Sherri’s age wasn’t the problem. She was an angry drunk, a loudmouth, and tossed the MC name around like she’d done something to earn it other than lay on her back.
“Yeah, thanks Sherri.” I freed myself from her grasp and joined Jameson beside the grill. “Sup?”
Jameson grinned and leaned in for a hug. “Congrats, bro. How does it feel to be king?”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown and all that shit. But it feels good.”
“You worked hard and proved yourself. No one deserves it more.” There was genuine pride in my brother’s voice. It was written all over his face. “Now try not to get yourself killed.”
I laughed. “Been doing that all my life.”
“Don’t get killed and please, for the fucking love of God, don’t make Sherri your old lady.” We both turned to the woman in a skintight black dress and a face full of makeup and laughed.
“No chance of that happening. Worst fuck ever.”
“Right,” Jameson agreed with a gleam in his eyes. “Find yourself an old lady like Mom and you’ll be Prez until you’re ready to step down like Cross.”
“Shit, man, I just got the job and now you’re trying to marry me off and fill my house with kids. What the fuck?” I was too young for that kind of responsibility. I had too much on my plate to worry about a chick beyond a few nights between the sheets. “The MC is my wife until further notice.”
“Famous last words,” Gunnar said and gave my back a hard smack. “Thought the same thing when I got to Texas, determined to take care of Maisie and set up my vision for Reckless Bastards, Opey. Then Peaches showed up and turned my plans on their big fat ass.”
“Not you too,” I groaned.
“I’m just saying, this kind of shit happens when you least expect it. Hell, when you’re not at all prepared to deal with the mess of fallin’ for a woman. Damned inconvenient, that’s what love is.”
His gaze found Peaches in the crowd, laughing with Aunt Vivi, and his body relaxed with the kind of peace I’d seen between Cross and Moon, and even my folks.
“But so fuckin’ worth it. Might even make you a better Prez.”
“Yeah, why is that?”
“One more thing to fight for. To protect.” He laughed and took a long, thoughtful pull of his beer. “People will tell you that women and family make you weak. Hell, time was, I would’ve been the first to tell you that, just ask Cross. But the truth is, it’ll help make you better and smarter, more cunning. More willing to do what it takes to protect what’s yours before it’s too late.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him and went in search of more booze. Women and love were the last thing on my mind, but being a good leader meant I needed to hear all the advice offered and figure out which path worked best for me.
I was no longer Charlie Ellison, son of Max and Jana, a member of the Reckless Bastards. I was now Charlie Ellison, President of the Reckless Bastards MC. It was a whole new world. Hell, it was now my world.
And I’d protect the club, the members, the women and businesses with my life if necessary.
Hell, even if it wasn’t.
Chapter Two
Savannah
Peace. There were very few moments of peace in my life. I always tried to savor them because they never lasted long. Ever. For just one rare minute there was absolute silence. No sounds of people fucking or getting beat from the skanky motel rooms on either side of mine. No sirens or fights. No gunfire either.
Nothing, just the sweet sound of nothing.
The dirty, itchy bedspread was a far cry from the thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets I slept on just a mere six months ago. Then again, everything about this life was different.
Instead of making important decisions for the family business, I was just a fucking whore. A commodity. A piece of property for a bunch of idiotic drug-addicted assholes to sell and resell dozens of times a day. Every fucking day.
The Black Jacks might be morons and crackheads, but who was the dumb bitch who’d managed to get kidnapped by them and forced to fuck God knows who for money? Me. It was me, Savannah Rhymer, a name that meant fuck all to me anymore because being a Rhymer hadn’t saved me from this fate. Hadn’t even made me a proper bargaining chip for these assholes. None of that mattered, except how many cocks I could take in a day without damaging the goods.
Fuck this life.
Most days I laid on the scratchy bedding and wished for death. I might have prayed for death if I still believed in the power of prayer, but I’d been cured of that by the middle of month two and the fiftieth load of spunk I had to rinse out of my mouth. Now I just wished for death between fucks, between sleep and between doses of drugs, doled out like trophies for slaves who managed to please their masters. I kept the masters happy, not that I had a choice, by taking three and four dicks at once because Savannah Rhymer, heiress to the Rhymer empire was a gang-bang expert.