracelet, knowing I was pushing it. “So what do you plan to do with me?”

He seemed to think a minute before he relaxed. “We’ll wait for Scar to give me a call back. You can give him the message, and I’ll decide what to do with you then.”

Well, Mud wasn’t taking me to his brothers yet, but he wasn’t letting me go.

Back to plan B, seduction.