If the tall, dark, and handsome Savage King really thought he could run me off that easily, then he’s going to be sadly disappointed. That’s the least of what he deserves for dismissing me so quickly, underestimating my determination to be here, to be a prospect for the MC.
I know that women aren’t usually, if ever, accepted into their little boys’ club, but I’ve read the Savage Kings MC’s by-laws. They don’t say a damn thing about having only male prospects or members.
This club is my best chance of getting inside to see what the big deal is about wearing the bearded skull king patch, so I’m not giving up just yet.
I’m also curious to see if all the members love the club more than anything else in the world or if that was just my father.
The man who is obviously in charge of picking their next prospect seems like a great place to start.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s hot as hell with his intimidating height and all of his ripped muscles. Dark tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of the black t-shirt underneath his cut, but I couldn’t make them out clearly. I can’t help but wonder if he has more ink underneath his tee and jeans, and really hope I get to find out.
Growing up with a bachelor father, who usually only came to see my mother at night for a booty call, means I have never had any silly preconceptions about love or romance.
Men only want sex from women. They don’t want a partner or a friend; they want to fuck. Anything nice they say or do is with the sole intention of getting a woman naked or on her knees.
That’s true for the teenage males I went to high school with, the frat boys in college, and my father.
I’m certain that my mother wasn’t the only woman he visited at night. She knew that, of course, and still she let him into her bed whenever he wanted.
I would have to sleep with my earbuds in on those nights, and mom would wake up with a smile on her face the next morning. But it usually faded when dad wouldn’t show the next night, or the next.
It was the same old pattern my entire life, and not one I plan to ever repeat. Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is a horrible way to live.
That’s why I make sure to enjoy myself when I sleep with a man and never get too attached.
So, I have no problem using sex to get what I want from the Savage King asshole.
A second was all it took to drive back by his bike still sitting on the side of the road when it started getting dark to slip my Apple watch down into his saddle bag. Then, I waited in the dry comfort of my oceanfront hotel room while it started raining on the sad sacks hoping to get their foot in the door with the Kings.
Around ten p.m., when I pulled up the locator app for the device, his bike was leaving the clubhouse. And only a few minutes later, boom! I had his home address.
The thunderstorm had thankfully passed on the ride over. That’s when I begin to worry that the Savage King might live in an apartment complex. That would make narrowing down the correct unit a little difficult. Not impossible, just inconvenient.
But I shouldn’t have worried.
Not only does the King live in a small, one-story home several miles inland, there are no neighbors on either side for at least half a mile. And the chrome from his bike shines from inside the dark, open, attached garage, telling me I definitely have the right address.
I’m so thrilled with how easy it was to find him that I’m still smiling triumphantly after I collect my watch from his saddlebag and go up the steps to press the button to ring the doorbell.
A moment later, the door jerks open, spilling a soft light out into the dark covered porch.
He blinks his golden-copper eyes at me from the entryway, his brown hair nearly black like it’s still damp from a shower and not the rain since he’s also wearing dry blue jeans, and a white tee instead of a black one under his leather cut. Only fresh white socks cover his feet, no shoes, which makes him an inch or two shorter but no less threatening at well over six feet tall.
“What the fuck?” he mutters as his brow furrows. Sticking his head out the door to look up and down the road, he asks, “Are you some kind of stalker? Did you follow me home?”
“Nope, I didn’t have to follow you.”
“Then how the…what are you doing here?”
Smiling at his flustered state, I tell him, “I was hoping to change your mind about letting me prospect. Is there anything I can do to change your ‘hell no’ to a ‘maybe,’ sir?”
He sighs and then runs his hand over his unshaven jaw. “Look, it’s not just because you’re female, okay? You couldn’t handle it. What we do – it’s dangerous. Our current prospects were both shot and nearly fucking died. Why don’t you go talk to them? They’ll change your mind and make you rethink whatever stupid, unrealistic fantasy you have about trying to patch in.”
Oh, I know all too well just how dangerous being a member of his club can be.
“I would rather talk to you, sir. Or we could do other things…”
“Little girl, you better leave before you get more than what you bargained for by showing up at my fucking house,” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Trust me, sir. I can handle anything you do to me,” I assure him while reaching for the zipper on my jacket. I lower it slowly to reveal the absence of anything underneath it. There’s no shirt, no bra, just my bare breasts when the zipper ends and the two sides of the jacket part.
As expected, the man’s eyes lower to my boobs just like they did earlier. Then, he raises his arm, bracing his palm on the frame to block the doorway.
“Listen carefully, little girl, if you step foot in my house, you’ll leave with your ass so sore you won’t ever be able to sit down again without thinking about me.”
“Is that a guarantee…sir?” I ask as I duck underneath his arm to stroll past him, letting my breast brush against his chest on the way into his home.
