OFF LIMITS: Grim Angels MC Read online

  Angela’s face lit up and she gyrated her hips for a moment, rubbing her hands behind her head and through her hair, her eyes closed, grunting and moaning loudly, looking like she was deep in a mind twisting orgasm. “Awesome! Fuckin’ right!” she grinned, her show stopping as suddenly as it started.

  “You’re completely hopeless,” Jess said, wagging her finger again.

  “You look like your mom when you do that,” Angela teased. “Val’s got some guys coming up from Atlanta and they’re supposed to show up. I do love the way those southern guys sound,” she drawled out, then switched back to her normal voice. “You’ll have fun. I will make sure that happens. Don’t you chicken out.”

  Jess grinned sheepishly. “I won’t chicken out.” Actually I probably will, but I can’t admit that to Angela.

  “I’ll come up there and drag your skinny ass down the street if you do. Then won’t you be embarrassed?”

  “Ooh...you’re scary.” Is that my voice? Jess wondered. There was lightness to it that she barely recognized, and she liked it. The café door below rang and Jess could see the squat form of Angela’s man stumbling onto the sidewalk.

  Angela squealed and jumped into his arms, immediately planting a deep kiss on him. Jess watched for a while as Ed lifted Angela up and swung her about like a ragdoll. Her heels dangled in the air, her hands buried in his greying hair, becoming oblivious to her old friend. She was lost in her love for this steady, strange, old man.

  Would I ever get that? Do I even deserve it anymore? She turned away from the window and made her way to the bathroom, mindfully stuffing her jealousy away in that same dark space she seemed to put everything these days.

  ***

  It had been some stupid late night talk show. When she opened the door to Luke’s house, some vacuous celebrity was having an overly animated discussion with the host while the audience clapped and giggled in all the right places. Was the sound even on?

  It was hard for her to remember anything during the day, but the details were clear in her dreams, and tonight as she walked into the house for her nightly visit, she could hear the canned laughter blaring. The laughter didn’t stop. It didn’t stop when she opened the door to the bedroom. It didn’t stop when she saw the girl’s body. Hysterical laughter, deafening her as she stood at the base of the bed and stared. Whoever she was, she looked like a mannequin, painted with a deep and glossy red from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Her hair was matted with it, her nostrils filled with it. So many cuts and all so deep, the only word for it was mauled. Like a rabid dog filled with inhumane hunger had attacked her, she had been sliced and torn apart. Oh how it must have hurt.

  Luke had given her pain throughout their relationship, but he had saved this kind of hurt for others. Why? The girl’s eyes stared, shocked but lifeless up to the ceiling, her eyelashes thick with badly applied mascara.

  Luke always had a thing for eyes. Whoever this nameless girl was, she knew him enough to know that. Canned laughter thundered from the living room, growing louder and louder until it sounded less like hilarity and more like screams. In her dream, the laughter became the shrieks of a tortured woman, screams and constant applause, egging on the pain and congratulating it. Jess’s mind hummed with the sound. She clapped her hand over her ears and her head began to vibrate until she was sure that it was going to burst. She pressed her hands tight, her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sound. But she couldn’t, and the screams of laughter mocked her.

  Chapter Four

  He was careful to ride behind him for the entire trip north so Jason would be the one with all the bugs in his teeth when pulling into Detroit. Smirking to himself, Scott Murphy thoroughly enjoyed each time he saw Jason raise his smallish hands to his eyes to swat something away or, even better, to his mouth to drag something out. He hoped it was a big juicy one every time. A June bug even because those big, hard shelled, bastards hurt.

  Scott was sure Jason noticed what he was doing. How could he not? He was an intelligent man. After all, as he was sure to remind them at every opportunity that he was the future leader of the mighty Grim Angels. Chosen from the five charters, he was Val’s golden boy, set to inherit the throne.

