And my first thought was, “This guy’s kinda hot.”
Not hot in your stereotypical bro at the bar hot. He was thickly built, not lean and athletic, and he looked to be well into his thirties. But there was a sort of presence to him, a demeanor unlike anything I’d ever encountered, that suggested he gave no fucks about anything.
“Well, aren’t you a sexy little thing,” he said, “who works the worst fucking job possible. You’re lucky that my only response to you right now is no comment.”
He was making no bones about eying me up and down. It was kind of a rush, to be honest. He even lingered for a second, making me think there might be something more.
But then he slammed the door shut. I knew that I’d pressed my luck well past where I should have, and that luck’s luck would run out at some point.
“Let’s just shoot what we need to here and get out,” I said.
But as I did, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d come across Satan again.
Maybe it was just the adrenaline-starved journalist in me. Maybe I was doing the whole “admire the forbidden fruit” thing. Maybe I was just crazy.
But one thing that was a definite and not a maybe?
I wanted to get one of the Devil’s Patriots on camera soon enough.
Satan
Present Day
It was the Friday morning after one of our legendary ragers, a way for us to celebrate either prospects becoming members, a particularly nice haul of cash, or just because we fucking loved having ass and titties around us. Although I never said as much out loud, I was starting to get that “over the hill” feeling where too much alcohol had too many consequences.
But fuck if that would ever keep me from staying up all night or sleeping around. I just made sure that I didn’t also do it in tandem with a billion fucking drinks.
The main quarters of our clubhouse looked like a fucking mess. Half-drank beer bottles, lines of coke on the tables, naked girls—and naked guys, a sight I wassodelighted to see—lying on the couches and pool tables and just about any place else.
“Nice,” I grumbled.
The Devil’s Patriots were not to be fucked with, but we also knew how to fucking let loose. If you were a chick with great tits, you knew the best place to party was at our clubhouse. If you were a dude tough and lucky enough to be one of us, congrats, you got some of those tits in your face every Thursday and Saturday.
But I mean, come on, I had some standards of decency.Some.
I started picking up what I could, tossing out beer bottles and wiping up the lines of coke. The bodies I didn’t touch; I’d gotten a nice threesome last night that had sucked me dry of everything I had. I turned on the TV, not much giving a fuck if it woke people up; they knew Satan’s club, Satan’s rules.
Sonny came into the room at the sound of the first clinking of beer bottles in the trash bag. He looked far too put together for someone that I’d seen doing back-to-back shots on a dare last night. The gift of youth, I suppose—he could absorb attacks to his liver and brain without showing visible effects.
“The fuck you cleaning up after last night for?”
“Who the fuck you think runs this club, kid?”
It was a slip of the tongue. I no more called him kid than he called me pops on club grounds. But Sonny recognized the honest mistake and said nothing of it.
“Figured we’d let the prospects take care of it.”
“And when those fuckers wake up, they’ll be doing it until this place is as clean as a church. But someone’s got to set the example. And who the fuck better than Satan himself?”
Sonny smirked. He knew full well I wasn’t just making a point about me, but about what he’d be expected to do when he became president. That was way fucking off; I was older than him, but I was still in my thirties, not like I was on the verge of retirement. But that day would come, and so long as some fuckhead didn’t kill him or he didn’t drive himself into a ditch, he’d have my spot someday.
His attention drifted to the TV. He scrunched an eyebrow.
“Is that the hot bitch you were talking about a few months ago?” he said. “The reporter you said you wanted to fuck on camera, so you could say ‘coming to you live?’”
I snorted a laugh at that, as much a response as I’d give this early in the day. But I was damned—it was that girl. Usually, the TV stations either sent over dudes that we sent scrambling or older MILFs—certainly still fucking hot beauties, but not the kind of girl that I’d fantasize about.
That little babe, though. Oh, the things I’d do to her body. She thought she knew what dangerous and bad looked like? Wait till I got my dick inside of her.
