BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) (2 page)

~ Lexi ~

“Everyone calls me Butcher,” John Crane said, arching his neck toward me.

We were in the “Private” section of the bar, which wasn’t much more private than the rest of the place. It was only a roped-off section of the room, behind which only the elite of the dive bar elite were allowed to drink their PBR pounders and bottom-shelf cocktails. It was still crowded, lacked ample seating, and smelled of sweat and urine—and it was still just as hard to hear and talk to Butcher there as it was when I first approached him closer to the stage.

“Everyone calls
me
Lexi,” I replied with a broad smile.

“Huh?” Butcher asked.

The next band had taken the stage already, and their music was loud, fast, and heavy. It wasn’t as good as Broken Brother’s, but it wasn’t all that bad.

“
Lexi
,” I repeated slower, articulating each syllable as if it were a long word.

Butcher grinned at me to let me know he understood and pressed his hand against the small of my back, guiding me toward the bar. He’d had his arm around me since he led me over to the “Private” section, and the feeling of having it there was really growing on me. There was something about it that felt electric, as if he plugged into my spine somehow and sent a pulse of energy through me.

When we got to the bar, Butcher held two fingers up to the bartender in the shape of a peace sign, and few seconds later, the bartender brought two bottles of beer over to us. Then, the two of them just stood there, waiting. The bartender was staring at Butcher, Butcher was staring at me, and I was looking back and forth between them.

Then it hit me, and I remembered—I’d offered to buy Butcher a drink.

“Oh,” I said, though I doubt either of them heard me. I reached into my bag, pulled cash out of my wallet, and threw a ten-dollar bill down on the counter. The bartender picked it up in a flash, took it to the register, and went on to serve another customer.

Butcher grabbed his beer and turned around. And just as I grabbed mine and turned too, he wrapped his arm around me again and placed his hand just above my hip, nudging me and steering me away from the bar. I went with the flow and let him direct me. It felt natural and organic, and I was lost in the moment.

I followed Butcher to the back of the “Private” section, and we managed to find an open high-top table against the back wall. However, there were no stools next to it. Apparently, the large party at the table next to us had taken them, and they obviously had no intention of giving them back.

Butcher shrugged off the lack of seating, leaned up against the wall, and rested his elbow on the back of the table. He took a long, slow drag from his bottle, and scanned his eyes over every inch of my body as he swallowed. The way he looked at me kind of made me feel like a piece of meat—and think of me what you will, but I kinda liked it. I’m all for women’s rights and equality, trust me, but I am, at the bottom line, a human, and most humans want to feel wanted, which is how Butcher made me feel as he eyed me over.

Our conversation definitely wasn’t going how I’d hoped it would—and it wasn’t really going anywhere at all, since we weren’t even talking—but nonetheless, I liked where things were headed with Butcher, and I was too into it to get back on track or change our direction.

Butcher set his beer down on the table and stared directly at my tits before looking me in the eyes. He didn’t say a word, but his expression said, “Come here,” and I found myself uncontrollably moving towards him.

I did not stop until I was right up in front of him, with only an inch or two between us. I could feel the heat coming from his body. It hit me in waves and made me tingle.

I took a sip of my beer, too—a long, slow one—and kept my eyes locked on Butcher’s face as I did. He looked calm and cool, but at the same time, intrigued and eager—and he looked like he was jealous of my bottle.

As soon I was done with my sip, Butcher took my beer from my hand and placed it on the table next to his. Then he reached his hand up to my neck, cupped the back of my head, and pulled me forward, drawing me closer to him and bringing our faces—and mouths—closer together.

The next thing I knew, Butcher’s lips were on mine. He kissed me, hard and with passion, and I kissed him back, lapping my tongue against his as it entered my mouth. Making out like this in a bar wasn’t usually my thing, but I couldn’t resist once I got a taste of Butcher. He was sweet, sour, and oh-so hot, and the more of him I got, the more I wanted.