  Future despot or not, Scott had been careful to maneuver himself directly behind Jason all the way from Atlanta, using him as a human shield of sorts against the litany of insects that must have be pummeling him from mile one. It wasn’t a perfect solution since he still caught the occasional bug, but it was better than catching every bug. It was a small victory, and a petty one, but Scott just didn’t care. Chances were that Jason didn’t care either.

  Being the leader was enough to keep him happy. That was just the kind of creepy little ginger he was. Scott liked to think of Jason as the walking embodiment of little man syndrome. He was Napoleon with a southern drawl. He swaggered, he squinted, and he was dramatic in his speech and gestures. He had pretty much every quality you’d expect from a future motorcycle club leader, except for size. He definitely didn’t have size.

  Jason MacGinnis’ little man complex was never more apparent than it was the night he announced he had been chosen to eventually replace Val. He’d gathered all the key Atlanta players in his basement, leaving a few of his larger cohorts and their salivating pit bulls upstairs to guard the place. In Scott’s experience, that usually meant to play video games and hit the bong while the real business was sorted elsewhere.

  Looking back, Scott was pretty sure Jason had chosen his spot strategically beneath the naked bulb for its dramatic effect. In the cramped basement, with the heavy scent of weed and black mold in the air, Jason had announced in his most regal voice that he was to moving to Detroit in order to be groomed by Val to become his successor. Scott remembered how he had paused after making the announcement as if expecting a great gasp, a round of applause, or maybe even a triumphant blast of horns. He must have been so disappointed that the only response he received was a few grunts and the sound of video game gunfire from upstairs.

  As soon as the word were out of his moth, Scott crossed his fingers and began to chant in his head, dear God, please don’t pick me, but he had. Under that stupid swinging bulb, Jason had named his good friend Scott and Wild Card Rick Wilders, as his advisors, saying he had already cleared it with Val and they had both proven themselves to be the best men for the job. They were to saddle up for Detroit the next week when they were riding up to be introduced to the mother charter. They would have to return, of course, to settle their affairs in Atlanta, but the deal was done and it was just a matter of getting there.

  Everyone turned to look at the two of them. Scott, his face passive and his arms crossed, just happened to be standing next to Rick, who was grinning like an idiot who had just won a scratch and win.

  “Right on! Fuckin’ Detroit, here we come!” Rick had said with his typical enthusiasm.

  Scott ground his teeth as they rumbled through southern Michigan, once again swallowing his annoyance. Right on, indeed. He didn’t want to leave Atlanta. He had settled there, or as much as men like him could settle. He had an apartment, he was starting a bookshelf, and he’d found a few restaurants he enjoyed. Hell, he had even adopted a stray cat.

  Now as he rode in the growing darkness behind Rick and Jason, he found himself wondering if Rocky, so named because he had obviously seen his share of fights, even missed him. Probably only for the kibble I put out for him every day, the ungrateful bastard.

  He always had plenty of other companions lining up to spend their evenings with him. However, when they had taken their purses and he had shown them the door, it was Rocky’s purr as he rubbed himself against his leg that had given him the biggest comfort. Or course, if the only thing keeping him in Atlanta was a cat that didn’t even belong to him, maybe it was best he left.

  ***

  After what seemed like an eternity as they rolled north through Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, and, finally, Michigan, they could finally see the sparkling center
of the city as they rumbled across the Rogue River on I-75. Scott was in a foul mood. Saddle sore from twelve hours of hard riding, in a city he didn’t want to be in, the city center seemed pathetic in its enthusiasm as it sparkled in the distance.

  Detroit’s reputation preceded it, but, even so, the outlying suburbs they had ridden past struck him. They were in the better part of town, but they could see empty lots and collapsing houses and buildings. There were hardly any streetlights and it seemed there was nothing but miles of abandoned buildings, interspersed with empty lots, desolate looking parks, and the weary headlights of the occasional car. It looked like an apocalypse and he wanted to be anywhere other than this shithole of a city.

