“Can’t.” Jackal lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. “Pork Chop is balls deep in planning Prez’s reception and Spider is too busy chasing Lola around, begging her to take him back.”
I snort as I flop back onto my bed. “Take Brick then.”
Jackal just shakes his head.
“Haven’t we spent enough time together this last week?” A few more punches to my pillow. “I played wingman in three different cities, five out of the last seven days. Didn’t I meet my quota for the month with that shit?”
“Come on, Cy.” He sticks his lower lip out through his beard, clasps his hands together under it and tries to bat his eyelashes. “Pretty please? I’ll buy all your booze.”
“That goes without saying if I agree to do this. Which I’m not.”
“And I’ll buy you food.”
“Not hungry.”
“And your smokes.”
“Got plenty.”
Jackal sighs. “I’ll even let you have one of the rocket riders. A real pretty one.”
I roll my eye at his stupid name for the chicks that hang out at biker bars who don’t quite make the cut as house mice or sweet butts. “Not interested.”
I should be. I can’t remember the last time I got off with something other than my own hand, but I’m not looking for a pity fuck. It’s bad enough having to answer all the questions thrown at me while I play wingman. Don’t need to subject myself to that shit anymore.
“Come on, man. You’re my best fucking friend, my ride or die brother.” Jackal basically begs. “Go out with me tonight and I swear I won’t ask you again for at least a week.”
I roll over and arch a brow.
“Ok, maybe not a week but a few days for sure.”
Fuck my life. “Fine,” I grunt as I sit up. “But if you haven’t gotten your dick tickled by midnight, I’m out.”
“Ye of little faith.” He smirks. “Get dressed, Cy. If you ain’t downstairs in twenty minutes then I’ll come back up and carry you out over my shoulder, naked or not.”
I watch him leave and blow out a very defeated breath.
Jackal really is my ride or die brother, my best friend, and the fucker who sponsored me for the Wulven Kings MC years ago when I was no more than a punk ass kid on a one-way track to life in prison or the grave. I’d do just about anything for Jackal, anything for the club and the family it’s given me, but chasing tail the way he does has gotten really fucking old.
Especially when Jackal could have his pick of the mice and butts any given night and doesn’t need to go out at all.
As Road Captain, he’s pretty high ranking, and since Jackal’s old man was a founder, still a member of the Executive Committee right up until he died during a surprise hailstorm in the middle of the old clubhouse, my best friend is essentially royalty in terms of the club, and that always gets him whatever action he’s looking for. And if I had to judge, Jackal isn’t half bad looking once you get past the long ass dirty-blonde braid, longer beard, and the fact that his clothes look like they haven’t been washed in a few years, if ever. He’s got that loner mountain man vibe with a motor mouth that doesn’t quit, but he’s smart as hell and the women eat that combination up.
Same as they go for the scarred, brooding, tortured soul as his silent and stoic sidekick.
But again, I’m not interested.
Once upon a time I loved the endless supply of pussy on tap, indulged in my share of no strings attached fun, but somewhere along the way something changed, and I lost the desire to keep pretending I wasn’t interested in anything more than what a girl could do for me between the sheets before I kicked her to the curb.
A lot of that can be attributed to Prez and his old lady, Sofie.
Watching that broody son of a bitch fall head over heels for someone as sweet and fiery as her, damn near fifteen years ago, go through mountains of shit during that time and still end up together after it was all said and done made me wonder what it would be like to have that for myself. And when they got pregnant a few months back—something that made Prez find us a new, safer home base and really start to restructure the club, change some of the rules and shift responsibilities in order to accommodate his family and having kids at the clubhouse—I found myself wanting something like that too.
But those are pipe dreams at best because the other part of why I’m done with sweet butts, house mice, and rocket riders. I look like a fucking circus sideshow and women can’t seem to get past that long enough to realize I don’t like fucking talking about what happened to me. If it’s not a pity fuck then it’s for bragging rights, the ability to say they hopped into bed with a broken beast of a man, and I’m not fucked up in the head enough to settle for being ok with that.
Unfortunately for me, tagging along with Jackal means I’m going to have to dabble in it just enough to keep his conquest’s friends at bay, and the second they ask about my scars or decide I’m the perfect project for them to attempt tofix, I’ll be leaving his ass, regardless of whether he’s fucked anyone in the back alley yet or not.
Nineteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds later, I’m limping into the yard dressed in my standard uniform; boots, jeans, black T, my cut and jacket, and a baseball cap pulled down far enough to keep my way too long pompadour over the left side of my face—with just enough pissed off running through my veins to make this a hellacious couple of hours.
