Chapter 3
Megan - Day 2
A few hoursof sleep had been all I could manage through the night stuffed inside the tight smelly space of the broom closet that was going to be my room for the next thirty days.
There was no alarms or wake up calls, just the loud shouts of men and their heavy steps beating against the creaky floor boards. I cleaned and kept my distance from the men by hanging out in the kitchen, but my resolve was being vigorously tested. It was only the second day, and weariness had started to set in, but I was determined not to let it show. It appeared the MC’s mission was to seek me out and see how many times they could push me or call me the N-word before I broke.
Whenever I encountered any of the MC members, they taunted me with demeaning words, shoved me, or demanded I work faster or harder. They enjoyed the fact that they could say the N-word in front of an actual African-American and get away with it without being challenged.
I caught Shark staring at me numerous times, and he made no attempt to hide what I thought was lust gleaming in his eyes. Was it possible to hate someone and be sexually attracted to them at the same time?
I was a curvy five-foot-five, brown-skin woman with lengthy, curly hair. I was not a glamor girl or a magazine beauty, but over the years, I’d paid attention to what men specifically liked about me, and I have not been afraid to use those features to my advantage when necessary.
Although I’d been blessed with full lips and big, brown eyes shaded by thick lashes, I was aware that my ass was known to get me noticed faster than almost any of my other features.
For some reason, men couldn’t keep their eyes off my ass. I didn’t have one of those big insanely large asses, but mine wasn’t small either. It was round and firm enough to pull attention. My chest barely made its way into a C-cup, but my slim waist made my breasts appear larger than they were.
Currently, my ass poked out from me being bent over the sink scrubbing the hell out of a large stainless-steel pot. I hadn’t missed the fact that every time Shark approached me, his eyes damn near bulged from their sockets as they zoomed in on my tits and ass. Never mind the big, baggy T-shirt and sweatpants I had on. He seemed to see right through them.
He’d forbidden his men from touching me, and now I wondered if it was because he wanted to sample me first. It had taken me most of the afternoon to wash the dishes and clean the large stove and refrigerator. Grease and dirt were caked on the stove, and the refrigerator was teeming with mold and food items that had taken on new life forms. Whoever cooked for the club wasn’t the most sanitary person.
Since no one bothered to offer me lunch or any kind of food, I made an executive decision and prepared a meal. I opened a few cans of mixed veggies, made some gravy from scratch, and used the passable beef cubes I’d found in the large freezer to make a beef stew.
Shark didn’t object when he noticed me cooking, and despite how messy and dirty the large refrigerator had been, it had been well stocked.
After dusting off and washing the rice cooker, I steamed some rice to go with the stew. I doubted I’d have any takers, but the food would be there if the group wanted any. If they didn’t, I’d at least have something to eat for the next few days.
When Shark walked into the kitchen and found me sitting at the small splintered table in the corner eating a bowl of stew, he didn’t hesitate to pick up a plate and dig in. My eyes crinkled at the sight of him eating my food. How did he know that he could trust me not to poison him?
It took Shark a few minutes after he exited the kitchen through the swinging double doors to return for a second helping. The next thing I knew, other members of the MC came into the kitchen in groups of twos and threes, following Shark’s lead.
They stood around the pot like hungry vultures. The members of August Knights Motorcycle Club were a group that wasn’t supposed to trust or like me, but they sure as hell didn’t seem to mind eating my cooking.
I found it strange that there weren’t any women that hung out in this club. Did they come at a certain time? Was this club for men only?
From what I could tell, this group needed to rethink their no-women-allowed policy because they didn’t seem to come across many home cooked meals. It only took a few minutes for them to scrape the pot of stew clean. Maybe cooking could be a way for me to get on their good side—as good a side as they had. I needed to find a way to get through these thirty days by any means necessary.
As I washed the last of the dishes I’d dirtied, I stared absently through the window. The worn, puke-green blinds in the wide kitchen window presented a stripped view of nothing but woods. The sun had started to set, diming the daylight, but it didn’t take the heat with it. The old AC unit sitting below those ugly green blinds may as well have been a fan. All it did was swirl the heat around the kitchen and leave me drenched in sweat. The rusty decorative thermometer tacked to the wall near the window showed an inside temperature of eighty-two degrees.
Although muffled by the closed kitchen doors, the sudden call and shouts jerked me out of my thoughts. It sounded like someone shouted, “Drop the gun, motherfucker!” but I couldn’t be sure.
* * *
I crepttowards the swinging double doors that led into the club and listened, placing my ear to the wood. I eased one open very slightly, and my gaze landed on the closed door, located to the right of the double doors. I’d sneaked into the room earlier today and learned that it must have been the MC’s conference room or whatever bikers called their meeting area.
A large hardwood table filled most of the space in the room, which had a biker and motorcycle carved into it in such intricate detail that I’d stood, staring at the table like it was a piece of art in a gallery. Ten heavy black leather rolling chairs surrounded the large table. A wooden gavel that matched the table’s surface sat at the head, likely Shark’s spot.
The walls bore chipped white paint and nails stuck out at various angles—where members hung their vest, I presumed. Sheer and dingy pale blue drapes hung in three large windows that framed the wall that ran the length of the table. No other items or furnishings were in the room.
More shouting called my attention back to the club area. I cracked the double doors open wider, and a violent string of curse words assaulted my ears. Before I could figure out what was going on, all hell broke loose. Instead of running from the drama, I sprung the doors open further and stepped over the threshold for a better look.
If I was going to be stuck with these bikers for thirty days, I figured I may as well get some enjoyment out of it. I stood shocked and amazed at the way they were beating the hell out of each other as bystanders got caught in the crosshairs of swinging fists and tumbling bodies. A few of the guys I recognized from Shark’s group tussled with men that I assumed were from a rival MC, based on their cut.
Bikers were beating the shit out of each other, and I was enjoying the show as my gaze danced over the scene with keen interest. Fists flew, and beer bottles were cracked across necks as non-fighters scrambled for cover.
My head swiveled and pivoted back and forth, left and right, as the clatter of pounding fists, angry shouts, and growling barks exploded throughout the club.
When a gun came skidding in my direction and clinked to a stop at my feet, I stared at the shiny piece of black metal before I reached down and picked it up. It was an FNP45 caliber pistol, which confirmed that someone intended to kill someone. I’d learned about guns from my dearly departed husband who’d died fighting in Iraq three years ago when his unit was ambushed by Iraqi forces.