Free Ridin' Dirty by Ruby Winchester Page A

she was more than a wet, willing hole to these men. She has no illusions though. She sucks harder and salt explodes across her tongue. She swallows and strokes him through the aftershocks. Maybe she pulls back a bit to soon and ends up with a few ropes of pearl-white come across her face. She lifts her head up from under the table and wonders who’s next.
    All the while, I watch from my seat in the back as this good girl lets herself get gangbanged by my club. If I had a cock, I’d probably be right there with them. When the club gets bored or she decides she’s had enough, she staggers out into the cool night air. No one stops her.
    She doesn’t come back.
    The good girls don’t want to be a part of this life. They want a story, a nasty, come-soaked night that they can look back on while their boring, perfect husbands fuck them. They want to remember the night they touched something dangerous while they slip their fingers between those wet, pink lips.
    I didn’t get my start as a bar slut. Barely eighteen and I was slinging shots behind the bar. My family was the worst kind of trailer trash, and I’d run off for the city and its promise of a more exciting life before my eighteenth birthday ended. Instead I ended up living out of my old junker car before I wandered into Hades.
    I knew approximately fuckall about being a bartender, but this wasn’t a place where people ordered mojitos. The most complicated drink I ever made was a whiskey and Coke. It didn’t take me long to realize that Hades wasn’t your typical dive bar. Every day, when the sun would dip below the horizon the bikes would line up outside – row after row of gleaming chrome and black paint, the throaty growl of the engine signifying that the Diablos had arrived.
    It was only my third day working when Dax walked in, flanked by three other Diablos. The snarling devil emblazoned on the back of their leather jackets stared at me as he settled into the one large table in the middle of the bar. The table had remained vacant the last two nights, despite the crowds. I quickly realized why.
    In those early days, I kept quiet and listened, soaking up the unfamiliar terms like MC and 1% and colors. Charlie, my boss, emerged from the back room with two cases of beer in his arms. I grabbed one and crouched down to refill the fridge. “Who’s that?” I asked softly. “The one at the big table?”
    Charlie chuckled. “That’s Dax, the MC president. Don’t worry though, you’re a little young for his taste. He likes them with a bit more miles under the hood.” Charlie snorted at his own joke before disappearing into the back again.
    Dax had close cropped dark hair and muscles the strained the seams of his leather jacket. A tattooed ring of flames circled his neck, and I could see the shadows of others through the thin white shirt he wore. A faded scar cut across his cheek, and instead of hurting his appearance, it added an extra edge. This life wasn’t something he was playing at.
    The men who rode with the Diablos were part of the 1% of bikers that weren’t upright and law-abiding citizens. They ran guns and drugs and treated most women like property. They weren’t the kindly bikers that collected toys for orphans. They were criminals, and they owned this city. You can’t blame a girl for wanting to get as close as possible to the source of the power, and it poured off Dax in waves.
    I looked away for a moment, trying not to stare, but my eyes travelled back to him like a magnet. This time, his cold blue eyes were gazing right back at me. Silently, he crooked a finger at me.
    “Something I can get for you boys?” I asked. Acting like a timid little flower got you nowhere in this world.
    “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Dax drawled.
    “Blanca,” I replied, holding his gaze. I knew I was attractive. My long legs tapered to a thin waist with a flat stomach that came more from being broke than from spending hours at the gym. The tight tank top I