I pressed my chest up against Butcher’s, ran one hand up to his shoulder, and placed the other at his waist, atop his leather belt. I could feel his lips curl into a smile when I touched him there, but still, he didn’t break away from our kiss.

A few tongue-twisting, lip-smacking moments later and I was ready to drop to my knees, bend over, or jump up on the table and go spread-eagle. Butcher’s mouth had me spinning, and his hands had me reeling. He didn’t grope me or do anything inappropriate, but the way he lightly moved his hands, gently caressing me as we fervently kissed, drove me absolutely bonkers. I was putty in those hands, and I wanted him to mold me.

“It’s too loud in here,” Butcher said, peeling his lips from mine. It was the first time either one of us had spoken in minutes, and the first time I heard him clearly since we met. We were so close that there was no missing what the other said now, though there was still so much that was distracting. Butcher’s cock was rock hard, and it was pressing against me, digging into my belly. It felt
sooo
good; I couldn’t think, let alone speak straight—so instead, I simply nodded.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I instantly replied. I surprised myself with that one—both by my ability to talk again, and by the affirmative nature of my immediate response.

Butcher still held onto me with one hand and took hold of his beer with the other. He tossed back a few chugs and finished the thing as if it was a tiny glass of water. He gestured towards my beer, and I shook my head from side to side. I’d already had a few drinks since I arrived at The Boneyard about two hours earlier, and I didn’t need any more booze clouding my judgment (which, in hindsight, I can say was already quite clouded at this point).

I clung to Butcher’s side, as he led me to the back door, and didn’t know whether to hold my head up high or bow it down when I got dirty looks from chick after chick as we passed them. I’d just made out with Broken Brother’s guitar player, and now I was
leaving
with him, and I couldn’t tell if their looks were looks of jealousy or warning.

In any event, when we finally made it out the back door, I was overwhelmed by the fresh air and quiet. It made my head hurt, especially my ears, and kind of caught me off guard and threw me for a loop.

But, luckily, Butcher was there to catch me. He pulled me closer to him, leaned his head down, and kissed me on the forehead.

“Your place or mine?” he asked. “Or do you want me to fuck you right here, in the alley?”

I was seriously considering my options—weighing all
three
of them against each other—when I heard a familiar wailing. It was Robert Plant’s voice “singing” the opening chant to Led Zeppelin’s
Immigrant Song
, and it was coming from Butcher’s pocket.

Without so much as a word, Butcher stepped back from me, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. He looked at it and shook his head, and then he looked back at me.

“I’ve got to make a call,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

My jaw dropped just a little, but Butcher didn’t see it. He turned around and walked several yards away, as I stood there, surprised by his abandon.

I watched as Butcher dialed his phone and quietly conducted his conversation. He was only on the phone for a minute or two, but his face expressed about a dozen different emotions, which left me feeling one—complete and utter confusion.

When Butcher ended his call and started walking back towards me, I smiled and looked at him invitingly. I figured he’d give me some type of answer to clear up my confusion, and I was eager to pick up where we’d left of.

But when I smiled at Butcher as he approached, Butcher didn’t smile back, and he stopped just short of where I was standing.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said from about five feet away.

“Huh?” I asked. My state of confusion had only gotten worse.

“I’ve got to leave,” Butcher replied, reiterating his sentiment.

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his keys. “Sorry,” he added.

“But—?” I began before stopping myself. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know
what
to say.

Butcher turned and started heading toward another area in the alley, where a few cars and motorcycles were parked.

“Some other time,” he said, looking back at me as he stepped up to a Harley.

“When?” I asked. He was mounting his hog; I wanted to run over and jump on behind him.

“When?” Butcher asked with a smile. He tilted his head and deliberated for a moment.

“Tomorrow night,” he said a few seconds later, “around ten o’clock. Ever heard of a bar called Pinky’s?”

“Yeah,” I replied, lying. I’d never heard of Pinky’s—but there was no doubt I’d find out about it—and there was no doubt I’d meet him there if he wanted me to meet him.

