The Broken and the Damned: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance Read Online Free Page B
Author: Helen Lucas
over your stupid skull.”
“Man, Fang, when you gonna’ bring this new girl?” Manuel demanded from the couch. Having gone to FSU once upon a time, Manuel Lopez was loath to miss a Seminoles game. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop him from interrogating me about my hypothetical new squeeze.
“When she’s good and fucking ready and I’m sure that you jokers aren’t going to scare her off,” I snapped.
“How’d you meet that bitch again?” Dog asked, sniffing at a bottle of mostly empty tequila. He was a cheap asshole and he insisted that we finish our bottles of booze before opening new ones. Yeah. One of those. He was going through his weekend ritual of finishing off any almost-empty bottles, and he defined almost empty as being less than one-third full—so by this point, he was already pretty far gone.
“A club,” I replied immediately. “I’ve got that gig working security for the Zombie Hut.”
This was true. I had been working on and off at the Zombie Hut, a horror-theme tiki bar that catered to slobbish tourists just off of South Beach, for the past six months. I bounced for them, but the job could hardly be called security. It was some of the easiest money I had ever made. Hardly anyone started trouble and if they did, one quick look at me was enough for them to calm their shit down. Once in a while, some drunken frat boy would start throwing punches, but a quick joint lock was all I needed to drive him toward the door, and then out onto the hard pavement outside.
“Is she some sort of hot little college girl? Are you afraid we’re gonna’ offend her politically correct sensibilities?” Dog asked, through a series of burps. The awkwardness with which he pronounced those last few words hinted at the fact that he didn’t really know what they meant.
“Nah, I’m not a cradle-robber like you,” I muttered. “Or Fatman.”
As if on cue, we heard the tell-tale lumbering footsteps of the leader of the Damned, a physically massive former Green Beret that we all called Fatman. His gasps guided him down the stairs as he staggered into the living room.
One look at him was all you needed to know that he wasn’t well—not by a long shot. He worked up a sweat just going up and down the stairs and he found himself panting if he just walked across the room without his cane.
Oh, and did I mention that he weighed about three-hundred and seventy-five pounds on a good day? At well over six-and-a-half feet tall, he carries it well, but it was hard not to be disgusted by his girth, all heavily tattooed with crosses, Viking runes, celtic knots, swastikas, tribal designs, and Japanese koi. He looked a bit like a more intimidating, more terrifying, more real version of Jabba the Hut, but with the threatening gravitas of a heavy metal rock star.
“Fang, what in the fuck are you talking about?” he barked at me, his plump lips rippling into a scowl. “I ain’t no cradle robber.”
Soft footsteps followed behind Fatman. A girl, deathly pale as wilted lilies, with washed out blonde hair almost turned gray, looked at us with wide, confused eyes. She was clad only in one of Fatman’s t-shirts, a sweat-stained monstrosity that looked more like a circus tent on her.
“Tell ‘em, Misty. Tell them how old you are.”
Misty flushed as she stole behind the bar, grabbing a bottle of rum and draining a fifth of it into her pale lips.
“Tell ‘em, Misty.”
She gasped, licking her rum-soaked lips.
“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t act as retarded as you look. Tell these fuckers how old you are.”
Misty’s booze-and-sex addled eyes regarded us without any sort of understanding or caring.
“Old enough,” she said softly, her voice like wine glasses shattering on pillows.
“That’s right,” Fatman roared, a triumphant note sounding in his voice like trumpets. “That’s fucking right. Old enough. I’ve taught this little
“Man, Fang, when you gonna’ bring this new girl?” Manuel demanded from the couch. Having gone to FSU once upon a time, Manuel Lopez was loath to miss a Seminoles game. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop him from interrogating me about my hypothetical new squeeze.
“When she’s good and fucking ready and I’m sure that you jokers aren’t going to scare her off,” I snapped.
“How’d you meet that bitch again?” Dog asked, sniffing at a bottle of mostly empty tequila. He was a cheap asshole and he insisted that we finish our bottles of booze before opening new ones. Yeah. One of those. He was going through his weekend ritual of finishing off any almost-empty bottles, and he defined almost empty as being less than one-third full—so by this point, he was already pretty far gone.
“A club,” I replied immediately. “I’ve got that gig working security for the Zombie Hut.”
This was true. I had been working on and off at the Zombie Hut, a horror-theme tiki bar that catered to slobbish tourists just off of South Beach, for the past six months. I bounced for them, but the job could hardly be called security. It was some of the easiest money I had ever made. Hardly anyone started trouble and if they did, one quick look at me was enough for them to calm their shit down. Once in a while, some drunken frat boy would start throwing punches, but a quick joint lock was all I needed to drive him toward the door, and then out onto the hard pavement outside.
“Is she some sort of hot little college girl? Are you afraid we’re gonna’ offend her politically correct sensibilities?” Dog asked, through a series of burps. The awkwardness with which he pronounced those last few words hinted at the fact that he didn’t really know what they meant.
“Nah, I’m not a cradle-robber like you,” I muttered. “Or Fatman.”
As if on cue, we heard the tell-tale lumbering footsteps of the leader of the Damned, a physically massive former Green Beret that we all called Fatman. His gasps guided him down the stairs as he staggered into the living room.
One look at him was all you needed to know that he wasn’t well—not by a long shot. He worked up a sweat just going up and down the stairs and he found himself panting if he just walked across the room without his cane.
Oh, and did I mention that he weighed about three-hundred and seventy-five pounds on a good day? At well over six-and-a-half feet tall, he carries it well, but it was hard not to be disgusted by his girth, all heavily tattooed with crosses, Viking runes, celtic knots, swastikas, tribal designs, and Japanese koi. He looked a bit like a more intimidating, more terrifying, more real version of Jabba the Hut, but with the threatening gravitas of a heavy metal rock star.
“Fang, what in the fuck are you talking about?” he barked at me, his plump lips rippling into a scowl. “I ain’t no cradle robber.”
Soft footsteps followed behind Fatman. A girl, deathly pale as wilted lilies, with washed out blonde hair almost turned gray, looked at us with wide, confused eyes. She was clad only in one of Fatman’s t-shirts, a sweat-stained monstrosity that looked more like a circus tent on her.
“Tell ‘em, Misty. Tell them how old you are.”
Misty flushed as she stole behind the bar, grabbing a bottle of rum and draining a fifth of it into her pale lips.
“Tell ‘em, Misty.”
She gasped, licking her rum-soaked lips.
“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t act as retarded as you look. Tell these fuckers how old you are.”
Misty’s booze-and-sex addled eyes regarded us without any sort of understanding or caring.
“Old enough,” she said softly, her voice like wine glasses shattering on pillows.
“That’s right,” Fatman roared, a triumphant note sounding in his voice like trumpets. “That’s fucking right. Old enough. I’ve taught this little
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