No Way Out Read online

  No Way Out

  A MC Club Bad-Boy Romance

  By Simone Scarlet

  Copyright © 2018 Simone Scarlet

  The right of Simone Scarlet to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which in it published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Chapter One

  Christi

  It was Tuesday at the roadhouse, and the Knuckleheads were riled up.

  Despite the state-wide ban, cigar and cigarette smoke hung across the low ceiling like smog.

  Meanwhile the jukebox thumped and shook to the sound of ZZ Top, cranked up beyond maximum. Despite that, you could hardly hear the music because of the sound of raucous cheering, hollering and yelling.

  And then there was me – Christi with-no-last-name – sitting on the knee of one burly biker, while another casually fondled my tits.

  It might not have been exactly dignified, but I didn’t mind. I was comfortably numb after countless bottles of Miller High Life and three shots of tequila, and the arms of strangers had pretty much become the only place I felt safe these days.

  The guy whose lap I was sitting on was known as Rooker, and he was pretty much okay. I didn’t know much about him – half because he didn’t share much, and half because I didn’t care to know – but from what I’d heard, he was a former firefighter from Fresno, who’d gone rogue after seeing one house fire too many.

  And the big dude squeezing my breasts? He was called Bowser, and the name suited him perfectly. He was a big, burly dude in his late forties, with bulldog-like jowls and nicotine-stained whiskers, but a lovable, father-figure air about him that my fucked-up psyche somehow appreciated.

  Even when he said shit like this:

  “Let’s see those pretty little titties, yeah?”

  And, with that, he tugged down the straps of my tank-top, and out popped my small, pale breasts.

  “Fuuuuck,” immediately, Bowser’s calloused hands started squeezing them, and I squirmed in Rooker’s lap. As I did so, I felt a thick, throbbing firmness through his jeans – poking me insistently in the ass.

  Now, you might be wondering what a slip of a 23-year-old girl from southern California would be doing in a dirty, roadside bar like this – especially letting two oil-stained bikers feel me up, like I was a piece of meat.

  But I was there for precisely that reason – because being in the heart of this dangerous group of bikers was probably the safest place in America for me right now – and whatever they expected me to do to them – with them – was worth it for the protection they offered.

  …although that was a price I was clearly expected to pay.

  Bowser was squeezing my pink nipples now, twisting them between his calloused fingers. My nipples are super-sensitive because I have a barbell piercing through each of them – and I’ll admit I was getting a little breathless as I sat there.

  Making things worse was the big, throbbing bulge now nuzzling between the cheeks of my ass – separated from my bare skin by nothing but Rooker’s dirty jeans, and the thin material of my miniskirt and panties.

  “You’re a sexy little thing, ain’t ya?” Bowser breathed hotly in my face, as he squeezed my nipples. “Ain’t seen you around here before. You come up north with the southern chapter?”

  “Y-yeah,” I groaned, through gritted teeth. It was hard to concentrate when I felt an electric shock running from my tweaked-nipples to between my quivering thighs.

  “You Coyle’s woman?” Rooker breathed in my ear. His hands were on my hips – his big mitts almost large enough to encircle my entire waist. He was grinding me back and forth on his lap – dry-humping me through his jeans, in that room full of bikers.

  “I-I guess,” I nodded, as I felt my panties involuntarily flood. It wasn’t so much that I was attracted to either of these two men – but I was only human, after all, and after months on the road with various groups of bikers, my body had been conditioned to get turned on by their rough hands and deep voices.

  “Well, Coyle owes me one for a job I did down in Albuquerque,” Rooker breathed hotly in my ear. “And the way you’re squirmin’ in my lap? I figure it’d be rude if I didn’t take advantage.”

  I gulped dryly when I heard that – because I knew where it was going. But that was where things usually went, riding with the Knuckleheads. It was part of the price for their protection – and one I’d become very comfortable repaying.

  But Rooker’s words had brought up a valid point. As much as these two burly bikers might have been treating me like a piece of meat, I wasn’t.

  I belonged – yes, like property – to a man called Coyle.

  And anybody who knew anything was aware that you didn’t go all the way with Christi with-no-last-name unless you got the nod from big man in charge.

  So that’s why Bowser and Rooker exchanged looks, and the next thing I knew, I was being literally scooped up in Rooker’s burly, muscular arms.

  They carried me through the crowd of bikers, shouldering them out of the way, until they approached a raised dias at the other end of the room.

  That was the stage – where bands would perform, if they dared, on Friday and Saturday nights.

  But tonight, it served as the VIP section of this dirty, roadside bar; and on a big wooden chair – sitting like he was a king on his throne, you found Coyle surveying the entire bar.

  The description of ‘king’ wasn’t unfitting. Coyle Brewer – the 52-year-old head of the Knuckleheads MC gang – was literal royalty among the biker community – and there wasn’t a man in this bar who didn’t owe him fealty.

  And that’s why Rooker and Bowser stepped up and stood in front of him – two badass, dangerous men, who nevertheless knew their place in the food chain.