“Tomorrow night, ten o’clock,” Butcher repeated in summary. “I’ll see you at Pinky’s.”

“Alright,” I responded as he revved his engine. The sound of it was loud, and it shook my already-shaking body.

Butcher pulled out of his parking spot and drove off in a hurry, and I stared at him like a smitten schoolgirl as his silhouette faded into the distance.

On top of being a musician and a super-sexy hunk, Butcher just had to be a
biker
also! His “bad boy” street cred kept adding up, and it was adding up in his favor. Even if it was a little cliché, he left me pining over him like a “good girl” in a romance movie or novel, and I was excited to see how our storyline played out.

As excited as I was, I was also fearful. Those movies and novels were always filled with twists and turns, and when it came to my personal life, I’ve never been too fond of surprises.

~ Butcher ~

“
Another Bone-Rattling Night at The Boneyard
,” the headline read. I rolled my eyes and grunted.

My friend and biker brother, Hammer, had just handed me a copy of one of the many shitty newspaper rags Pinky’s keeps on hand for its morning and afternoon customers.

“Like there’s nothing better going on in L.A.,” I said, turning from Hammer to the short “news” story. I couldn’t wait to see what this “A. Windsor” joker had to say about my band
now
.

“As usual, Broken Brother gave a gem of a performance,” the small-time journalist wrote. “But that gem was heirloom. The band’s set consisted exclusively of covers, which, though flawlessly executed and played with passion, lacked the originality and appeal that this reporter has come to expect from the band.”

“Whatever,” I said, slamming the newspaper down on the counter, then slamming my hand down on top of it. This “reporter” had a lot of nerve, I tell ya!

“Not gonna finish reading the whole thing?” Hammer asked. He and I were members of the same gang, the Wolves, and had known each other for years—and he knew damn well I wasn’t.

“Any publicity is
bad
publicity, as far as I’m concerned,” I said, looking at the clock on the wall. It was four thirty in the afternoon, not even twenty-four hours after our show, and I’d been too busy with other things to care, or notice, that it had been covered until just then… thanks to Hammer.

We’d met up for a quick drink to discuss business, and he made it a point to give me the newspaper before we started. He was giving me the heads-up as much as he was rubbing it in my face, but nonetheless, I guess I was better off for having been made privy to it. (I
guess
.)

“I don’t want Broken Brother in the papers,” I went on. “And maybe, now that we’re ‘heirloom’ and ‘unoriginal,’ this Windsor punk will stop writing about us.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Hammer said, being honest. “If you really wanna stay out of the headlines, you know what your safest bet is?”

I rolled my eyes, grunted again, and fought back to urge to punch Hammer.

“Stay off of the stage,” he continued. “Lay low. You have so much else going on. Take a break.”

“Music
is
my break,” I quickly fired back, grabbing my bottle. “I
need
it.”

Hammer didn’t say anything in reply, and he remained silent for a moment.

“I heard you had a late night last night,” he finally remarked, changing the subject and breaking the silence.

“Sure did,” I replied. Then, I took my turn to change the subject.

“But that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Now, is it?” I said. “I have some things I still need to take care of today, and I have plans for later tonight. So if ya don’t mind, can we just skip over all the chit-chat for now and get down to business?”

Hammer sighed and nodded his head. You have to understand, it’s usually not like me to be so dismissive, direct, or rude. However, what I said was true—as well as what Hammer had said. I did have a lot going on in my life; I had had a late night the night before; and there still was much I had to do, including my “date” with Lexi. I didn’t have time—or energy—to waste, and we both knew it.

“Alrighty then,” Hammer answered. He took a drink from his bottle, finished what was left of his beer, and motioned to the bartender for another.

Once the bartender delivered Hammer’s beer, Hammer and I went on to talk about the business that had called us to Pinky’s in the first place. We were both pretty high up in the ranks of our gang and were working on a few different projects, or “agendas,” together, and we got together every couple days to discuss our progress.

