Authors: Olivia Ruin
Tags: #motorcycle romance, #mc club romance, #biker sex, #bad boy erotica, #action romance, #biker gang romance
A Winged Enemy MC Story
Copyright 2014 Olivia Ruin
All Rights Reserved
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k Leslie, you can do this. Just like you’ve trained for. Simple. It’s not like you are about to try and infiltrate the most dangerous motorcycle club in New Mexico. Oh wait, that’s exactly what you’re about to do.” Not surprisingly, the pep talk to myself wasn’t working.
This was a make-or-break assignment for my career as a covert operative for the DEA, and it was an honor to be chosen so young.
If only it wasn’t so damn intimidating!
The tattoo I had rashly gotten on spring break in college had finally paid off. Most of the women working for the agency were the ultra-clean cut and go get ‘em type. The fact that I had a little bit of ink made me the least suspicious person for this mission, despite the tattoo only being a little rose on the front of my left shoulder.
After several nights of surveillance on the Devil’s Roost, I was ready to make my first move. The dingy biker bar played host to the Winged Enemy MC almost every night of the week, and the rows of shiny chrome hogs lined up outside the joint showed that tonight was no different. Most importantly, the distinctive custom machines belonging to the club brass were parked front and center.
I sat in the driver’s seat of the dinged up Volkswagen that was part of my cover. My hands shook as I nervously looked down and double-checked my outfit for the fifteenth time in the past five minutes.
Stop delaying, Leslie, just get on with it.
A push-up bra showed a ridiculous amount of cleavage underneath a crop top with a plunging neckline. My midriff was bare from just below my tits all the way down to the top of my denim short shorts. When I stood up, the ragged bottoms just barely covered my ass cheeks. The strings that made up the waistband of my thong peeked out of the top of the shorts. To cap it all off, tall black heels would keep my legs and ass constantly taut enough to bounce a quarter off of.
It was an outfit that screamed “Look at me, boys, I’m easy!” Whether that ended up being the right way to go, only time would tell.
Before my stomach could turn any worse, I got out of the car and got my feet moving. All too soon the door of the bar was swinging open in front of me, and then I was in.
I was nearly overwhelmed by the smells that flooded towards me. Beer, leather. Cigarette, cigar, and marijuana smoke. The hot, musky scent of masculinity. It took a few seconds before I was even able to look around and make sense of what I saw in the dimly lit bar.
My heart flipped in my chest as I realized that most of the eyes in the place were on me. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. With my clothing choices I may as well have been serving myself up on a platter.
A rough voice, deep and of the sort that expected to always get its way, said a word that I couldn’t quite catch. The bikers must have, though, because they turned back to their conversations and drinking, ignoring me except for the occasional looks at my ass or cleavage.
When I located the bar I scurried over, less of the confident strut I had been hoping to pull off and more of a desperate race to get my back against a wall and protected. The bar man looked as though he was older than the town itself. He wore his grizzled grey hair long over top of his colors, but he didn’t look like he would be able to reach the liquor on the top shelf, let alone ride a bike safely.
“Can I get a Bud, please?” It wasn’t my usual order, but something told me that ordering a mojito would make me even more of a target. That is if the old bartender could manage to make one properly.
A toothless grin answered my request, and he held up two shriveled fingers. They couldn’t extend all the way, so his hand resembled a claw out of a horror movie. I slapped down three ones, which earned me a creepy wink before he turned to the fridge behind the bar and pulled out my beer.
I didn’t feel threatened by this old man, so I felt safe enough to cradle my beer while I swiveled on the bar stool and looked around the room. From the prep I had gone through and intel I had read, I recognized several of the bikers sitting at the tables between the bar and the front door. None of them were ranked high enough in the club to bother my time with, so I cast my attention elsewhere.
There was a pool table in the back corner of the joint with men in leather jackets standing around it. The bright lights hanging over top of the table cut through the smoky twilight of the rest of the bar, making the green felt stand out as if it were a perfect rectangle of grass floating through the universe with its own personal sun.
The bright focus of the lights made it difficult to make out the features of the men from this distance.
My best bet is that the brass are over there. It’s game time, Leslie. Let’s do this.
There were a few different ways I could see this going in my mind. They could sense that I was an agent right off the bat and I may not even make it through the night alive. They may just completely conquer me, use me and take advantage of me and leave me behind. Or they would open the door a crack, just enough so that I could begin to worm my way into their operation. I was desperately hoping I could pull off the third option, but the possibility of the other two had my heart racing.
My heels clicked on the hardwood floor as I approached the pool table. There were a handful of men watching the game that had just started. As I got closer, I was finally able to make out some faces, and when I recognized the man lining up his shot my breath caught.
The man bending over the table was Frank, the club’s president and commander. Just starting to hit the wrong side of middle age, he was a tough old nut, a veteran of the road. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and the lines worn into his face over the years carried the hint that this man’s expression frequently bordered on the cruel. It was a face that made me shudder and one that frightened me with its promise of discovering my secret and making me pay for it.
Standing on one foot, the other crossed and resting on the toe of his boot, was the club’s vice president, Jed. His hand wrapped around his pool cue with a loose grip, and I found my gaze drawn to it. A strong hand, weathered from gripping his hog’s handles through sun and rain, it sparked a response deep within me that I couldn’t explain. My body had seen a couple hands like that and knew what they were capable of.