  Up there on his wooden throne, Coyle was a bear of a man. Six and a half feet tall, and easily 300 lbs of muscle and meat. With his leathery tan, chest-length beard and gallery of tattoos, he was the scariest motherfucker in a room full of scary motherfuckers.

  And he was peering down curiously at the three of us.

  “Coyle!” Rooker barked up at him, and the entire room fell quiet as they heard the name of their leader announced.

  Coyle settled back in his seat, and in a gravelly voice that was so deep, it practically made the walls rattle, he growled: “Rooker! Bowser! You boys takin’ care of my girl down there?”

  I suddenly felt Coyle’s eyes on me, and the warm, half-sexy feeling I’d been experiencing earlier turned to icy chill.

  Any interaction with Coyle had the potential to be a dangerous one – especially when he was feeling possessive.

  But the big, bad bastard seemed to be in a generous mood this evening.

  “Your little lady’s got us both hotter than Georgia asphalt,” Bowser called up – and the massive tent in the front of his jeans was a good indicator of that. “Wondered if you’d grant us permission to, y’know�
�” He licked his cracked lips. “…take advantage.”

  Coyle peered down at the both of them menacingly – and I didn’t know which way he’d go. Nor did Rooker or Bowser – I could feel them tense up as they held me.

  But then a broad smile crossed Coyle’s lips, and he grinned: “You boys have been doin’ good work lately. That job down in Albuquerque? Ran smooth as a boiled egg.”

  Licking his lips eagerly, Coyle purred: “Seems like it’d be remiss of me if I didn’t reward you two – and since you’ve taken a shine to my girl Christi, I figure that job falls on her.”

  Suddenly the tension in Rooker and Bowser’s bodies evaporated. I watched them both grin hungrily.

  “What do you say, Bertha?” Coyle turned, and looked at one of the figures flanking him on stage.

  To his right was a leathery old blonde in her early forties. This was Big Bertha – as close to a wife as Coyle got, and the unspoken den mother of all the girls he collected.

  Girls like me.

  Bertha was built like an athlete, and she could have been a model twenty-odd years ago. But that was before hundreds of hours of sun, a dozen ill-considered tattoos, and the ravages of the biker lifestyle had left their legacy on her skin.

  But she was still a handsome, striking woman – and she still had the potential to be just as dangerous as Coyle. In fact, even worse, Bertha was notoriously crueler than him.

  That was probably the reason she nodded, and said: “Yes.”

  Despite her position of authority, I knew old Bertha was jealous of the hotter, younger playthings Coyle kept around – and she took pleasure in watching us get taken down a peg or two. It didn’t get much more humbling than to be passed off to two of Coyle’s lieutenants – traded like a piece of meat.

  She’d probably get off on that.

  That just left the third figure standing at the dias – and I knew Coyle didn’t really care about his opinion or not. But he still turned in his wooden thrown, and demanded:

  “What about you, Recon? You wanna see little Christi treat my boys?”

  ‘Recon’ was a recent arrival to the Knuckleheads – six feet tall, lean and tanned, and with a dangerous intensity to his face. With his stubble and short, military haircut, he was probably as close to “clean-cut” as anybody gets in a biker gang – and in another life, could have been an underwear model, or Hollywood actor.

  In fact, I’d developed quite the crush on Recon since he’d arrived.

  But I didn’t think the feeling was mutual, and I knew what his answer would be even before he gave it.

  Recon looked down at me with a look of absolute disdain, and he shrugged his powerful shoulders.

  “I couldn’t give a shit, boss.”

  And of all the humiliation, and indignity I’d endured as the plaything of this motorcycle gang, that was probably the most hurtful thing of all.

  But fortunately, I didn’t get the opportunity to dwell on it.

  “She’s all yours, boys,” Coyle grinned, and gave me the nod. “Make me proud, baby.”

  And even before he’d finished saying that, Rooker had curled his fingers around my chin, and turned my head to face him.

  He crushed his sun-chapped lips against mine, and I heard the room erupt in horny, lecherous cheers.

  And the last thing I saw from up on stage were Recon’s eyes, burning into me with what I could only assume was absolute disgust.

  Chapter Two

  Mason

  I was absolutely disgusted.

  Not with the girl down there, you understand. The last thing I felt when I looked at her was disgust.

  No, I was disgusted with what was happening to her – and disgusted with myself, for standing there and letting it happen.

  Shit, I can take a punch pretty well – I took plenty of them in my eight years as an Army Ranger. But watching those two, big burly bikers manhandle that pretty blond girl? It almost brought me to my knees.

  I’d been riding with the Knuckleheads for six weeks now – ever since Coyle recruited me as his bodyguard and scout. But in all that time, I’d never got close to the prettiest girl in his harem of women – the beauty I’d just watch him offer up to Rooker and Bowser, like them having their way with her would be no different to taking his favorite Harley out for a test drive.

  Christi, I knew her name was. Christi with-no-last-name. A slim and slender slip of a girl, with dirty blonde hair, and big, sad eyes, and as ass more heart-shaped and perfect than any I’d ever seen on a woman before.

