Packing Double: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 5) Read online

  PACKING DOUBLE

  RUBY DIXON

  • • •

  When Kitty hears about the notorious ‘panty raid’ happening at a bar Friday night, she heads in looking for a good time with no strings attached. She might want to get laid, but she does not want to be part of any motorcycle club’s lifestyle. She’s not good with following directions or taking orders, and she’s been told that’s what an old lady does.

  But when she meets Gemini and Domino, everything changes. The dual presidents of the Bedlam Butchers, they stake their claim on Kitty and decide to show her what the club lifestyle is really about: riding free, living on the edge, and letting them show her just how good being claimed by two men can be. Kitty might like being the center of their attentions, but when her life takes a dangerous turn, she has to decide who to trust both in bed and out of it.

  This novella contains boy on girl on boy, fun on and under a table, and a naughty heroine who gives as good as she gets.

  THE MOTORCYCLE CLUBS • THE BEDLAM BUTCHERS #2

  CHAPTER ONE

  “No way,” I breathe, staring at the piece of paper fluttering under the time clock. It’s the schedule for the next week of shifts at Chrome, the bar I’d waitressed at for the last six months. Even though we were always short-staffed on weekends, I’d been marked off of Friday night’s schedule.

  That isn’t fair. Joleen knows I need tuition money for the upcoming fall semester, and tips are best on Friday nights. I’ve even specifically requested to work anyone’s overtime shifts. I tell everyone I’m available every day, every hour, because I have no social life other than school and work. I don’t date—school has to come first.

  So why mark me off Friday night? I need the money, and I always stay late to help out. I even dress a little extra sexy and put on my best flirt game to make a bit extra in tips. So what the fuck is this all about? I rip the schedule from the board and storm off to the cash office, full of indignation.

  My boss is in the back room, cranking the coin sorter. “Joleen,” I complain, and plop the schedule down in front of her. “I told you I need Fridays. Why am I off tomorrow? You only have two girls scheduled. That’s not enough and you know it. Why—”

  “Panty raid,” Joleen says without looking up. “Bedlam Butchers.”

  “Huh?” I don’t even know how to begin to reply to that.

  “Tamra, honey,” Joleen says, finishing with the coin sorter and turning around in her chair to look at me. “You’re a sweet girl and a good waitress, but you can’t work tomorrow night. It’s a panty raid.”

  I ignore the fact that Joleen refuses to call me Kitty. It’s a little too tarty, she says to me. Fuck that. So I like attention. So I like men. I don’t like being put into a corner and made to wear a label, that’s for damn sure. As a former foster kid, I haven’t had the best luck in life or ever had anyone to depend on. I suppose if anyone’s a mother figure to me, it’s Joleen. She’s lived so much life that she can’t help but have a few of the answers I’m seeking.

  “I...I don’t get it?” I tell her. “What’s a panty raid?”

  Joleen crosses her arms and gives me an exasperated look. “You’re twenty two, right, honey?”

  “Twenty four.”

  “Still too young.”

  “For what?”

  “For the Butchers,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a strong club, and a young one, but I don’t think you’re their type.”

  What on earth is Joleen babbling about? “I don’t understand anything that you’re saying.”

  “That’s because you’re not in the Lifestyle.”

  The way she says it—all capital ‘L’ in there—makes me realize that it’s a motorcycle club thing. Joleen herself dates patches, or so the rumors go. But Joleen is older than me and looks as if life has chewed her up and spit her out. She’s unhappy more often than not, chain-smokes, worries about her bills far too much, and never dates longer than a week. I never see her with anyone permanent-like.

  So if that’s the Lifestyle, it’s good that I avoid it. Chrome is a side-of-the-highway dive bar that gets its fair share of bikers, so I know not everyone has it as bad as Joleen does, but she’s my best example...which is why I never date.

  But the whole ‘panty raid’ thing keeps hitting a naughty bone, and I have to ask. “So...what’s a panty raid?”

  Joleen pulls out a cigarette and her favorite Zippo, lights her smoke, then indicates that I should sit down. I do eagerly, hefting myself backward onto a counter and letting my legs dangle.