When I drew my gaze up to his face, I jumped a little when I saw him staring right at me. His dark eyes seemed to see right through me. It was a face that I had seen over and over again while prepping for this mission, but paper and ink couldn’t prepare me for the way his cheekbones caught the light as they moved, casting shadows that made my stomach flip.
Oh no. Rein it in, girl.
My body had gone rogue on me. It saw something it wanted and it was responding in all the wrong ways.
“Well look at you, pretty lady.” Jed’s voice washed over me, deep, rough, commanding. With a start I recognized it as the one that had stopped the other bikers from staring at me when I had first arrived. “What’s your name?”
My mouth, which had been salivating while I had observed him for the first time, quickly turned into a desert. This was it. No more thinking and planning, I was here, and one of the club’s brass was talking to me. A very attractive, manly member of the brass. “Leslie,” I managed to squeak out, although my nerves wouldn’t let me say anything else.
Frank had missed a shot, and his raptor-like attention was now fully fixed on me. I didn’t dare look away from those two in order to check, but the other men standing around must have been dissecting me with their eyes as well.
Jed leaned over the table to take his shot, casual. “You know, it’s customary for a pretty lady like yourself to choose a player to throw her support and luck behind.” His target, the solid orange ball, slammed into the pocket next to me. I somehow was able to keep my feet on the ground although I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. “I’m Jed, and this is Frank. Who do you want to win?”
I felt paralyzed.
There is a lot riding on this question. Probably the entire success or failure of the mission. And maybe my life.
If I chose Jed, as my body certainly wanted me to do, what would happen? I didn’t know enough about the club or how they ran things to know for sure. Would Frank get pissed at me, or Jed, and ruin any chances of me completing my mission? Would I be able to draw closer to Jed and tease out some of his secrets?
What if I chose Frank? He was the club president, and likely the only person who knew the true scope and magnitude of what was going on. His perspective would be invaluable, if I could get it.
What if the person I chose lost? How would that change things?
It was too much. There were too many possible outcomes, and too many things I didn’t know.
To think that five minutes into my mission I have hit something that may make or break it, and I don’t know what to do.
I had been standing there too long. Expectant looks were turning into bewilderment. A normal girl wouldn’t be putting too much thought into this, and that is what I needed to pretend I was. A slutty normal girl, anyway. There was only one choice that a normal girl would make when forced to pick between these two men.
“I’ll choose you, Jed,” I said. “Don’t make me regret it!” The men catcalled and cheered as I made my choice known.
He grinned, an expression halfway between savagery and real enjoyment. “A sassy one, too, aren’t you Leslie. I’ll see what I can do.”
The men made a space for me to stand and watch the game. I expected some sort of groping or propositioning or rude remarks, but to my surprise I was mostly left alone. It must be because I have the attention of their leaders.
They don’t want to step on the toes of the big wolves.
The game progressed slowly, the two men fighting tooth and nail against each other. The skill of each was apparent, but they left each other as little to shoot for as possible. There were times that the tension between the two of them was palpable.
The reports had mentioned rumors that Frank and Jed didn’t see completely eye-to-eye anymore, but this is on a whole other level.
My choice took on a whole new meaning now that I saw the relationship between the president and his second.
Jed barely missed a tricky shot, and left the cue ball in an undesirable position. Frank would have a couple easy shots in a row to take a commanding lead. “It looks like extra luck isn’t enough, Jed. You just can’t beat me.”
“I wouldn’t speak so soon Frank. The game’s not over yet.” Jed’s face was unreadable.
Frank had only one stripe left on the table, while Jed had four solids after his miss earlier. The final stripe hit the corner pocket but the cue ball rolled back too far and his window to end the game vanished. Frank had to pull off a remarkable double-bounce shot just to tag the 8 ball and avoid losing the game with a scratch.
With the table mostly cleared except for his own balls, Jed ran a few shots in a row with no difficulties. I cheered him on as he went, fulfilling my role as the normal girl. He barely missed sinking his final solid, and the cue ball rolled out into the open, leaving an easy but long shot for Frank to take the game.
Crap, this isn’t good.
I didn’t know what rules they had governing their games, but for all I knew if Frank won then he would have the right to the woman who bet on Jed. I already knew that Frank was the more dangerous one to get close to, and my cover depending on keeping some distance from him. Plus, beyond those considerations, Frank just plain scared me.
I inched my way over behind the 8 ball. When Frank pulled his cue back to take his shot, I leaned over the table and pulled my shirt and bra up so that my tits spilled out and dangled over top of the ball.
It was a poorly thought-out and desperate plan to solve what might have been an imaginary problem, but it had more of an effect than I imagined. I wanted Frank to miss his shot so that Jed would have another chance to win the game, and I succeeded better than I could have dreamed.
Hoots and hollers from the bikers filled the bar as Frank’s shot went wide. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the cue ball bounced off the rail beside the 8 ball, not even touching it.
Just like that, Frank had scratched on the 8 ball and lost the game. I straightened up, breasts still exposed for the whole bar to see, and did they ever. With the reaction of the men around the table, the bikers throughout the rest of the bar were standing up and looking over as well.