Bear

The bacchanal is pungent in the air as it is every Friday evening at the club, like an over ripe fruit, too sweet and sticky. It thrums in our veins, an invitation of revelry that intoxicates my brothers. At quarter to 1 in the morning, the night is still young; the havoc set to continue well into the morning.

A leggy blonde plops herself down on the floor between my knees; one of the soul suckers chasing dick and hoping one might eventually lead to an Angel patch. She isn't my type, not even close– too pale, too tall and much too blonde, but I'm not in the habit of turning down freebies so I don't bother to stop her as her hands wander up my thighs and into my jeans.

I think she mutters her name, Lani, Leoni, Lena? I don't hear it over the heavy metal blasting through the club. It hardly matters, I won't remember it neither do I want to, and by tomorrow she'll be onto the next brother that wants their dick sucked.

Her hand moves up to touch my cut, sending a spark of rage through me. I grip her wrist, pulling it away from the leather back onto my jeans. It knocks her off balance, but she quickly recovers and continues undeterred.

Her tongue moves skillfully like she's trying to prove a point and my cock twitches. It feels good, but I know that's it, a momentary feeling. At the very least, it is a feeling that temporarily quiets the constant noise that pollutes my mind and that’s all I fucking care about.

A heavy hand on my shoulder pulls my attention away from the blonde head bobbing in my lap.

I crane my head back to see who had demanded my attention, not at all bothered by the distraction. I don’t particularly care about having to pull away from the soul suckers. My skin practically itches when they touch me, though my desire to get my dick wet outweighs any disgust at having them touch me.

The stern face of the Pres, looming over me— just his stare alone tells me he means business.

His dark eyes regard me for a minute, before he tilts his head over to the quieter area by his office door. "Put your dick back in your pants, I have a job for you."

"Get the fuck off," I pull the blonde back by her hair lightly, tucking myself back into my jeans. She pouts, I have to force myself not to roll my eyes at the antic, her smudged eye makeup and swollen lips making for a pathetic sight.

On my way over to the Pres I stop by the bar swiping a shot of tequila, hoping the sting of alcohol would distract from the lingering dissatisfaction of a half done blow job.

"Sorry to break up your fun," Pres smirks around a cigarette. He pauses to light it, taking a drag and obscuring his features behind a cloud of smoke. "But this can't wait. We've got a shipment coming in an hour, I want you there to make sure nothing goes wrong."

The president of the Soul Reapers, Snake eyes, is an intimidating man. He's on the taller side, probably over 6 foot, though not as tall as me; muscular with brooding features; just from a glance it's easy to tell that he is not someone you want to cross, he is what this club knows will eventually become a formidable leader.

He scans the room, head turning this way and that, his rows of neatly twisted locs pulled into a ponytail exposing the shaved sides of his head. Finally he finds whomever he's been searching for, without even turning back to me he nods in the direction of his stare. "Take Razor with you."

"You think this is a two man job boss?"

"No, but after our last run in with the Vipers I'm not taking chances." Snake Eyes' face grows dark as he thinks of the last bloody dispute we had with the rival MC.They, true to their name, have ruthlessly tried to encroach on both our territory and our trade. We almost lost a couple of our men because of them. "Besides, you're a few drinks in, you need someone to watch your back on the road."

"Alright, whatever you say Pres." I lean back against the bar, watching as Pres pats Razor on his shoulder distracting him from his own fun, licking the trail of salt off one of the soul suckers' practically naked chest. Snake eyes, at the very least, is courteous enough to wait until he’s finished, though doesn’t let him get carried away.

He meets my eye, and I nod in acknowledgment, he leans down to murmur in the ear of the soul sucker who looks disappointed that Razor has to leave. I don’t even bother waiting, heading out the door, my heavy boots crunching the gravel as I stride over to my bike.

I straddle my bike, with half a mind to spark up a cig. Razor, like many of my brothers, is an absolute ladies man. He may not be as bad as some, but Razor is still very much a stickler for enjoying any willing warm body. Even with a direct order from Pres, it may still take him a moment to pull away from his momentary distraction.

The night has a chill to it, the heat from the flame of the lighter caressing my fingers. A minute ticks by, then two; just as I'm considering going back inside to drag the fucker out myself, Razor comes swaggering out the bar.

"Fucking took you long enough," I grunt as I pull on my helmet. The metal and leather beast between my thighs roars to life as I rev the engine.

"Hey, not my fault I'm a pussy whisperer!" Razor throws his hands up as he sets himself on his own bike.

