Pulling Her Trigger (Ghost Riders MC #1)(9)
Pulling up to the front of the bar, I don’t see Pres’s chopper sitting out front, so I circle around the back. I see Pinch, a new prospect, leaning up against the side of the bar with a woman on her knees in front of him, sucking his cock.
Coming to a stop, I roll my window down and whistle to get his attention.
“Casper,” he says, still letting the woman continue to suck him off. He grips her hair tighter, pushing her further down his cock.
“You see Pres tonight?”
“I’m not his f*cking keeper. You out stalking his ass or something? You really his side piece?” His words grind on my nerves worse than they normally do.
Seconds later, he cums in the woman's mouth, pissing me off further because he’s getting off while being a f*ckhead to me. It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with someone’s mouth about being in the club, but this kid is new so maybe he doesn’t know any better. It’s time he learned a thing or two about respect.
The woman gets up from her knees shooting me a death glare, like I want to take this piece of shit from her. Pinch whispers something into her ear before she scurries back inside the bar. Just what I was waiting for.
Pulling out a smoke he lights it, leaning back against the brick wall of the bar.
“Got nothing to say, Casper? Now that the entire club isn’t beside you to shut someone down, you don’t seem to run your mouth as much.”
He’s a hundred percent right. I won’t get out of my truck and walk over there looking for a fist fight. Some might call me a * for that, but I don’t give a flying f*ck. He’s also right that if anyone tries to physical with me, my brothers get in their face, because let's be honest, I can’t win. And I have no problem letting them do it for me. Just like they have no problem sticking me in the hills, or on the top of buildings to do what I’m best at. We all have our skills and we use them for each other.
Reaching into the back waistband of my pants, I pull out my 9mm Smith & Wesson and point it right at Pinch. God, I love Missouri’s right-to-carry law.
The only light in the back parking lot doesn’t give me the best line of vision, but I don’t need it at this close range.
Pinch throws his hands in the air when he catches sight of my gun. He was a little slow on the uptake, so I’m thinking he’s got to be more than a few beers deep.
“See, Pinch, you fail to realize that I won’t fight fair. Yeah, you could probably take me in a fist fight, I got no doubt about that. But I think it’s time you understood something. They call me Casper for a reason, you never know when I might just pop up on you, and shoot your f*cking nuts off.”
“You wou—” Before he can finish his sentence, I shoot him in the crotch. He doubles over and hits the hard ground.
“Well damn. Isn’t that neat? Those rubber bullets don’t even make your gun recoil,” I say, cocking the gun back to look in the chamber. “Too bad I can only load one at a time,” I say and put in the next one.
“Fuck, Cas. Please, I’m sorry.”
I fire the next one at his ass, and he screams like a bitch.
“Go home, Pinch,” I say, as he starts moaning louder. “I’m sergeant at arms in this club and you better learn some f*cking respect if you ever hope to see a patch.”
Not waiting for a response, I roll up my window and head to the club. Those damn rubber bullets cost three dollars a pop, but it’s the best six dollars I’ve ever spent.
“Fucking hell, Cas, I hate when you do that shit,” Pres snaps at me from behind his desk. He is so engrossed in what he’s doing he doesn’t notice me leaning against the far wall in his office until I clear my throat. It’s not hard for me to sneak up on people, but I can’t normally do it to Pres. I can tell by the way his hair is sticking out six different ways that he’s been running his fingers through it. The dark circles under his eyes show a lack of sleep, because normally Pres isn't too hard on the eyes.
“What the f*ck have I got this f*cking dog for if you can get in here without him noticing?.”
“I told you not to get that mutt,” I say.
“Damn, Cas. I know I’m not the prettiest, but no need to call me a mutt,” Savage, the clubs VP, says, strolling into Pres’s office and plopping down on the couch. It’s not a shocker they’re both here tonight. Savage never goes to the bar, and Pres never seems to get away from the club.
I know Savage never goes out because he has issues. He’s had them since he left the marines when an IED sent him home, thank God not in a bag. The day Abe had his accident is still burned into my brain.
Sometimes the worst part about being a sniper is that all you can do is watch. See the aftermath of the chaos, and what is left behind. That day the explosion took Abe and left Savage in his place. Gone is the laid back man who would talk for hours about the woman he left behind. He always said he’d marry her when he was back stateside. Now we can’t say her name without him getting up and leaving the room.
As for Pres, I’m not sure why he can’t pull himself from this place, but tonight I’m glad he’s here.
“I ran into a couple of Five Aces tonight.” Pres and Savage both survey my body, looking for damage. “And Agent Vincent Cassano,” I finish.
“Fuck me,” Savage growls.