  “I’m guessing you’re not a virgin, Tamra, honey.”

  I snort. “Not in the slightest.”

  “So, okay. Then I guess I can’t shock you with this shit. A panty raid is when the boys decide they need a little booty around. A little more club sweetbutt, if you catch my drift.”

  I’m not quite getting what she’s saying, but I don’t want to derail her. “Go on.”

  “The boys pick out a bar and let the girls in the area know that there’s gonna be a panty raid. The girls decide to show up, and the boys look for red thongs. If you’re wearing one, that means you’re interested in the club. If you’re not, it just means you get panty-checked a lot that night. Lots of men, lots of groping.”

  I consider this. Part of me is appalled at the thought of men tugging at my jeans and panty-checking me all night, but the reckless side of is more than a little titillated. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and while I have an entire freaking catalog of battery-powered boyfriends, they merely scratch the itch for a time.

  And I’ve been itching a long, long while. “So what are the rules for the panty raid?”

  Joleen quirks an over-penciled eyebrow at me. “Just that. Red thong means you’re fair game.”

  “But....what if someone decides he likes me and I don’t like him back?”

  “Then I suggest you wear a color other than red.” Joleen waves her cigarette. “Not that it matters. You ain’t working, honey. Like I said, it’s the Bedlam Butchers that are going to be crowding this place tomorrow night, and you’re not familiar with the Lifestyle.”

  But...there’d probably be lots of tips to be made if I flash a bit of thong at them, and tuition is coming up. And heck, I like being a flirt. I bite my lip, thinking. “What if I said I wanted to work? That I could handle it?”

  Joleen looks skeptical. “Now, Tamra, honey. I know you aren’t the type to go hooking up with the patrons. You haven’t since I hired you, and I like that you’re choosy. But tomorrow night, you can’t be choosy. Guys in a cut are different than the kind you might normally date. They don’t like a tease.”

  “I can handle myself.” Actually, the thought of a panty raid sounds pretty damn exciting.

  “There might be some shit going down in the bar that regular people ain’t gonna like seeing.”

  “I can still handle it.”

  “And your ass is gonna be grabbed three ways to Sunday.”

  I grin. “Then it’s a good thing I’m in the mood to get my ass grabbed. Come on, Joleen. Please?” I clasp my hands and park them under my chin in an attempt to look pathetic. “Pretty please?”

  “You want to work tomorrow because it’s a panty raid or because it’s good tips? ‘Cause the regular Friday night crowd ain’t gonna be in, honey. It’s gonna be bikers on the lookout for pussy.”

  “I’m aware. And I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  With a sigh, Joleen parks her cigarette back between her lips and takes the schedule from the counter-top, then writes my
name in.

  I’m reluctant to go. There are so many things I want more answers to, and Joleen’s just sitting there, smoking. So I idle a bit longer. “Joleen, can you tell me a bit more about the lifestyle?”

  She snorts. “It’s not something for a girl like you, Tamra.”

  “Why not?”

  Her head tilts in an exasperated look. “Because you ask too many questions and you’re not real good at following the rules,” she says tartly. “You just do whatever the fuck you like and hope that your smile brings people around.” And her words are mean but she’s grinning like she’s impressed.

  I’m impressed, too. She’d pegged me pretty well. I’m not real good at things like ‘listening’ and ‘obeying’. “So...bikers like girls that are sweet and all “yes sir” and “no sir”? Because that really, really doesn’t sound like me.”

  “Bikers don’t like it when their bitches lip back at them,” she tells me. “The first time you disobey, you’re gonna get a fist in the mouth, Tamra honey. Which is why you shouldn’t go to this panty raid thing unless all you want is a quick bit of dick.”

  I’ve been celibate for so long that even a quick bit of dick sounds pretty damn good to me. “So basically, ride them for the night and then don’t return their phone calls?”

  Joleen’s smile is mean. “Exactly, honey. Not unless you want a life of getting your old man a beer and sucking his dick whenever he wants.”

