A Leap in the Dark (The Assassins of Youth MC Book 2)(11)
“Oh, that’s just it!” I stalked to the back plate glass windows and whipped my phone from my pocket. “You spend one day with these guys and you automatically think you’re joining their club? Deloy, I’ve got news for you! These guys are nothing but common thugs.”
“Your brother-in-law is the President, Oaklyn.”
“I don’t care! Listen, can you honestly see yourself riding motorcycles around with these guys? Running guns and drugs and whatever else they do that they need money laundering outlets for? You’re going from the frying pan into the fire, Deloy! Why do you want to go from an abusive control freak who uses you to another abusive control freak who uses you?”
It was Deloy’s turn to drop his jaw. “Oaklyn. This is your brother-in-law you’re talking about. And I never agreed that Levon Rockwell used me! Of course he took a small percentage off my take. That’s his right as my protector and the guy who pays the mortgage and the property taxes. And who said anything about abusive? Not only did Levon never hit me, he never once even yelled at me. He, of all people, knows how it feels to be on the receiving end of a beating. He’d never stand for that happening to any of his Lost Boys.”
I was speechless. You know those moments when all evidence points to the fact that you’ve been a complete and utter dork about something? But it takes some time for it to sink in? Admitting you’ve been wrong is the hardest thing in the world. For me, anyway. So I just said, “Well, maybe. I wouldn’t know about that. But do you know what those motorcycle guys do?”
He shrugged. “Not really. Dingo said they have meetings—called ‘chapel’—in the back room of The High Dive, and they figure out who’s going to do what.”
I pointed at Deloy with my phone. “Right! Like who’s going to accompany the truck full of guns from Mexico, or who’s going to stand guard while they rob a bank.”
Deloy screwed up his face. “Rob a bank? Who said anything about—”
I brandished my phone dramatically. “I’m getting to the bottom of this, Deloy. I’m not letting you get into any trouble right when your life is finally getting on the right track.” I went onto the deck to text Mahalia.
Did you hear? Deloy’s planning to join Gideon’s stupid club? He even called it a “gang.” Let’s meet for a drink at The High Dive.
Since I didn’t want to face Deloy again—I was already feeling like a massive hypocrite since it was I who needed to escape from an abusive *—I snuck on past the kitchen and into my bedroom. The house was in escrow, and Gideon had just thrown a few basic pieces of furniture into it. I had a bed, but no nightstand or dresser. My overnight bag lay open on the floor under a large window that looked out onto God’s country. I hadn’t really been thinking when I packed it. I’d just been planning to go from Provo to Bountiful, examine some young men for venereal diseases, maybe spend one night with my sister, and go back home. My excuse for coming down to Avalanche was that if the VD test came back positive, Deloy would need me.
What was Deloy thinking, joining an MC? Did they even want him? He was probably already heading for his needle and thread to sew a patch onto his new leather vest, and they had no idea who he was. Then it struck me. Deloy had always been a part of something bigger than himself. At first, he’d belonged in Cornucopia. Until he hadn’t. Then he was part of the street scene in Bountiful, reveling in the gutters with his fellow Lost Boys. When Levon Rockwell had scooped him up, he’d joined his sleazy empire.
Now he probably felt lost, adrift without a group to belong to. It made sense he’d want to follow his Lost Boy-in-arms, Dingo, into the brotherhood of the MC. They’d never let him in. He’d fail the first test, actually riding a motorcycle. I felt better knowing this.
Where was Mahalia? Sighing, I flopped onto my unmade bed. I was still wearing sweats because I hadn’t gone anywhere that day, just waiting as usual for the dumbass to call me back. Bored, I let my hand trail lazily down my belly. I allowed it to delve down the front of the sweats, over my mound. I pinched my outer lips together and rubbed, letting the slickness massage the bud of my clitoris. I may have even gasped. I knew I wanted more.
Men never bothered satisfying women. They pretty much expected you to get all excited, both mentally and physically, over a quick makeout session. They’d feel your boobs—almost nonexistent boobs in my case—and they’d tweak your nipples as though dialing a radio. I don’t know who all men have been toying with, but it must’ve been a blowup sex doll for it to get primed and ready over such feeble and fumbling manhandling.
Then they’d climb on top, wham, bam, thank you ma’am style. As a nurse, I know that a penis pounding away inside a vagina is not the most scintillating thing in the world. There are minimal nerve endings inside the vaginal canal. Fucking like that is more like an assault than “lovemaking.” It’s all about the clitoris, and for some reason our vengeful God designed us so that the clit sits a bit too high up to get much action during penetration. I’d had success using a vibrator while Giovanni—and a few boyfriends before him—did me dogstyle. Still, it always felt artificial and forced, so I usually just let him assault me, smiling weakly afterward.
I’d learned that self-love was the best, and now my fingers leisurely stroked my clit, already elongating and filling with blood. My free hand moved to my breast, where I lightly scraped my nail across the nipple. As I felt my body sink deeper into the mattress, my hips rocked rhythmically, as though I swayed to a bossa nova. My senses started shutting down one by one, my vision tunneling into blackness at the edges, my ears hearing nothing past my own heartbeat.