  A few miles farther on, Jason motioned for them to exit onto Michigan Avenue. Their bikes vibrated and shook along the brick road until they rolled to a stop at a gas station. Scott unbuckled his helmet and slipped it off before dismounting. Sweaty from the ride, his hair flopped down almost to his chin and he pushed it out of his eyes impatiently.

  “Sweet Jesus, fuck me. Look at this place,” he mumbled as he looked around. For some reason he thought of that big fat cat again. It seemed to help the lonely gnaw he suddenly felt at the pit of his stomach.

  Rick laughed wryly as he tipped his bike onto the side stand and walked to the edge of the filling island, where he could see the skyscrapers in the distance, and extending his skinny arms out as if to hug the skyline. “Are you ready for us, Detroit!” he yelled in his best strip club DJ voice. Scott and Jason might have at least laughed at that earlier, but it had been a long ride and even Rick’s jokes became annoying after a while.

  Still straddling his bike, Jason took a cigarette from a beat up pack in his jacket pocket and lit it, drawing deep to cause the tip to flare bright red. Scott mentally shook his head as he prepared to fill his bike. It was just like Jason to light up before pumping gas. Jason pulled off his helmet, his hair pulled back enough that Scott could see wings of the angel part of his tattoo curling up his neck behind his ears. You could say one thing about the little leprechaun: he was devoted. He was going to make an excellent leader; there was no doubt in his mind. In fact, the man was so enthusiastic that rather than wearing the club logo on the back of his jacket, like the rest of them, he took it upon himself to have the entire thing tattooed on his freckled back. He even had Grim Angels inked across his neck, just to top the whole thing off.

  Scott had been there when he did it. Irish drunk in truly majestic style, Jason had sat on the tattoo chair like it was his precious bike, like a king upon his royal steed. Eyes bleary but still a magnetic blue, he had clenched his teeth around his smoke as the poor, terrified, tattoo artist did his best not to fuck up. It didn’t help that Jason had threatened to kill him if he did. That definitely didn’t make for a carefree atmosphere.

  “You better make it perfect, man. The only way that’s coming off is if they skin me alive.”

  Scott had to look away to hide his smile. The speaking through clenched teeth thing was so over the top that it was like he was following a manual. However, here he was, loyal to the little ginger, and following him to what, from his viewpoint, really did look like the bowels of hell.

  “Welcome home, gentlemen!” Jason said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “This place isn’t going to know what hit it.”

  “I’m starving,” Rick grumbled as he turned away from the view and leaned backward to crack his aching back. They had been pushing hard to make Detroit in one day, stopping only when the bike were hungry. The flesh could wait.

  Out of the three of them, Rick was definitely the tallest. Almost as tall as the infamous Val, but skinny as a twig, he was like a hyperactive, genetically enhanced, puppy. Truly an example of adult ADHD, the only thing that seemed to help him focus was the almost constant cloud of marijuana smoke he surrounded himself with. Scott wasn’t sure he’d even recognize him if he weren’t high. He’d heard stories, though. Horrible ones. Rick wasn’t a man to cross and definitely one to keep on your side. Someone had paid for every scar that man had on his lean body.

  “Hungry, hungry, hungry…think there’s anything to eat around here?”

  “Val’s set us up in his own basement for starters,” Jason said. “We can grab something to eat once we get there. I don’t want to be in this shithole after dark any longer than I have to be.”

  Scott pulled the nozzle from his bike’s tank and pursed his lips. For someone in a hurry, Jason was taking his own sweet time. He was the only one that had filled his bike and was ready to roll. “Is his place in the bright parts or in fucking hell? This place looks like a something out of a fucking zombie apocalypse movie.”

  “Aww…what’s wrong, Prada? You miss your old home already?” Rick had wandered back to his own bike and had paused as he lifted the nozzle from the pump. “You worried they won’t have Evian like they do in Atlanta?” Jason barked with laughter as began to fill his own bike, his voice very loud in the silence.

