Page 40 of Framed for Life
There’s a collective settling. Like we all know we’re in good hands. We have to be right? She’s an MC Prez’s wife.
The other women introduce themselves. Haley. Whitney. Vivie who quickly says she doesn’t have an old man. The blonde from the kitchen is Audrey. The woman who stole the cookie is Brie. Besides that there’s five of the more questionably dressed girls, who introduce themselves as names that sound a lot like stripper names.
The girl who came to Skull’s door is one of them. After giving me a long look, she lifts her chin and mutters, “What do we do now?”
Reva starts giving out orders to arm ourselves. She also says, “Just in case, move the couch in front of the door.”
For a few minutes there’s a flurry of activity. Then we’re standing around looking at each other. I’m holding a baseball bat because at least I know which end of that to hold. I’ve never touched a gun in my life.
Reva, satisfied with the preparations, sits on the couch like it’s any old day of the week.
“So, Katie, from the size of your eyes, I’m guessing this is your first time,” she says with a small smile.
“I just met Skull.”
Some of the girls give me knowing glances.
“Been there,” laughs the girl who introduced herself as Haley. “I got kidnapped by the club and then got kidnapped by the enemy within three days.”
Fear slices through me.
“Oh my god,” I wheeze, clutching my chest. “Was it the mob? They look super scary.”
“The mob grabbed me,” pipes up Whitney. “But Husk rescued me.”
They go around, sharing stories, except the stripper-girls who look on almost enviously.
“Well no one would rescue me,” announces Heidi as she adjust her microscopic tube top-band-thingy.
Wow. I don’t understand how her nipples are staying behind it.
“You’re down here aren’t you?” challenges Whitney. “That counts for something.”
I’m trying really hard to keep from imagining those tits bouncing in Skull’s face when something rams against the door hard enough to dent it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We’re taking heavy fire at the back of the compound.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Fuck. Whatever those bastards are shooting is shaking the trees.
Slider’s stretched out on the ground with a long gun, trying to pick off the men moving through the trees outside the compound fence.
“Got one!” He calls out as he settles over his scope again.
“Cover me,” I tell Gage, one of my brothers, and run for the cover of the club’s dump truck.
A bullet pings off the metal.
“Fuck you!” I yell.
More shots hit the ground around me as I get into position.
It’s only seconds before muzzle flash tells me where one of their men is hiding.
“Got you, motherfucker.”