On this particular day, however, we really didn’t have much progress to share with each other, which was both a good and bad thing. It was good because it meant I’d get out of Pinky’s a little earlier. However, it was bad because it meant we were no closer to achieving our goals, and some of our goals were very important, time-sensitive, and pressing.

What types of goals were we trying to achieve? Well, there were several, and they all seemed to be tangled together. However, at the bottom line, for the time being, our top priority was to run damage control and look into some things that’d already happened.

Over the past year or so, a series of unfortunate gang-related events had befallen some of our other high-ranking members, and we needed to get to the bottom of things before our organization was further affected, shaken up, or dismantled.

But as I said, we really didn’t have much progress to share with each other on this particular day. So, instead, we discussed our ongoing game plan and updated each other on what we intended to do over the next few days.

It may not have been the most informative meeting ever, but it was necessary, and overall, beneficial. And it got a few beers into me on my way home from work, which was a welcomed pause in my day.

It was about five forty-five when Hammer and I ended our discussion, and as soon as we were done, I chugged the rest of my beer and stood up to leave.

“So…what are these
plans
you have for this evening?” Hammer asked, as I put on my leather jacket. He reached over and picked up the newspaper he’d given me earlier and pushed it against my chest. “Got another show tonight for your buddy Windsor to cover?”

“Nope,” I replied, taking the paper from him. I don’t know why, but I folded the thin periodical in half and shoved it in my interior jacket pocket.

“I got a date,” I added with a big smile.

“Huh?” Hammer asked, surprised. He nearly spit beer out of his mouth.

“I’m meeting a girl here in a few hours,” I explained. “I met her after the show last night, before…before I had to leave.”

“And you’re seeing her tonight?” Hammer asked, raising his eyebrows at me.

I nodded in response to his redundant question.

“Wow,” Hammer replied, gesturing for another beer. “So…John ‘The Butcher’ Crane actually made
plans
to go out with a woman he met at one of his shows? There’s some groupie who’s gonna get more than a one-nighter?”

I grabbed my keys and phone and huffed at Hammer. “Shut up,” I said in defense.

“I’m just sayin’,” Hammer responded, “it ain’t like you.”

Hammer had a good point. (He usually did.) For various reasons, I wasn’t really big on dating women from my shows or committing to them for any amount of time—other than however long it took to get my rocks off. I had too much else going on in my life, and there wasn’t room for any more complications.

So whenever I met a girl at one of my shows, I usually met her for only one purpose—and once I accomplished that purpose, I was done with her. As Hammer had said, it wasn’t like me to give a gal more than one night, or to make
plans
to see her.

“Well, forgive me for acting out of character,” I said sarcastically. “But I didn’t even get to fuck her yet. We were just about to leave last night when I got the call, so—”

“So tonight is about finishing what you started?” Hammer interrupted with a devious grin.

“Exactly,” I answered instinctively—even though every part of me felt like I was lying.

“Have fun,” Hammer said, turning towards his beer. I sensed the slightest tinge of jealousy in his voice. Up until recently, he’d been the biggest player I’d ever known, and over the years I’d taken a few pages out of his book. But a few months back, he simmered down and settled down with
one
lady—and since then, sometimes his mouth would water just a little whenever me or some of the other guys talked about landing some random pussy.

“I will,” I replied, backing away from my stool. My response was just as instinctive this time, but now, it felt honest. I was really looking forward to my date with Lexi and knew I would have a good time, whether or not we finished what we started.

I’d barely had a chance to talk to the girl and hadn’t spent that much time with her, but still, even though our exposure was limited, there was something about her that I liked, something that stuck with me and made me want—more than anything—to see her again.

I don’t know exactly what it was, but whatever that “something” was, it had me kinda hooked on Lexi. And now I was on the line for at least four more hours, until ten o’clock rolled around and she reeled me back into Pinky’s.