Off Limits: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 2) by Ruby Dixon
Authors: Ruby Dixon
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Chapter One
“You coming with us to the panty raid tonight, Lucky?” Taco looks over at me from across the boxing hall and waggles his tongue in my direction.
“Bitch, please,” I tell him, not bothered in the slightest by his lewd behavior. “I’ve got books to do before the fight on Friday night.” I gesture with my pen from my small desk in the back of the gym. “So unless no one wants to make any money Friday, I need to work.”
“Wouldn’t mind seeing the color of your panties,” Taco tells me, unperturbed by the fact that I’ve just shot him down in the middle of the Meat Locker—the private gym and fight club owned by the Butchers.
His sparring partner, Colt, slams a fist into Taco’s padded jaw. “Come on. If you want to get lucky tonight, you can’t get Lucky.” He grins, pleased at his own joke, and bounds on his feet, knocking his boxing gloves together impatiently. “You know she’s bad mojo.”
I roll my eyes. Took about five seconds for that to come up again. Figures.
In a club full of ridiculous names—like Taco, who likes to eat a lot of pussy, and Colt, who has an affinity for old guns—I’m called Lucky. And like a fat dude’s called Tiny because he’s not, I’m Lucky because I’m not. Lucky, that is.
I’m just about the unluckiest girl to ever grace the presence of the Bedlam Butchers, which is probably why I’m the club’s kid sister and untouchable all at once. No one wants to flirt with Lucky, because they all remember the time that Lucky got Jerome sent off to jail. Or they remember how often Lucky gets pulled over for speeding tickets, out of all the people we know. They remember that Lucky dated Lenny a few weeks before Lenny got knocked off by the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. There was the ladies’ club of biker babes that Lucky joined…for all of a week before they broke up due to infighting.
Lucky…isn’t. And everyone knows it and gives me a wide berth.
It doesn’t help that I’m Gemini’s kid sister, either. One unlucky girl plus a brother that’s one-half of the club presidency equals no getting lucky for Lucky.
I sigh and clench my thighs under the table as I do the books, trying not to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. At least two years. And vibes just aren’t doing it for me anymore. I want a man on top of me, his scruff scraping my cheeks raw, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his cock pounding into me, his sweat dripping onto my skin. I can’t get any of that good stuff from a vibe, just a cheap orgasm.
And I can’t work if these guys are going to keep hanging around the Meat Locker while I’m trying to do the books. So I set my pen down. “Shouldn’t you guys be leaving soon?” The boys are heading out for the annual Butchers panty raid. It’s some sort of ridiculous rite where they designate a local bar and all the girls in town head over with a red thong to show that they’re interested in getting laid. The club has a bunch of new sweetbutt for a few months, and eventually people settle down or wander away, and then it’s time for the next panty raid. I’m never invited.
As if on cue, my brother Gem emerges from his office. “Five minutes, assholes,” he tells the group. “Clear out.” Of course, they all listen to my brother. When the prez says jump, you jump. Domino’s two steps behind him, but he’s the easy-going one. Everyone knows that if you want shit to get done, Gemini’s the man you go to. Dom’s the peacemaker.
The Butchers aren’t like most clubs. Well, they are in that they like to drink, party, fuck anything moving, and get into trouble. But the Butchers are also a club that takes trust to the next level. They double up…in all ways. Even in bed. I’ve heard chicks love it—getting double-teamed by two of the good looking Butchers. I wouldn’t know, considering my older brother Gem scares them all away from even looking at me. But the Butchers? They have two of everything—two
“You coming with us to the panty raid tonight, Lucky?” Taco looks over at me from across the boxing hall and waggles his tongue in my direction.
“Bitch, please,” I tell him, not bothered in the slightest by his lewd behavior. “I’ve got books to do before the fight on Friday night.” I gesture with my pen from my small desk in the back of the gym. “So unless no one wants to make any money Friday, I need to work.”
“Wouldn’t mind seeing the color of your panties,” Taco tells me, unperturbed by the fact that I’ve just shot him down in the middle of the Meat Locker—the private gym and fight club owned by the Butchers.
His sparring partner, Colt, slams a fist into Taco’s padded jaw. “Come on. If you want to get lucky tonight, you can’t get Lucky.” He grins, pleased at his own joke, and bounds on his feet, knocking his boxing gloves together impatiently. “You know she’s bad mojo.”
I roll my eyes. Took about five seconds for that to come up again. Figures.
In a club full of ridiculous names—like Taco, who likes to eat a lot of pussy, and Colt, who has an affinity for old guns—I’m called Lucky. And like a fat dude’s called Tiny because he’s not, I’m Lucky because I’m not. Lucky, that is.
I’m just about the unluckiest girl to ever grace the presence of the Bedlam Butchers, which is probably why I’m the club’s kid sister and untouchable all at once. No one wants to flirt with Lucky, because they all remember the time that Lucky got Jerome sent off to jail. Or they remember how often Lucky gets pulled over for speeding tickets, out of all the people we know. They remember that Lucky dated Lenny a few weeks before Lenny got knocked off by the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. There was the ladies’ club of biker babes that Lucky joined…for all of a week before they broke up due to infighting.
Lucky…isn’t. And everyone knows it and gives me a wide berth.
It doesn’t help that I’m Gemini’s kid sister, either. One unlucky girl plus a brother that’s one-half of the club presidency equals no getting lucky for Lucky.
I sigh and clench my thighs under the table as I do the books, trying not to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. At least two years. And vibes just aren’t doing it for me anymore. I want a man on top of me, his scruff scraping my cheeks raw, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his cock pounding into me, his sweat dripping onto my skin. I can’t get any of that good stuff from a vibe, just a cheap orgasm.
And I can’t work if these guys are going to keep hanging around the Meat Locker while I’m trying to do the books. So I set my pen down. “Shouldn’t you guys be leaving soon?” The boys are heading out for the annual Butchers panty raid. It’s some sort of ridiculous rite where they designate a local bar and all the girls in town head over with a red thong to show that they’re interested in getting laid. The club has a bunch of new sweetbutt for a few months, and eventually people settle down or wander away, and then it’s time for the next panty raid. I’m never invited.
As if on cue, my brother Gem emerges from his office. “Five minutes, assholes,” he tells the group. “Clear out.” Of course, they all listen to my brother. When the prez says jump, you jump. Domino’s two steps behind him, but he’s the easy-going one. Everyone knows that if you want shit to get done, Gemini’s the man you go to. Dom’s the peacemaker.
The Butchers aren’t like most clubs. Well, they are in that they like to drink, party, fuck anything moving, and get into trouble. But the Butchers are also a club that takes trust to the next level. They double up…in all ways. Even in bed. I’ve heard chicks love it—getting double-teamed by two of the good looking Butchers. I wouldn’t know, considering my older brother Gem scares them all away from even looking at me. But the Butchers? They have two of everything—two
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