Saint had not, in fact, fucked her or anyone last night. “She was a sorority girl wearing a pink skirt made of fucking sparkly feathers.”
Still snickering, Gator shook his head. “And? You don’t like the skirt, you rip it off before you fuck her. Problem solved. The feathers float away, and you concentrate on the important shit like getting your dick wet.”
Her skirt had been the least of Saint’s issues. Sure, she’d been hot and obviously down to fuck, but she’d been as high maintenance as they came, wearing shoes that cost over eight hundred dollars according to her equally prissy friend. She’d pouted when she found out they didn’t have chilled champagne stocked behind the bar at the clubhouse or any champagne, for that matter. His dick didn’t get hard for prissy anymore. When he’d been younger and less discriminating, he wouldn’t turn down a fuck from any pussy, no matter how high maintenance, but he’d learned to be a little choosy in his early thirties. Prissy women tended to be stage-five clingers who never left and cleaned out his wallet.
“Sorority girls aren’t my type,” he said.
Gator’s face screwed up in exaggerated confusion. “She got a pussy?”
Saint shrugged. “Assume so. Didn’t ask. Was too blinded by the glitter.”
Gator slapped the table. “Brother, you don’t ask the pussy questions, you just appreciate it.”
Rev, the newest prospect, finished polishing Saint’s bike and moved on to the next and most important. At fifty-something, Copper was as formidable an MC president as he’d always been. The man’s Harley was a beast, all gleaming chrome and matte black, and every brother knew better than to breathe too hard near it.
“Careful with that one,” Gator called to the skinny kid. “Fuck it up, and Prez will shove the whole bike up yer ass.”
The prospect’s eyes widened, and he froze an inch away from touching Copper’s bike with a microfiber cloth. “Really?”
That set Gator off in a fit of laughter. “You’ll see. As they say, fuck around and find out, little buddy.”
The poor kid’s face turned a sickly shade of green. Saint could have jumped in and rescued him, but he kept his mouth shut. Prospects got hazed, that’s just how the game was played. Many prospects had been tortured before Rev and lived to tell the tale, including him and Gator. Some of those prospects had been fantastic, and some had been absolute shit, but Copper had yet to shove his bike up someone’s ass despite threatening them all.
“Not seeing the problem here, brother,” Gator said, turning back to Saint. “She has a pussy, she should be your type.”
“Sorry, I’ve got standards, man.”
Grunting, Gator shook his head. “All standards will get you is blue balls and a tired right hand.”
Maybe. But they’d also keep Saint from ending up with a girlfriend he didn’t want who demanded he buy her next feather skirt. “And having none will get you burning piss.”
“Eh, nothing a little pill won’t fix right up.” Gator winked.
“Classy.”
“That’s me, baby. All class.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer, then belched so loud the prospect glanced over again. “The ladies love it.”
Saint snorted. “Sure, they do. Nothing gets the panties wet like acid reflux and a diseased dick.”
Before Gator could issue another snarky comeback, the clubhouse door swung open, and Copper and Thunder, Saint’s brother-in-law, strode out carrying a bucket with ice and a bunch of frosty beers.
The easy chatter dipped for half a second. Nothing obvious, nothing stiff, but the subtle shift always happened when their president stepped up to his men—respect without fear, loyalty without question.
“Hey, boys, mind if we crash your party?” Copper asked as he lifted the bucket. “We brought gifts.”
As if they could or would say no to their president.
Saint didn’t have a death wish. “Of course,” he said, sliding over to make room for Thunder.
Copper settled his giant body next to Gator, making the bench groan under his substantial weight. Even nearing sixty, the man was muscular as hell, all thick shoulders and corded forearms covered in ink. He carried his power with ease, like he’d been born wearing the patch and running the circus.
Gator scooted a fraction of an inch away. “Careful, Prez. This bench collapses, I’m blaming your old ass, not mine.”
Copper snorted. “You blame me, you better be ready to run laps around the clubhouse until those chicken legs fall off.”
“Joke’s on you,” Gator said, lifting his scarred thigh. “One’s already halfway gone.”
Thunder chuckled as he sat, reaching immediately for a frosty beer. Copper set the bucket in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, gentlemen.”