  She was an angel – and Coyle took pleasure in making her sin like a devil.

  And that’s what I was watching right at that moment, as I stood over Coyle’s right shoulder, surveying the whole room with the cool, objective eye I’d developed during three tours in Iraq.

  What made it worse was the fact that I was probably the only sober one in this room.

  Coyle had recruited me as his bodyguard, and as much as I loved my whiskey, I took my responsibility very seriously. I’d been sipping seltzer all night – so if shit went down, I knew I’d be icy and alert if it did.

  But as I watched Rooker press his lips against Christi’s, down at the foot of the stage, I almost wished for the comforting numbness of a good shot of sour mash. Watching him kiss her was like a kick to the stomach – and I knew much worse was to come.

  In fact, as I stood there watching, it did.

  Rooker released Christi from his arms, and the slender girl dropped to her bare feet on the sawdust-strewn floorboards. Then the big man reached forward, and yanked down the straps of her tiny tank-top.

  Out popped her pale, pert breasts – topped with little pink nipples, which glinted in the light because of the gleaming barbells through them.

  With a hungry snarl, Rooker bent his head to eagerly kiss and suck Christi’s small breasts – and, at the same time, Bowser curled his arms around her waist, and started nuzzling and kissing Christi’s slender throat.

  I stiffened as I watched her being devoured by these two men – and when I say stiffened, I mean it in every sense of the term.

  Sure, my spine straightened and my hands balled into fists, outraged at what I was witnessing…

  …but inside my jeans, I felt my cock stiffening too. I was only human, after all; and the scene playing out beneath me was like a real-life pornographic film.

  As I said, I was disgusted – and no more so than with myself.

  Down at the foot of the stage, the crowd of bikers had backed up to create a clear space for Rooker, Bowser and Christi to ‘perform’ in.

  Considering the way the hundred or so big, tough bikers had been hooting, hollering and causing a ruckus just moments earlier, it was kind of eerie how quickly an eager silence had descended across the bar – but you could cut the tension with a knife.

  Over a hundred bikers – eagerly staring at the action as it unfolded in front of them.

  And in the center of that circle of strangers, Rooker and Bowser were continuining to devour Christi – Rooker slobbering on her breasts, and Bowser kissing and biting her throat.

  And Christi? Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was hanging open. I could see her panting in the heat of the moment.

  Was she turned on by all this? The hundreds of eyes watching her? The big, rough hands all over her body?

  Clearly she was – and I didn’t know I felt about that…

  With a wet-sounding ‘smack’, Rooker pulled his mouth from Christi’s now-glistening breasts, and kissed her instead – assaulting her mouth with his.

  Her knees buckled as he kissed her, and Bowser had to practically hold Christi upright, as she moaned and squirmed between them.

  The two bikers wasted no time in peeling Christi’s clothes off her – the few items she was even wearing. Her tiny tank top was wrenched up over her head, and tossed into the crowd. Then her mini-skirt and panties were tugged over the curve of her hips, and tumbled down around her ankles.

  There was a collective gasp across t
he room, as Christi hung between the two bikers, absolutely naked.

  “Fuuuuck,” Rooker pulled his mouth away from hers, strands of saliva stretching between their lips. “You’ve got me as hard as a crow-bar.” He gave the slender girl another quick kiss, and then growled: “Let me see how good those lips feel on another part of my body.”

  Christi groaned when she heard that, but complied instantly. As I stood on the dias, I watched this beautiful, naked girl drop to her knees on the dirty, sawdust-strewn floor – face level with the bulges distending the front of Rooker and Boswer’s jeans.

  The two bikers exchanged glances, and then gave each other a high five. Next, they both looked down at the pretty girl staring back up at them – and the two men started unbuckling their belts.

  God, my stomach lurched as I watched. Christi was so sweet, and beautiful… and I was helpless to do anything but watch as these two men took their pleasure with her.

  With the rattle and zip of belts and flies being opened, both Bowser and Rooker wrenched open their jeans – and two huge, hard cocks flopped out.

  “Woooo!” Somebody in the crowd roared, as the two bikers yanked down their jeans.

  Even Christi’s half-closed eyes widened as she found herself face-to-cock with the two massive manhoods of the burly bikers.

  Rooker’s cock was long, and swollen – the veins along his thick shaft throbbing in excitement.

  Bowser’s cock was shorter and thicker, like two beer cans stacked end-to-end – but no less hard and eager.

  “C’mon, girl,” Rooker grinned, grabbing the base of his hard dick, and slapping Christi gently on the cheek with it. “Make poppa feel good…”

  And Christi nodded, reaching up with one hand to curl her slender fingers around Rooker’s shaft, while she reached between her own legs with the other.

  Rooker groaned, as Christi stroked his shaft up and down – but that was only the beginning. After a few strokes, the beautiful dirty-blond licked her lips, stretched her mouth open wide, and engulfed the head of Rooker’s swollen cock.