  “Fuck you, Rick,” Scott growled, making both men laugh harder still. They had been calling him that horrible nickname, Prada, since they rode past a billboard in Cincinnati. Glowing with spotlights and spread wide across the sky, the advertisement featured a male model that could’ve been Scott’s twin.

  He turned his back to the men, as he tightened the cap on the tank, so they wouldn’t see him blush. He hated that shit. He barely noticed the way he looked. He avoided mirrors out of a complete lack of interest, not because of any confidence issues.

  It was true he had always received attention from members of the opposite sex. He couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t easy to get a girl. In fact, it was more annoying to him than anything else. He learned a long time ago that he could afford to be choosy, and as a result, he chose to ignore them. There were only so many mindless conversations he could be a part of without swallowing a bullet. Unlike Rick, with his seemingly permanent hard on, Scott could take it or leave it. He was too confident, too self-possessed, to give a shit either way.

  Still, remembering back to that big glossy black and white billboard, he felt more than a little self-conscious. That was what he looked like? Like some cross between rugged outdoorsman and a matinee idol? It was fucking embarrassing. Of course, he didn’t let on their kidding annoyed him and he would let them have their fun until they got tired of it. He was the master of stonewalling.

  “Neither, so relax. It’s north of the city, out in the country somewhere. A place called Ray. It doesn’t matter. Wherever it is, we’ll settle in just fine. All we need is a hot bath, a few drinks, and a lady or two as a light refresher.” Jason spoke like he was addressing an army, his voice full of false authority.

  Scott and Rick exchanged glances. Hopefully he’d settle into this whole authority thing before the two of them had to beat the shit out of him.

  The mention of ladies seemed to perk Rick up though. He rubbed his hands together in a comic gesture of greed. “I could handle one or two. Three or four. Basically whatever Prada here can rustle up for me.”

  “You want me to get your girls for you now, Rick?” Scott glared at him from across the bike.

  In the lights of the station, Rick’s shaven head glowed a bit like the moon. His manic eyes were shining even brighter now at the mention of women and the thought of fresh pussy.

  Under one eye was a series of lines, like the ones prisoners used to scratch into the walls for every day they were locked up. For Rick, those were for every man he had killed. There were six. No one asked him about the circumstances, but Scott had been present for three of them. Nothing bonds friends like getting away with murder. Rick’s problem with women, however, stemmed from the fact that if he got drunk enough, he’d end up blabbing about what those lines stood for. Unfortunately, whenever that happened, Rick was generally trying to get laid at the same time, and that was not a good combination.

  “I ain’t above sloppy seconds. I’m more than willing to take whatever I can get. I’m trading in my food st
amps. It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” Scott mumbled as he swung his leg over his bike and retrieved his helmet from the mirror and began to fasten it, intending to do no such thing.

  “Big tits, Scott. Remember that, I want one with huge tits. Massive. I got big hands.” Rick stretched his fingers wide to make his point. “Those babies got to fit right in there.”

  “Right. Got it,” Scott replied as he stood his bike upright, silently urging the other two men to shut up, hurry up, and get back on the road so he didn’t have to listen to their shit anymore.

  “Don’t forget to get one for yourself while you’re at it. What kind you want?” Rick spoke like they were talking about ice cream flavors, and it made Scott cringe for what seemed like the millionth time since they started the trip. Rick never, ever, shut up, and once he latched onto a subject, he would worry it to death, like a dog gnawing at a bone.

  Scott had grown up with sisters, a powerhouse of a mother, and no dad to speak of. If he learned anything about living in a house packed with women, it was that it just wasn’t that simple. They weren’t ice cream. They weren’t anything to collect or sample. They were just as fucked up and just as powerful as men were. If not more so. It was the ones who tapped around in high heels while trying to drink away what brain cells they had left that disappointed him.