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Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)

By:Kim Jones

Chapter 1

“That’s right…you know how I like it, baby.” For fuck’s sake…come already. “You’re so big.” Good thing I practiced my Kegel exercise this morning. “I love how you dominate that pussy.” Blah blah blah.

The great thing about being on your knees while getting pounded from behind by a drunken biker who closes his eyes in hopes that it will lessen the guilt he feels in his chest because you aren’t his wife? You don’t have to look at the bastard. For example, right now I’m studying the shitty job my manicurist did on my nails.

As if he can sense my boredom, I finally feel him pull out moments before warmth spreads across my ass. I throw in a few grunts and groan for the hell of it, while he pumps his cock with one hand and kneads my ass with the other—like I actually enjoy that shit.

My name is Delilah Scott. I used to be referred to as Scotty D—weird, I know. But around here I’m known as just plain old Delilah. I guess it’s easier to bang a chick named Delilah rather than one named Scotty. By the way, “around here” is the Devil’s Renegades’ clubhouse in Hattiesburg, Mississippi—my place of employment.

I call myself an entrepreneur. I use my skills, body and brains to make my way in this world. Sure, I do it in a manner that some would consider unethical, but who gives a shit what they think? And the “they” I speak of are the ones who call me a whore. In reality, I’m not.

Whores get paid for sex. That’s not what I do. I get paid for providing company to lonely men. If that entails having sex, fine. I consider it an extent of my gratitude to the men who I enjoy being around.

“That was great, babe. Always is.”

I look over my shoulder, offering a wink and a sultry smile to the man who’s just come all over my back. “Pleasure was all mine.” And really, it was.

Even though this man isn’t a Devil’s Renegade, he’s a friend to the club. Therefore, he’s a friend to me. I don’t generally get pleasure out of fucking married men and this was no different. I was assured that he’s in the middle of a divorce. I’m not so sure it’s true. But, looking at the bigger picture, I’m glad I could be of service. In turn, I’ve been of service to the Renegades. And that always pleases me.

I stay on my knees while he dresses--not wanting it to be awkward when I cringe at the way his dried come pulls at the tiny hairs on my back. With his pants zipped and his cut back on, he slaps my ass and leaves the room. Hell of an exit. I mean, nobody has ever done that before.

One of the great things about living at the clubhouse is the en-suite bathroom I have all to myself. Okay…so maybe it’s not that great. But it is an added bonus. I have two hundred square feet designated especially for me. A nice, spacious bedroom with a view of the backyard, equipped with a king-sized bed, a vanity, dresser, closet and a bathroom with a whirlpool tub. The Renegades know how to take care of their own.

Luke Carmical, president of the Hattiesburg chapter, has always made me feel comfortable, safe and appreciated. Not once has he ever looked at me like I was beneath him. In addition to his hospitality and my room and board, he pays me three hundred dollars a week. In return, I provide around-the-clock pleasure for anyone who walks through the clubhouse door, keep the place clean, and make sure there’s always hot coffee and cold beer.

Not a bad gig for a whore, huh?

Even though the men are great, the same can’t be said for some of their ol’ ladies. I know a lot of people say “They’re just jealous” to make themselves feel better, but really, they’re just jealous. They don’t like the fact that I’m here with their men. They don’t like that I’m loved by the guys. I’m easy to get along with, outgoing, fun and I’m not too hard on the eyes either. That alone is enough for them to hate me.

I’ve never slept with any of the chapter members who have wives—contrary to popular belief. I’ve been with a few from other chapters, but they’ve all been in open relationships. Most of those men like to share me with their wives too—something I’m definitely not opposed to. I don’t consider myself a lesbian due to the fact that I would never have a relationship other than sex with a woman. It’s just business, really. And speaking of business, I have shit to do.

Showering off the scent of the man whose name I can never remember, I let the steaming, hot water cleanse me before switching it to cold. I’m always sleepy after sex—the reprieve I feel from my internal damaged, twisted need is mentally exhausting. But the frigid water never fails to revive my senses and wake me completely. By the time I step out of the shower, I have a renewed passion to get the night started.