  I like sucking dick. And right now, I’m a waitress at a bar that serves beer. So, you know, I want to argue this fact, but I know what Joleen means. These are the kinds of guys that don’t respect what a woman has in her head, just what’s between her legs and how it can make a man feel. “I get you,” I tell Joleen. “One quick fuck and then out.”

  “Yup,” she says.

  Which, really, isn’t a bad call. I’d be happy with a quick fuck as long as it’s a good one.

  • • •

  The next night, I take care dressing for work.

  Normally, Chrome is a pretty low-key bar. I could wear jeans and the standard black work tank-top, and my wheel-shaped Chrome name-badge is the only decoration I need. If I want to dress things up, I’d wear some dangly jewelry and a few bracelets, and a bit of lipstick. Maybe a push-up bra.

  Tonight, I am going all out, though. I’m either going to get spectacularly laid or spectacularly tipped. Maybe even both, if I play my cards right. I wear my best red lacy thong and a matching red and black bra. I have a short leather skirt that only goes to mid-thigh and has a slit that goes even higher, and I wear it with a pair of fuck-me black heels and my normal Chrome tank-top.

  I pull my bright red hair into two loose pigtails at my nape and curl the ends so they bounce and dance against my pale skin. I put on my make-up with care, outlining my eyes with black and darkening my lashes until my blue eyes pop. The cherry on top is my mouth, painted a bright, inviting red.

  I study my reflection in the mirror, thinking, hands on my hips. I look pretty damn good, if I say so myself. But what if there’s no one sexy tonight? What if the bar is full of grizzled old men on dirty bikes and they chew tobacco and have bad teeth? I wrinkle my nose, thinking. After a moment of hesitation, I get out my biggest purse and throw in a pair of sneakers, jeans, and black granny panties in case I have a change of heart. Then, I toss the bag over my shoulder, ready for the night.

  Bring on the panty raid.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The bar is packed tonight, but so far, all I can see are women. Tall women, short women, women in tight jeans, women in low-cut dresses, and everyone, I am betting, is wearing a pair of red panties. The ladies are glammed up tonight and look hot. It’s surprising to see this many women in Chrome, which, in the kindest sense, is a bit of a dive bar. It’s surprising...and it’s shitty for tips. I make more of them flirting and shaking my ass at men than I do at women. As I pass another table full of twenty-somethings checking their lipstick, I wonder where the men are. Lots of girls are here tonight for the so-called panty raid, but the raiders themselves are missing in action.

  Is this the wrong night? If so, I’m in for a world of hurt—the fuck-me heels are going to fuck me over in a few hours, and my tips will be diddly squat.

  As I pass one of my tables, the women there hold up empty glasses. “More mojitos please!”

  “Be right back with your drinks, ladies.” I take the glasses and head to the bar where poor Cindy is busy pouring fruity, girly drinks as fast as the orders come in. “Three more mojitos,” I tell her.

  “I’m out of mint already,” Cindy says, wiping her sweaty brow. “Jesus Christ, don’t these chicks know how to order anything harder than a mojito? What a bunch of candy-asses.” She points a bottle at me. “Hey, Kitty, can you go in the back and see if the grocer came by today? If he did, maybe there’s some extra mint back there.” As I head to the back, Cindy calls after me. “And look for more limes, too! I’m low on those.”

  I head to the store room, dig around for as long as I dare to leave my tables unattended, and return to the bar ten minutes later with a handful of wilted mint leaves I’ve scraped up and two limes. Cindy gives me a grateful look and leans in. “Don’t look now, but there’s company, and not the Butchers.”

  “Oh? How can you tell?” I crane my neck, trying to look around the sea of people without actually looking.

  Cindy touches the skin under one corner of her eye. “Be careful, okay Kitty?”

  Uh oh. What did that small touch mean? Maybe it’s time to retreat to the back and switch out my panties and pull on some jeans. If Cindy—who was a wild child if there ever was one—is warning me, then things were about to get ugly. “I gotcha.” I take the fresh mojitos from Cindy, plop them on a tray, and then head out to the table where my ladies have been waiting so long that any hope of a tip is long gone. I’ll drop the drinks off and then race to the back room and change clothes, since it doesn’t seem like the bar is going to be anything but chicks anyhow.

