Two women walk behind us, laughing over something. They’re both sporting leather vests exactly like the one I’m wearing. Theirs say ‘Property of’ across the bottom, along with a brother’s name. I turn around, watching them walk away. They’re not scared. They don’t look trapped or even anxious.
“So,” I say, trying to keep the curiosity out of my tone. “Are those women being protected too?”
Slate freezes for a second before slowly turning around. When he doesn’t answer right away, I continue, “I thought you said this vest was just for safety,” I add, brushing my fingers along the edge of the cut he gave me. “You told me it was a way to keep people off me.”
“I did say that,” he responds cautiously.
“And?” I prompt him without being too pushy.
“And that was the truth, just not all the truth. That property cut means you belong to one of the brothers. As long as I’m your protector, you belong to me. You’re mine to protect, and that’s why I plan to get my name put on your cut real fuckin’ soon.”
Looking up at him, I ask, “So, you think that’s necessary?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “It’s just the way we do things here. If you’re not in a property cut, the other brothers will hit on you. They can be persistent. I’m sure you don’t want that, right?”
“Heck, no. Of course not. I want to take care of my daughter and try to recover from this latest round of what-the-fuck thatjust happened to us. I don’t have any time or interest in fooling around with any of your club brothers.”
The tension in his face relaxes. “It’s for the best, because around here, if you’re wearing my cut, that makes you family.”
There’s another reason I’m family.
I know I have to tell him about Katie, but right now I just need to know that we’re safe and I can start planning our next move. We stand there looking into each other’s eyes, and for some reason I suddenly get a flash of how he used to look when he was on top of me, feeling his thick cock fill me up. I feel my face get hot, and for one crazy moment I want to ask if wearing his cut means we can fool around.
Unfortunately, a shrill, high-pitched female voice cuts through the air. “This is total bullshit, Slate!”
A woman in tight jeans, a low-cut halter top, and way too much eye makeup stalks towards us.
“I spread all that cow shit around in the yard like you asked,” she says, arms folded tight as she glares at Slate.
“I didn’t ask you to do that, Silver. Tessa handed out that punishment, if you remember.”
“Look, I’m not trying to cause any more drama. I just want to be off punishment so I can wear my silver again.”
Slate’s jaw tightens. “Take it up with Tessa and stop wasting my time.”
“Come on,” Silver begs. “I apologized and broke three nails fertilizing the lawn with a couple of prospects who are too pissed to even talk to me.”
Slate shoots back coldly, “I can call Queenie over to explain the chain of command for club girls if you’re having difficulty rememberin’?”
Silver’s eyes go big and she takes a step back. “No. Don’t do that. I’m good.” She mutters something under her breath about Queenie ruling with an iron fist as she stomps off.
I watch her go, then look at him. “Is she always like that?”
“Only when she’s fuckin’ breathing,” he snarls.
I add this latest bit of information about the club girl to what I’ve already learned about the way the clubhouse operates. They have a structured chain of command and don’t appear to deviate from it.
People here look at Slate with respect, and no one questions his authority. This is his world, and he’s totally comfortable in his role. I’ve been pulled into the center of it without ever meaning to be.
I find myself thinking that this is too good to be true. There has to be a catch. Those thoughts keep circling around in my head as I follow him. By the time we get to the kitchen, dinner is in full swing. It’s louder than I expected it to be.
My daughter is sitting on the counter in front of Queenie. She’s just finishing up her strawberry ice cream. “Mommy! I helped stir!” she calls out excitedly when she spots me. “I stirred good!”
Queenie captures the bowl that Katie almost drops in her excitement to tell me all about her amazing adventure.
“Your daughter is a natural,” Queenie says, all smiles. “She’s destined to be a world-famous chef.”
“That would be amazing,” I respond, crossing the room.