I guess I can be considered sexy. I’m tall, falsely tanned with jet black hair and brown eyes. I’ve been called Pocahontas more than once and I’ve always taken it as a compliment. To keep the interest of the men around here, I have to stay in shape. I do so by eating Doritos by the bag, getting extra pepperonis on my pizza and drinking plenty of carbonated beverages. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me one day, but right now, I plan to take full advantage of my high metabolism.

“Delilah? You in here?” The infamous Red, property of Devil’s Renegades VP, Regg. I’ve always hated he was married…

Red falls under the category of “ol’ ladies that don’t really like me.” Although she’s never been rude or forthcoming with her thoughts of me, she always makes it a point to remind me that Regg belongs to her—expressing an extreme amount of PDA when it’s really not necessary.

“I’m in here.” My bathroom door is opened without warning and Red takes a minute to size me up. There must be a stamp on my forehead that reads “If you’re bi-curious, I’m your girl.” Or at least that’s the vibe I’m getting from the appreciative way Red is looking at me right now.

“Are those real?” she asks, glaring at my breasts unashamedly.

“Yes.” My deadpan answer is meant to draw her attention away from my chest and to my facial expression that clearly says, “Are you fucking kidding me? Of course they’re real.” But she can’t be distracted. Humored, I ask, “Wanna touch ’em?”

“What?” That got her attention. “No. I mean. No.” She pulls her eyes to mine and I can’t help but smile at her embarrassment. It’s a first for her. “The Eagles have a Prospect that’s getting his patch tonight. Luke wants to know if you’re interested in giving him a…show.”

My heart warms a little at her words. This is why I like Luke. He always asks, never demands. Why did he have to be married? All the fucking good ones were gone. “What’s his name?”

“Drake.” Drake…sexy …

Pulling a brush through my hair, I turn and watch Red’s eyes follow mine to the mirror, fighting like hell to stay focused on my face and not drop to my tits. I wonder what she’s like in bed… “Of course I will. I’ll be out in thirty.” My words are dismissive and Red leaves, reluctantly, while I continue getting ready for Mr. Drake.

The Eagles are a riding club that supports the Renegades. This means that if the Renegades call, they come. A lot of the patch holders from the Renegades came from the Eagles. It’s like a starter club. To get to a three patch MC, you have to start somewhere. And the Eagles are a pretty damn good place to start.

As promised, thirty minutes later I emerge from the confines of my room and walk the long hallway that leads to the main area of the clubhouse. The place is built on Luke’s property, sitting right behind his house. It’s a massive building consisting of ten bedrooms, a large open area with a bar, pool tables, tons of seating and a kitchen that sits off to the side. On special occasions, a makeshift stage equipped with a stripper pole is assembled where the other girls and I can dance for the men’s—and sometimes the women’s—entertainment.

I don’t know shit about this Drake, so I didn’t dress according to his preference or fetish. Instead, I chose a generic outfit of leather. I have yet to find one man who didn’t approve of it. Black leather boots, corset and matching panties.

Yes…leather panties.

No…they’re not comfortable.

An ensemble like that can’t be complete without a leather riding crop. So I have one of those too.

Not to be conceited, but I’m a showstopper. And when I saunter into the main room, all eyes are on me. I hear the catcalls and whistles that come from the familiar voices of the Renegades. But tonight I have a mission, and I only have eyes for one man—Eagles’ Prospect, Drake.

I can’t help the disappointment I feel when I see him. He’s tall, lanky and ugly as hell. Why can’t he be married? Like I said, the good ones are gone. His brothers grab him and he looks like he might shit his pants. Even when they force him to take a seat in the center of the room, he still has no idea what’s going on.

Grabbing the iPod from the docking station, I find the playlist I’ve made specifically for dancing. Finding it more than appropriate, I select Nicki Minaj’s “Only.” The song crackles through the room. Immediately, the electricity swims through me. Boasting from every speaker in the building, the hypnotic tempo reverberates off the walls.

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