  Intent on my tray of drinks, I cross the busy bar over to the table of women. Instead of happy drunks, they’ve gotten quiet, pretty faces unhappy. Oh no. I’d definitely left them for too long. “Sorry about the wait, ladies,” I tell them in a singsong voice and bend over to set down drinks in front of them. “This one’s on me, all right?”

  No one says a word. Huh, that’s odd. Why so quiet?

  A moment later, I feel a breeze on my backside. “Well, looky there. Someone’s wearing red panties.” A chorus of male laughs echo in the room, and I see the women at the table visibly flinch.

  I jerk and turn around, my hand flying to the back of my skirt, which had been raised up by a pair of unfamiliar hands. Three men sit at the table which had been empty a few minutes ago. For a moment, I think the Bedlam Butchers have arrived, and if so, all the fuss is for nothing. These men are...well, they are gross. One is fat and bearded, another is skinny with a hollow, ugly face, and the third just looks plain mean. They also look a good deal older than I am, and older than the women populating the bar. But as I give them my best waitress smile, I falter a little.

  Each man has a tattoo under his right eye in a small figure eight. I know that tattoo — it’s particular to the more dangerous members of the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. The Eighty-Eight are a notorious gang of 1%ers that like to fuck over the law and anyone else that gets in their way. White supremacists, meth running, you name it, they’ve done it. What they’re doing here tonight, I don’t know. A warning shiver of fear trickles down my spine, and I remember Cindy’s gesture under her eye. I know what the figure-eight under the eye means. It means they’ve killed someone for their club.

  Each one of these men were killers. And as I tuck the tray under my arm and try to remain calm, the one closest to me—Skinny—tries to flip up my skirt again.

  I sidestep him carefully. “Can I get you guys an order?”

  “Yeah, I’d like a shot o’ pussy to go with a bit of snatch and follow it up with a bit of clam,” Bearded says.
The other two guffaw as if this is hilarious.

  It’s tough, but my smile remains in place even as they continue to creep me out. “How about a few whiskeys?”

  “How about you park that sweetbutt in my lap?” Skinny says, trying to grab me.

  Oh hell no. Even I know what ‘sweetbutt’ is—public pussy for the Motorcycle Club. And I am not about to become their property. I wriggle out of Skinny’s grasp. “I’m just here to fill drinks, gentlemen.”

  “Not according to them panties, you’re not,” says Scary. “You’re looking to get fucked. Well, Sideswipe here has a dick a mile long.”

  Skinny—Sideswipe, I suppose—just grins and tries to pull me against him again. “That’s right, baby. And it’s all for you.” His hand goes back to the hem of my skirt.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell them, sidling out of the man’s grasp. I give them a quick, fake smile, and then head toward the back of the bar, desperate to escape. If I can get to the back locker room, I’ll change my panties, put on jeans, declare myself off limits, and count myself lucky—

  “Where you going, sweetbutt?” A horrible voice says in my ear, just as a hand clamps down on the back of my skirt and drags me backward.

  “Please, just leave me alone,” I tell him, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

  “No, girlie. You came here wanting sex. One patch is just as good as another, isn’t it?” He grabs the crotch of his jeans and leers at me.

  “Get away from me,” I cry out, pushing at him with my hands. His long limbs seem to be everywhere, and so I use the drink tray as a shield and shove him aside. The force of my reaction makes me fly backwards, off balance.

  Strong hands catch me before I can tumble to the bar floor. My back hits a strong chest, and then arms encircle me. Strong arms. I catch the scent of leather a moment before a voice rumbles in her ear. “You all right, sugar?”

  I stare up in awe at the man holding me. Dark hair tumbles over his brow, and his strong, handsome face is tanned. He’s got gorgeous cheekbones and a straight, perfect nose. He’s downright pretty, really, almost too pretty if it wasn’t for the chiseled jaw and five o’clock shadow that roughs him up a little. And it helps that he’s tall and muscular and has a friendly smile with perfect white teeth.