I don't even bother responding, flicking up the kickstand and pulling off. For a moment I'm almost envious of his carefree attitude; being enforcers for the club means we take on the dark shit. Sure, any of our brothers would bleed for the club, but we— we're the ones that won't hesitate to torture, maim and put a knife in the guts of anyone who gets in our way.

The blood that stains; the ghosts that never give up their haunt; the prices we pay for the debts we demand; these are not easy things to carry.

I suppose Razor and I are testament to the fact that there is only one of 2 ways you deal with a burden like the one we willingly carry. You either try to drown it out with pussy, booze, and cigarette smoke or you let it harden you into cold unflinching steel. Razor's got the first down like a pro.

The cool air of the night is refreshing as it caresses my face. The metal sings as I accelerate, its roar music to my ears. Now this, this is as close as anyone could get to pure fucking heaven.

The warehouse is almost an hour away from the club house, and since neither Razor nor I are feeling particularly talkative we ride in companionable silence.

I don't mind too much; the hum of my bike is loud enough to drown out my thoughts and its the only time I don't have to hear myself think.

We're still 5 minutes out when I see the orange glow on the horizon, smoke starting to billow its way towards the darkened sky.

"Fuck."

I speed up, wind whipping at my face as I turn down the lane. Razor is right behind me, a string of curses on his own lips as he pulls to a stop right beside me.

All we had to do is look at one another, and like a well oiled machine we work in tandem with one another. He pulls a gun from his cut, heading round the back of the now blazing warehouse.

I slink across the lot, nothing more than a shadow as I move around to the front side. I can hear the smug voices of the men that did this, their foreign southern drawl pricking my ears in an instant.

Vipers.

"Those fucking Reapers are bunch of bloody bitches. They're gonna pay." One voice sounds rough and alight with anger.

I'm almost tempted to jump out and let the cocksucker meet my fist for insulting my brothers, but I can't. Not until I know how many of them there are.

"They won't know what fucking hit them. Fucking mindless wankers." Another voice replies, I can smell the smoke from his lit cigarette as it wafts around the building. "With that fucking bellend of a president, they'll be absolutely clueless."

"After they nearly damn well killed Smithy… it's the least they bloody deserve." The first man speaks again.

Then the second again. "Badger said it could be months before he rides again."

I wait for a moment longer, listening intently for any other signs of bodies. It's already been a couple minutes, so I figure Razor is already where he needs to be to back me up if shit turns bad.

The still burning building is sending me into a sweat; between the wall of heat and the overpowering scent of burning gasoline I'm starting to get nauseous.

Footsteps approach, my body slamming hard into one of the Viper bastards. I pull the knife from the sheath on my thigh, ready for when he comes swinging back at me.

All at once the scene descends into chaos.

The other man is shouting, I feel him behind me ready to strike only Razor reaches him first. I focus on the man in front of me, knuckles blazing as I land a punch to his mouth, his tooth slicing my knuckles.

The fucker is still fighting back, giving half as good as he's getting. He lands a punch to my nose, I don't feel the pain but I do hear the crack. I roar, the fire inside me burning hotter than the flames around me; a haze covers, the only thing tethering me to reality is the feeling of my fists against this flesh.

There's the sound of more shouting from somewhere on the lot, and even though it sounds far away in my ears I see the bodies as they come around the corner.

I realise then that we've fucked up. That we got too eager, too angry, to fired up when we saw the inferno that was once our warehouse.

One of the guys comes up on my right; he's fast, but I'm faster. The knife fits in my palm like it's meant to be there, the blade whistling as I cut through the air meeting the shitbags face.

I leave a nasty red trail diagonally across his face, staring at his left temple and ending at his jaw on his right side. Every time he looks in the mirror he will remember this moment, remember me.

Maybe then he'll think twice about bad mouthing the Reapers, or our President.

Razor yells to me, but I can't hear his voice; not over the crackling flames, the clamouring Vipers, and not over the sound of my blood rushing in my own ears.

A loud bang echoes through the night, a Viper to my right holding the smoking gun.

I know I've been hit; the bullet tears through my shoulder, sharp and true like a hot knife through butter. I am weightless, empty, a cup that has poured too much. Zinging numbness settles in my finger tips and I can't differentiate between something seriously being damaged or my brain deciding this is a good time to zone out.

The Vipers scatter, and Razor fires off a few shots of his own before rushing over to me. His eyes darts to my shoulder, a dark shadow of blood growing to a small patch on my black shirt.

