Vicious Cycle (Vicious Cycle #1)(16)
I froze on the spot. “What the f*ck did you just say?”
Bishop’s laugh echoed around us. “Yeah, I’m man enough to admit I was jerking off rather than f*cking some club whore ass.” When I continued staring at him, Bishop stopped hopping around. “Come on, bro. After you’ve seen a fine, white-bread piece of ass like that, it’s hard to take some sloppy seconds to your bed. I mean, I only got to see her for, like, five minutes, but you had your hands all over her.” He closed his eyes. “Can you imagine how f*cking tight she would be?”
I threw a hard right hook to his jaw before I could stop myself. Bishop staggered back. Shaking his head, he rubbed his gloved hand along his reddened jaw. “Deacon, what the f*ck, man?” he demanded.
“Don’t be talking like that about Willow’s teacher.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t do it in front of her, but I thought you and I were on the same page when it came to *.”
Shaking my head, I growled, “Not about hers.”
Bishop leaned back against the ropes. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t think she’s hot as f*ck?”
I closed the distance between us to where I was once again up in his face. “You got a hearing problem, little brother? I said don’t talk about her like that.” Shoving him, I said, “You got another thing coming if you think you’re going to turn on your sweet-boy charm to try and tap her ass. She’s f*cking off-limits. Got it?”
Bishop’s blue eyes widened. “Oh yeah, I think I got it.” He stood toe to toe with me. “I get it loud and clear. But maybe next time you should piss on her leg to mark her as yours.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “That ain’t it.”
“You sure? ’Cause I sure ain’t never seen you get this f*cking twitchy over someone sniffing around Cheyenne.”
My teeth ground together in frustration. “Doesn’t the old adage ‘don’t shit where you eat’ mean anything to you?”
“Suppose so.”
“For reasons I don’t even begin to f*cking understand, that Miss Evans means a hell of a lot to Willow. If she gets scared off because some douche bag uses her, then that hurts Willow. Not to mention the fact that this bitch has me by the balls with CPS.”
Bishop processed my words. “Okay, okay. I’ll keep Miss Evans for my spank bank.”
Rolling my eyes, I cuffed the back of his head. “You’re a disgusting f*ck.”
Just as we were about to start running through a few more combinations, Archer, one of the prospects, came sprinting up to the ring. “Prez just called an emergency church meeting. Wants you guys there in ten minutes,” he said, his words coming in wheezing pants from his exertion.
Snatching off the sparring mitts, I pushed away the feeling of overwhelming foreboding and hustled over to the ropes with Bishop on my heels. We slid underneath them and then hopped down. I thumped Archer on the back before heading outside to my waiting bike. I cut the usual ten-minute drive to the clubhouse into five. Bishop, followed by Archer, stayed on my tail.
When I threw open the clubhouse door, I found the inside as silent as a tomb. None of the usual retirees were lounging around the bar, throwing back beers. The pool table balls were racked and ready to go, but no one was around to play. Prez must’ve put the word out that we were not to be disturbed.
Off to the side of the main meeting area was the room where we held church—the name for our club meetings. When Bishop and I ducked inside, we found the others already assembled. Our meeting table was a true throwback to the old cotton-mill days. Most of the business decisions by the former cotton barons had been made around it when it was in the boardroom. Now we used it for slightly less than honorable business dealings.
My still-sweat-soaked ass slid across the plush, leather-seated chair. My old man had insisted on spending a pretty penny on the chairs. “I ain’t scrimping on some piece of shit that breaks your back and pinches your nutsack. I don’t want anyone squirming around during church. Your attention should be f*cking focused on the club and only the club,” he’d said. A smile tugged at my lips at the memory.
At the head of the table sat our grim-faced president, Caisson, or Case, for short. His shrapnel-scarred neck, arms, and legs told some of the story of how he’d gotten his road name. He’d done two tours in Vietnam as part of the Third Infantry Division. It was on his second tour that the caisson he was manning got hit and almost killed him. As army proud as he was, it was only fitting he take a name associated with his service.
He and Preacher Man had been part of the original charter members of the Georgia chapter of the Hells Raiders. They were barely twenty when they’d patched in. And even after Preach went AWOL on the MC lifestyle for many years, Case demanded that Preach take over the presidency of the Raiders when he returned. “Ain’t nobody better to lead than Preacher Man,” he had said.
He once again had to take over for his best friend when Preacher Man was killed. I loved my old man, but I also loved Case. At his right was the new vice president—Rev. Leaning forward in his chair, he rapped his fingers over the hardback cover of the latest book he was reading. Rev constantly battled the angel and devil on his shoulder. If he’d been born to another father, I’m sure he would have ended up a doctor or lawyer or in some fancy shit profession like that. He sure as hell had the brains. He’d even used the money from his service with Uncle Sam to get a two-year degree from the community college. In the end, the pull of our world was too much for him, especially for his loyalty. For Rev, his tender heart was both his salvation and his undoing. All the best of Mama Beth had gone into Rev, but it was often overshadowed by Preacher Man’s dominating DNA.