"Damn bro, didn't expect the fuckers to have guns."

I grunt, but Razor has a good point. The Reapers did business with the Jackals— the neighbourhood gang. We move their product for a reasonable price, and as part of the agreement they supply us with guns.

So where the fuck were the Vipers getting their hands on firearms?

By now my adrenaline is wearing off, and with euphoric blankness that takes over in a fight. My shoulder screams, protesting every miniscule shift and clench of the offended limb.

"You need medical." Razor looks to me; there is no rank among us, but I've worn my patch a lot longer than he has. We both know what's at stake, the club comes first, my shoulder can wait.

I look over at the burning warehouse, weary that a local might call the fire department before we could get a handle on the situation.

"Call Pres and fill him in. He'll send some prospects to clean up." I speak, my own hand digging into the pocket on my cut to pull out my own phone. "Tell him I'm calling Pyro, hopefully he can deal with this quick and quiet."

Pyro, our resident expert on all things fire, is a retired member of the club and an active firefighter. He was one of the founders of the Soul Reapers club along with Snake eyes old man, and had taken me in and raised me alongside his own son Rooster. We were all patched in together.

He no longer lives at the club house, instead opting for a quieter life with his Angel— Blue —in a small town house not too far from here.

Every so often he checks in with the club, and always keeps his eye out for the Reapers. His connections with the town's fire house, means he can pull strings; which will hopefully mean he can sort this shit storm out.

The call doesn't last long. He tells me that Razor and I should get out of there, and to call it in as an 'anonymous tip,' he would sort out the rest on his end.

"Oi Razor, tell prez to forget the clean up crew, Pyro said he'll manage it." I bark, the pain in my shoulder starting to make me pissy. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

I straddle my bike, shoulder bawling with each forced movement. My fingers tingle when I clutch the handles— the ride back to the clubhouse is an hour long, it's bad enough trying to ride with a fucked up arm; whether I can make the whole ride is another story.

We pull onto the road, stopping at the first telephone booth just long enough for Razor to report an uncontrolled fire as a 'concerned citizen,' hanging up when the operator asks for his name.

My arm has gone completely numb, nothing more than a heavy weight at my side. I don't want to look like a pussy in front of Razor, but the thought of serious nerve damage and never being able to ride again flashes in my mind. That would be torture.

I swerve when my shoulder throbs, at least it's a welcome feeling to complete numbness. I manage to get control of my bike, but just barely.

"You good Bro?" Razor looks at me, his eyes fixing on my shoulder where the splotch of blood keeps growing bigger.

"This fucking bullet needs to come out. Now."

Riding through the main part of town is unavoidable, but it's not like Razor and I have any problems with that. Even with a bullet in my arm, anyone who sees the Reaper cut on our backs would know not to fuck with us– not that many people want to.

Barnestow is a decent sized town with its fair share of problems, but around here the Reapers name carries a lot of weight. People either respect us or fear us.

Though on a night like this the Reapers aren't the only ones seeking revelry; pubs play loud music, filled to the brim with noisy chatter and drunken patrons. It wouldn't surprise me to come across one drunken idiot who wants to test their bravado.

We pass through without any incidents, pulling over in a residential area and parking in a side alley between two houses. The row of houses stand proudly, and are a whole street over from the main town centre but you can still hear the livery of folks having their fun.

"So what's the plan?" Razor asks as we slink around the back of the closest house. My hand reaches over the back gate to unlatch it, slipping inside the garden like shadows.

I don't answer. Partly because my attention is on trying to find something to break the glass on the back door but also because I don't really have a plan. I just know I can't ride in my state and I can't exactly walk back to the club.

I find a large rock, and even with my not good hand I'm able to bring it down hard enough on the glass to shatter it. The noise feels like a scream in my ear, but I'm hoping by all the turned off lights and overgrown garden it means that whoever owns the place isn't around.

Razor and I slip inside, finding ourselves in a small kitchen. We quickly rummage around as quietly as we can looking for anything that I could use to patch my arm up.

The creak of a floorboard catches my attention, my head snapping up just as she comes through the doorway.

My eyes run down her small frame, the first thing I catch is her generous sized tits and she's definitely not wearing a bra. The woman is short, wearing nothing but a nose ring, an oversized t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Her eyes meet mine at the same moment, light brown globes widening like a deer caught in headlights. The mug in her hand slips from her fingers, crashing to the floor to spill cold coffee on the shiny linoleum.

"Who the fuck are you?!"